#this is my quarantine brain baby

[covenofthearticulate]

My fic procrastination has gotten so bad that I literally painted a whole ass jacket instead of writing LOL

[trashbatistrash]

,

[foli-vora]

once again in your arms

joel miller x f!reader

A/N: mwahah, hello boys i’m baaack (10 points to whoever knows what movie that quote's from). took an unexpected break coz life, but i’m ready to get back on track. this was requested by a beautiful anon a while back (sorry for the wait angel), but i hope you enjoy! x

Request: hello! so this is kinda angsty: joel and the reader are married and have a baby (plus sarah, obviously). the day of the outbreak, reader and baby were in town and she couldnt call joel (or viceversa) cause the phone lines were down. they were separated for a few years until they arrives at the quarantine zone he's in, and he recognizes them in the crowd.

Word count: 4.5k-ish

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, birth and having a baby, domestic fluff, angst, pre and post outbreak, some spoilery things if you haven’t seen the show yet, heartbreak, loss of a child, apocalypse things, i sweat at the idea of caring for a baby during the end of the world, soft reunions, fluff, cameos of my fave oc’s made in a different series

It’s a fact you had learnt in the very early days of your relationship... the Miller men knew how to care for a lady. Whether it was Tommy sliding in to open the door for you before you could reach for the handle, or Joel draping you in blankets and taking on the responsibility of keeping your hot water bottle warm to fend off cramps for the evening, not a moment went by when you didn’t feel the constant reassurance of their care.

Especially now, fresh from the hospital and tender from your days of excruciating pain and an extensively long labour, Tommy quickly slaps the pillows into something plusher, hands gentle as they guide you down until you’re reclining into the armchair.

Joel keeps an eye on you from across the room, the brief wash of concern slipping away with the easy smile that grows along his lips when your eyes meet.

He rocks the wrapped bundle in his arms softly, a big hand dwarfing the small head that peaks from the blankets. His fingers brush through the light smattering of hair peeking out from the cotton burrito, his index running along the tiny peak of a nose and you feel your heart swell in your chest.

“Dad,” Sarah whines with an eager smile, shifting restlessly on the couch, “come on, I’ve been waiting all weekend.”

“Oh my god,” Joel drawls sarcastically, “all weekend? Baby girl, how are you survivin’ right now?”

“Shut up,” her grin widens, “give me my baby brother before I explode.”

“Well, we don’t want that mess all in the livin’ room,” Joel quips, stepping over your weekend bags tossed on the floor and closer to the couch, “ain’t treadin’ your brain all into the rug—thing was damn expensive.”

Sarah shrugs, readjusting her body to sit straighter and holding her arms out expectantly, “Least I have a brain.”

Tommy snorts in amusement, grinning at his brother's expense, “That’s true.”

“Are you still here?” Joel side eyes him, barely fighting the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

They bicker, throwing their little snippy sibling comments back and forth before Sarah clears her throat, her eyebrows rising in impatience.

“Alright, alright. Here, watch his head,” Joel instructs gently, a smile playing along his lips, “that’s it, baby, you got him.”

It’s a beautiful picture, Sarah carefully bringing the baby closer and tucking him carefully into her arms, and the sentiment is shared with Tommy as the flash and click of a camera goes off. He removes the polaroid sliding from the slot and sits it on the coffee table to develop before instructing Joel to slide in next to her and smile.

Both Joel and Sarah are oblivious to his instruction, lost in the bubble that has overcome them. You find peace watching them, warmth spreading along your limbs by the sweet tenderness of it all. The love is clear between the three of them cuddled on the couch, and it’s almost too much for your heart to bear.

Sarah beams down at her baby brother, cooing soft words and stroking a gentle finger down Matthew’s cheek. Joel throws an arm to rest on the top of the couch behind Sarah, turning into her and answering her questions quietly.

8 pounds, 3 ounces. Smaller than you. No, he didn’t cry at all—gave me and the docs a damn heart attack. She sure did a great job. 

Your Joel was never a man to wear his heart on his sleeve, but the emotion shines from his eyes, bleeds through the lines in his face and it’s enough to bring tears building along your lash line.

“You okay over there?”

His familiar drawl brings your attention to him, and you smile at him, tired and fully at peace. It’s bliss, despite the ache of birth still hanging in your limbs. M

“I’m fine,” you respond quietly, lids heavy with exhaustion, “I’m just so happy.”

He fucking beams. His grin creases his cheeks and he nods softly.

“Me too, honey,” he mutters, turning his attention back to his children and playing with a strand of Sarah’s hair as he gazes down at Matthew, “me too.”

—

Four months later.

Chaos.

Matthew wails against your chest, the deafening sounds of screams, bullets, sirens and explosions setting him off into hysterics. Your arms tighten around him, keeping his face tucked closely into your throat so your scent could hopefully provide him some reassurance.

You crouch beside cars, you run until your legs ache. You take cover in stores, the soles of your shoes crunching over broken glass of the shattered windows. Every phone you try gives nothing but a dull tone. Radios are filled with static and emergency broadcasts play on the view screens you run past in your effort to escape whatever the hell is happening.

Worry stirs along the edges of your mind. Is Joel okay? Sarah? Tommy? You can’t call him, you can only run and hope nothing takes you down in your effort to get back to your car. You pass people crouched over others, blood smearing along their lips as they tear unforgivingly into the flesh of another.

It’s a nightmare, and it’s everywhere you look.

Almost there.

You see the sign of the parking lot and it only makes you run that much faster, even though your legs threaten to give out at any minute. You pass an elderly man crouching beside a woman, blood flowing from the open gash on her throat, and the ache clutching your heart only increases when his pleas reach your ears over the mayhem.

“Gloria,” he mutters in an aged rasp, “up you get, love. You’re alright, come on now—”

You can’t help it.

Somewhere in your mind you can feel Joel screaming at you to keep running, to get yourself to safety and not give a damn about anyone other than Matthew, but the image of this man cradling his wife’s wrinkled, bloodied hand is enough to get you advancing to him before anyone could hurt him. 

“Sir—”

He ignores you, too busy with brushing the woman’s blood soaked white hair from her face.

“Sir, we have to move—”

You wrap your fingers around his shoulder and shake firmly. His head gives a shake of denial as he clutches his wife’s hand tighter.

“No… no, she’ll need help—she has a bad ankle.”

Shifting Matthew unsteadily onto your hip, your fingers wrap under his arm and tug him onto his feet. He fights you, bats your hold away with an infuriated expression at your rough handling of him.

“I’m so sorry, but she’s gone—we have to run. I—I have a car, please… just come with me, please!”

“I won’t leave her—”

“Please… they’re coming! I—would she want this for you? To die like this?”

He blinks, his frown softening ever so slightly before screams pierce the air, much closer than you anticipated, and terror claws up your throat until you feel you’ll vomit.

You hold out a hand, relieved when his own rough, calloused hand finally takes it, and then you’re running, albeit slower than before, but you make it to your car with no issues.

You dive into the driver's seat, passing Matthew over to the stranger when he makes an impatient gesture to hold him and then you’re tearing out of the lot, running down the few rabid looking beings that advance on you with bloodied expressions of hunger.

You don’t think you take a proper breath until you’re past a military barricade that had seemingly been destroyed in the attack, flying down the highway and around other panicked drivers with sweat slicking your skin. 

Taking a deep breath to slow the brutal pounding of your heart, you look at Matthew, now calmed and looking up at the stranger with an obvious shine of curiosity. The old man is clearly softened by the baby, letting his small hand wrap around his finger and wiggling it playfully in his hold.

“That’s Matthew,” you mutter shakily, meeting the eyes of the elderly man before gazing back out the windscreen. You take another breath before giving your own name, tears biting at your eyes when you utter the name Miller.

Do you still have a husband? A step daughter? A brother in law? The unknown scares you, outright fucking terrifies you. 

The man nods in your peripheral vision.

“Harold,” he finally says, voice rough and tired.

—

There are people everywhere, screaming, crying.

People run, shout, wail over family and friends.

Tears have long dried on his face, his head thumping relentlessly with the remnants of his heartbreak. Tommy’s grip is firm on him, tugging him out of the way of people tearing down in their direction, pulling him to where a makeshift table is thrust under a tent as a reception of sorts.

He doesn’t care about the people already there asking about their family and friends. He shoves them out of the way, hands shaking as they clutch the edge of the weak table.

“I’m lookin’ for a woman… she’d be with a baby boy, not even four months old—”

His voice shakes. He can’t get it to stop. He struggles to get out the detailed descriptions of you both down to the clothes you were wearing, speaking your names through trembling lips. His stomach jolts at the thought of you somewhere, lying helplessly on the floor with your flesh getting torn into while Matthew screams in his car seat.

He’s a damn baby. He wouldn’t know what’s happening, wouldn’t know why his mama’s not there with him—

The woman gives a small expression of sympathy over the thin surgical mask covering her mouth, “I’m sorry, sir. We’ve had no babies that young come through, and nothing like that has come in over the radios.”

He retches. 

His body heaves, almost as if it’s rejecting the mere idea that you weren’t somewhere safe waiting for him. He had failed. Failed to keep Sarah safe, failed to keep Matthew safe, you—the vows he had made now meant shit. He hadn’t been there for better or worse. He’d hadn’t done what a father should have and kept his kids free from harm.

Sarah had died, terrified and in agony, in his hold. Her bloodied handprints remain dry and caked on his arms. Matthew had died, not even making it to six months. A baby, still fresh to the world, only just able to hold his own head up. You had died, not knowing where he and Sarah were, if they were even safe.

Tommy hauls him to a close trash can, rubbing a firm hand up and down his back as he chokes on vomit, tears soon streaming down his cheeks when his body eventually has nothing left to give. His heart hammers in his chest, thundering against his ribs and filling his ears until he’s unaware of the noises around him. 

“They’re gone,” he whispers hoarsely, clutching at the rim of the trash can in an effort to keep himself up.

“Now we don’t know that—”

“God damn it, Tommy, you saw what it was like out there!” 

Tommy sighs, his own eyes filling with tears. “We gotta keep hope, Joel—”

“Hope?” Joel spits at his brother, “What good is hope against that shit out there? She would’ve been alone, you know as well as I Matthew only would’ve slowed her down. They were in the city. We couldn’t even keep safe out here! They’re—they’re gone. My wife… my baby boy, my baby girl—”

The sobs tear from his chest, harsh and painful. He mourns for hours, unseeing of the flurried movement still happening around him, his sorrow mixing with the flood of agony filling the makeshift safe zone with every new unhurt civilian looking for someone familiar.

Tommy doesn’t take his arms away from around his brother until dawn starts to pierce the horizon, 

—

Two years later.

He still fills your thoughts daily.

Your life, your old life, would flash behind your eyelids at night when sleep would finally claim you. You’d feel his touch, kiss his lips, touch his face. It all felt so normal. The dreams would be nothing but memories, and somehow, it made them feel more like nightmares.

Mornings making breakfast with Sarah, dancing to the music falling from the radio. Family game nights, watching Tommy and Joel get more and more competitive with each game. Grocery shopping with Joel, simply wandering down the aisles and relishing in his comforting touch warming your lower back. 

You could never quite make peace with the possibility that he was dead. It didn’t sit right. The idea that your Joel had been lost to the disaster that had claimed the world just seemed impossible. Your heart rejected the notion, refused to accept that its counterpart wasn’t somewhere out there, living, breathing, surviving,

Sarah and Tommy, too.

They had to be somewhere, holed up safely and keeping well. They had to.

“They’ve established a quarantine zone close by,” you say quietly, mindful of Matthew sleeping on your lap, “it’ll be a lot safer there than out here. I think we should give it a go… find a more secure place to live. I’ve heard they have work available, good flow of food and medicine…”

Harry snorts quietly, shifting under his old, thick jacket, “That doesn’t mean they’re happy giving it out. There’ll be a catch somewhere.”

You eye the long carved frown in his features and lean forward to fix the blanket covering his tired legs, “Don’t you think we should try at least?”

“Maybe they’ll put a bullet in me,” Harry grumbles moodily, “I’m old—I can’t work like they’ll want me to. Although, it’ll beat living through this bloody nightmare any longer.”

“Harold,” you chide softly, heart aching at the thought of losing the grumpy old man after spending so long by his side.

He’d quickly become a grandfather figure of sorts, to both you and Matthew. The little boy was obsessed with him, and had been since the day you had come together, and though he tried to hide it behind his usual icy facade, Harry was smitten, weak from the boy learning to call him pa.

“He’ll be safer in there,” Harry finally grumbles, gazing at the sleeping toddler. “This is no life for him out here. It’s getting worse and worse. Stability will do him good.”

“And you’ll come with us?”

He sighs sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fine—I’ll come. But if they don’t kill me, I’ll be bloody upset with you.”

You snort in amusement, a grin curling your lips. “Fair enough. Now drink your soup.”

“I’m not hungry. You have it.”

He shoves it away, pushing it in your direction, as he usually does. It’s a daily fight—him refusing food in favour of giving you and Matthew more, ensuring you both never went hungry despite his own hunger and rapid weight loss due to the sudden lack of food.

You give him a playful frown and hold the small cup out to him.

“Don’t make me force feed you, old man, drink it.”

—

The walls of the Quarantine Zone are a lot more daunting than you had originally thought they would be. They tower high, and the barely there movement of soldiers along the front and top of it have nerves start to build in the pit of your stomach.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea. Surely they wouldn’t shoot without asking questions? Would they even give you a chance? What happens to you if the zone is full? Would they let you go on your merry little way?

God, you feel sick. 

The ice creeping along your skin doubles, and you tighten your grip on the baby carrier strapped to your chest. Matthew hums quietly against your back, his little fingers tracing random patterns along your shirt as he bounces with your each step. Harry walks somewhat steadily beside you, his cheeks reddening with the more distance you cover.

He gives you a reassuring nod when you look to him for guidance, and you continue forward, swallowing the lump building in your throat when you become aware of them yelling about your presence.

Their guns are raised when you eventually make it closer, and it’s automatic to throw your hands up in surrender.

“We’re not infected!” you shout, hoping they’d listen. 

A soldier steps forward. “On the ground, now!”

“Shit. Okay! Please, I—we’re not infected—”

“Get. On. The. Ground!”

“I have a kid! I have a—please, we’re not—”

“Get the kid out.”

Panic flares to life in your chest. You fight the tremble in your fingers as they raise to the clip across your chest, winding a supportive hand around to your back to keep Matthew from falling out of the carrier as it loosens from your torso.

After a bit of shifting, Matthew stands on shaky legs, his eyes darting between you and the few soldiers with their weapons raised.

“It’s okay, baby,” you soothe softly, “we gotta do what the man says, okay? Can you do that for mama?”

You continue to lower until your front hits the rubble covered ground, and you motion for Matthew to do the same, heart breaking as he cowers in fear and falls to his knees before copying your posture and hiding his face against the road.

More voices fill your ears, the obvious presence of more soldiers swarming from the gate causing your pulse to skyrocket as Harry lowers on the other side of the small toddler.

“Check ‘em.”

“Everything’s fine,” you murmur, keeping your gaze on Matthew and smiling when he peeks at you from between his fingers, “we’re okay. Keep your eyes on me, baby. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

It stings.

You automatically flinch away from the device someone holds at your neck, freezing when more weapons are raised in your direction. The device gives a small beep and the soldier gives a loud clear, before moving for Matthew.

He cries out at the pain, his chest heaving with his growing sobs. The guns move in his direction and you’re flying towards him before you can even think, yelping when arms pull you away from your baby before you can console him. His screams worsen. 

“Please,” you beg, “he’s just a baby—!”

The soldiers remain emotionless.

Another beep, another clear.

The fingers digging into your arms loosen and then you’re free, hurriedly crawling on all fours until Matthew’s in your arms, his tear stricken face pressing into your throat. You soothe him softly, murmuring how well he did and that he’s safe with you while the soldiers move their attention to Harry.

When the device gives a final clear, another soldier steps forward, a small smile stretching his lips.

“Sorry about that,” he says, stepping forward until he’s only a step away, “but we can’t be too careful.”

It’s surreal being around people again.

For the longest time, it’s just been you, Matthew and Harry. The people left after the event had turned cruel, desperate for any remaining resources and resulting to violence left, right and centre. It’d been sheer luck that you three had escaped some of the nastier characters you’d come across during your treks. Sure, you’d lost a few supplies every now and then, but you were thankful you all were still here at least.

The man leads you into an office of sorts, with rusted old chairs to sit on while he goes about ‘registering’ you. You’re surprised at the process of it all, confused when he says you’re in luck because after this morning, there are new rooms available. What does that mean? Had something happened to the occupants?

Your stomach turns, but you dare not dwell on it.

Safety for Matthew, that’s all that matters. That’s why you’re here.

It feels like hours before you’re stepping into the sun again, lead out onto a relatively normal looking street with written directions to your new accommodation. The door bangs loudly behind you, fully closing you from the horrors of the outside world, and you try not to focus on the looks of curiosity, borderline hostility, as you start to walk further into the QZ, the height of the wall casting a large shadow over your path.

There’s a main square of sorts, filled with small stations of people selling various items. Your stomach grumbles at the sight of shitty looking food, desperate to eat something other than the random old bits and pieces you’d find through your looting, but you’d have to begin work to even afford a single half burnt bread roll. The two ration cards you had received at your ‘registration’ wouldn’t make a dent in what you’d need to afford any of it.

You pass the sellers, sharing a sullen look with Harry as he too realises he wouldn’t have enough for any of it.

There’s crowds, and you try to keep to yourself as you move, but something catches your eye, as if your sight had been automatically pulled to that direction and you’re oblivious to the people bumping into your frame.

For a moment, you’re sure you’re dreaming.

Did they end up shooting you at the gate? This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be unfolding right before your very eyes. You feel alive. You feel your pulse, your breath. You feel Matthew shift in the carrier, you hear Harry making comments about the people and the surrounding buildings.

You can’t look away.

You’re pulled in his direction, certain with every bone in your body that it’s him. It’s him.

The man turns, and his eyes are meeting yours through the crowds before you can even brace for it, and you see the moment it hits him.

He freezes, his eyes unblinking as if they don’t want to risk losing the hallucination his mind had conjured. He steps forward, and again, and again, slow in his movements, cautious.

“Joel?” You breathe, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear you over the bustle of your surroundings and the distance between you, but he must see your lips mould his name because then he’s running, ducking through the people and heading straight your way.

You start to jog, careful not to disturb the carrier holding Matthew too much, and then he’s there. He’s there and he’s real and he’s saying your name so sweetly, a broken rasp of disbelief and a tremble taking over his hands as they raise to cup your cheeks.

You sob at his touch. 

The tears flow from your eyes and you grasp at whatever you can on him, your fingers tightening around the jacket hanging from his frame as you attempt to pour two years of loss into your embrace. He cradles the back of your head, keeps your face pressed tightly against the dirtied skin of his throat as he mutters brokenly about how he thought you were dead and that he’d missed you so damn much.

“Oh baby boy,” he rumbles, noticing the baby carrier and the toddler within it with tears filling his lash line, “look at you.”

You hurriedly unclip the harness and sweep Matthew out of it, bringing him into the middle of your embrace. Joel runs a hand along Matthew’s cheek before sweeping down and kissing him on the forehead, his tears dropping over the toddler’s cheeks in obvious relief and utter joy. 

“How—”

You shake your head, nuzzling into the rough hand holding your cheek. “Later. We’ll talk later about everything, I just—god, I’ve missed you so fucking much, Joel.”

His head lowers until his forehead is pressed against yours, and his eyes flutter closed. You feel it in the simple gesture, how much he had missed you, mourned for you. He gives a small nod, followed by a quiet okay, before another presence suddenly makes themselves known.

Your body jolts with the weight hitting your side, and you jump in fright before your eyes come across a slightly skinny looking Australian Shepherd desperate for attention.

His tongue lolls from his mouth as he attempts to lap at your cheek, and you chuckle through your stream of steady flowing tears at the cheerful dog.

“Chip,” Joel grunts in slight annoyance, shoving the fluffy beast away from where he tries to jump and sniff at Matthew’s cheeks, “down—down, boy!”

“You have a dog?” You ask in curiosity, reaching out to pet the animal. Your smile widens when he eagerly nuzzles into your touch with an excited whine.

“He was wanderin’ the QZ when I came in,” Joel replies, one of his hands leaving your waist to deliver a rough rub to the dogs head, “followed me home one night and hasn’t stopped botherin’ me since. Tommy said he’d be good for me.”

“Tommy’s here? And Sarah?” You perk immediately in excitement, your eyes flying past his shoulder to look for his brother and the other part of your heart that’s been missing for years. “I’m so glad they’re alright, where are they?”

You don’t notice how considerably quiet he’s gone until you look at him. He’s defeated, guarded, his dark eyes drawn to the floor. He can’t look at you. Why can’t he look at you? What’s happened?

“Joel?”

“Sarah… she—she—”

He struggles to finish the sentence, the words stick uncomfortably on his tongue. His features twist in clear anguish and you feel the world around you shatter. Sarah, she… she’s gone? When? How?

Your heart sinks, weak and broken by the unexpected news. Your mind struggles to wrap itself around the notion that you’d never see her again, that the last time you saw her was truly the last. 

Regret begins to build in the pit of your stomach. That last day… you should’ve hugged her tighter, kissed her forehead, told her how much she meant to you and how lucky you were to be in her life—

The tears begin again.

“Oh Joel, I-I’m so sorry,”

You both share the heartache, wrapped in each other's arms and breathing in the other. His tight hold doesn’t loosen for a second, and you attempt to put every ounce of energy in your tired body into returning it.

The world stands still, just like it did that cursed day.

How can you be so elated that he’s here, and yet be filled with so much pain at the same time? How long has he been lost, no doubt blaming himself for his baby girl not making it to where he is now? You mourn her, mourn him for being lost, stuck on a path of despair and believing he had lost everything for so long.

What had become of him? What had the pain done to him? Surely it would’ve been pure torture for the man who practically breathed family. 

Harry can wait. Introductions can wait. Food, drink, sleep—you care for none of it. Not now. All that matters is that Joel is here, truly here in the flesh, wrapped in your arms and holding the child he hasn’t seen for two years. All that matters is that you had found one another in the violent hellscape the world had become.

Peace, but that tranquillity will forever be tainted by loss, a void hanging in the midst of relief, never to be filled again.

-

tag list 1: @maievdenoir, @javier-pena, @lv7867, @dihra-vesa, @katronautt, @radiowallet, @januarystears, @missminkylove, @beskarprincessjenny, @mswarriorbabe80, @danidrabbles, @sergeantbannerbarnes, @amneris21, @eri16, @absurdthirst, @hnt-escape, @acourtofsnakes, @ezrasbirdie, @mstgsmy66, @lovesbiggerthanpride, @coaaster, @sherala007, @kelseyxyeslek, @greeneyedblondie44, @wyn-n-tonic, @you-got-me-starry-eyed, @shirks-all-responsibilities, @withasideofmeg, @harriedandharassed, @andruxx, @buckybarneshairpullingkink, @spideysimpossiblegirl, @prostitute-robot-from-the-future, @tanzthompson, @mad-girl-without-a-box, @hope-for-the-best-98, @fangirl-316, @christina-loves, @jediknight122, @hallway5, @xoxabs88xox, @nicolethered, @churchill356, @massivecolorspygiant, @just-here-for-the-moment, @gracie7209, @pinkie289, @lavenderluna10, @goodgriefitsawildworld,

tags that have continuously not worked will be deleted from my taglist soon x

[eff4freddie]

After She Left | Seven

Words: 7k Minors DNI

As it becomes increasingly clear Sarah's mom is here to stay in Jackson, you realise whatever's going on with you and Joel needs to stop. It's fine, because you've already decided you're not that sad about it. Telling Ellie you can't tutor her anymore, though...that one's going to be tough.

Chapter warnings: Finally get to some of the SMUT team! Oral (f receiving), tiny little bit of dirty talk

A/N: Things are still a little bit crap for me but writing has actually been a nice release (heh). I know some people aren't feeling super safe around here at the moment, but I want to reiterate you will always be safe with me. And in the meantime I will just keep writing my angsty smut for my own amusement, and suggest ya'll do, too.

Six | Series Masterlist | Eight

The new arrivals cleared quarantine in 48 hours. The two men, Wren and Steven, were put up in a share house with a few of the other men around town but Shauna was given her own place, a studio out the back of Tommy’s, nothing much more than a converted garage. Joel didn’t understand why Tommy wanted her so close, and also understood exactly, seeing as how he wanted to both crawl out of his skin when he thought of her, and also into her chest.

He waited exactly a day and a half after she settled into her studio before knocking on her door. The evening was just settling in, and it had been a warm day, the kind of day that gives you a warning of the summer about to descend. She wasn’t even surprised when she opened the door to him. Just beckoned him inside, pushed some old blankets off a chair and pulled it out for him.

The place had a long window running up near the ceiling to let the light in, but other than that it was cool, dark.

‘You’ll need heat in the winter,’ he said, smelling mildew. He wondered how long it had been since anyone had been back here. Tommy didn’t even use it to store his tools.

‘You got any suggestions?’ Shauna asked, smiling thinly at him.

‘Move into a better place,’ he replied.

She snorted. ‘Figure I got a couple of months to figure that out I guess,’ she replied.

‘So you’re stayin’? You settlin’ in?’ Joel asked her, firing questions at her like an interrogation, hearing it in his voice, the sadness and the fear and the sound of something tinkling at the bottom of a well.

‘Don’t know, Joel,’ she replied, sitting heavy on the bed while he stood up, took three or four paces before he had to turn around and pace back again. There was a bare bulb hanging in the middle of the room. He checked for outlets, found a few where you could set up a nice lamp. He had one she could borrow, over by the bed, so she could read of a nighttime.

‘Fuck, Shauna,’ he started, and she shrugged at him. ‘You had no idea I was here?’

‘How could I have, Joel?’ she asked. In the half-light the curls of her hair glowed around her head like a crown. He could remember the smell of Sarah’s shampoo, the first time he’d been able to recall it in years.

‘Twenty-five years and you happen to head here?’

‘Of all the gin-joints…’ she started, but he raised his hand to stop her. He couldn’t do jokes right now. He couldn’t do much but gawp at her and try and get his brain to stay with him, here in this moment, in this little garage at the end of the Earth.

‘I just…I never thought I’d see you again.’

‘I know, baby,’ she said, and he winced a little at the nickname. She caught it, cheeks red at the habit. ‘Sorry,’ she said, when he glared at her. ‘Mistake.’

‘What do we do now? How do we do this?’ he asked, turning to her. She had always been good with the decisions. Had made him eat healthy, not stay out too late, had filled his head with ambitions of owning his own business, of bringing Tommy on with him, showing him the ropes. He remembered then that she didn’t know he’d done it, that she’d been right, and he’d never let her have that. He opened his mouth to tell her, catching himself just in time.

‘I don’t know, Joel. Wren and Steve are here, and we’ve been a pretty tight crew for a while…’

‘You with one of them?’ he asked, and she smiled.

When she’d been pregnant, properly pregnant, her bump finally poking out from beneath her ribcage, Joel had developed a habit of resting his hand on it in supermarkets, out for dinner with Tommy and her parents, would follow her to the bar and rest his chin on her shoulder as she ordered a seltzer and a beer for him. Even then, barely out of school and struggling to grow into his limbs he was protective of her, possessive of her and the baby in her belly. There were times she could practically hear him chanting ‘my girls, my girls, mine,’ as she walked beside him.

‘It’s complicated,’ she said, after a while. ‘They’re brothers. I met them coming out of the QZ in Kansas, and its...well, y’know how brothers share.’

She watched as he reared back, his shoulders rising so fast he nearly knocked into his earlobes.

‘You’re with both of them?’ he asked, and he could hear how panicked he sounded, and couldn’t be certain what was behind it, but he didn’t like it, didn’t like Wren or Steven, didn’t trust ‘em.

‘Technically, Joel, I’m not with either of them. Not with with. Just…it gets cold on the sides of mountains. It gets hard to keep going. It’s about…securing the bond. Loyalty.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, cocking a knee and wresting his hands on his hips. ‘Are you…in some kind of sex cult with those men?’

‘Joel, you can not be this naïve. Not after twenty years in the apocalypse. You know women have to…we gotta survive.’

Thoughts of you popped up in his head, instant and unbidden. You hadn’t done any of that stuff, he was sure of it. He wouldn’t allow himself to imagine any different. He knew you’d been in a QZ for a while, but you’d been FEDRA, and that would have afforded you some kind of luxuries. Security. Fuckin’ loyalty.

He swallowed. He knew FEDRA were as bad as all the others, possibly even worse since they were armed. He knew what women had to do to curry favour with them. But not you, he decided. Not you, because you would have talked your way out of it, would have charmed them with your smile and your sweet, pretty face hiding your enormous, glorious brain. You would have figured out a way around it. You would have…you wouldn’t have…

‘Joel?’ Shauna called him out of his panic, and he swallowed down.

‘Ain’t judgin’ ya,’ he said, and she scoffed a little.

‘You sure about that?’

‘I can’t…imagine…’ he said, and he felt the heat on his cheeks now. He could imagine. He just didn’t want to.

‘Yeah, well…things were bad in Kanas. They got me out. I guess I was grateful to them.’

‘You ain’t movin’ in with ‘em?’

‘It served a purpose and maybe now it’s done? Besides, not sure Maria really understands, or endorses…’

Joel nodded, grunting his understanding. Jackson ran on family values, and scorching gossip. Maria would have done it to protect Shauna as much as to keep up appearances.

‘Joel, can we talk about her?’ Shauna asked, and he found himself shaking his head.

‘Can’t,’ he said.

‘Please, Joel, I just want to know how-’

Joel felt the switch flip in his brain, the one that meant he could talk about her while he slipped himself out of the way to let the facts through.

‘Army, military, the first night. I was gettin’ her out, me and Tommy, if we could just find a road. She was hurt but I had her. They…’

‘No, no,’ Shauna said, stopping him because she could see he had fallen into the vortex, that he was miles away now, years away, bleeding and scared and holding their girl in his arms. ‘No, I…I meant, I wanted to know how she grew up. What was she like, when she was a teenager?’

Joel swallowed, felt the tears in the back of his eyes, the strain across the back of his throat.

‘She was…’ he didn’t know how to describe her. Shauna had left when Sarah was 9. 10 years they’d spent together after they’d found out she was pregnant, trying to save a marriage that had barely been more than a high school romance. He’d known it wasn’t working, had known that he was hurting her by making her stay, but he couldn’t imagine a world where Sarah would choose him if her parents split, couldn’t bear the idea of his little girl splitting her time between two houses, two Christmases, two sets of books, two sets of school bags dropped by two different doors.

He'd underestimated them both. Shauna for her ability to just outright abandon them. Sarah for her ability to know that loving her mom meant setting her free.

‘She was brilliant,’ he said, after a while. ‘So smart, basically ran the household, kept me and Tommy in line. N’she was capable, could handle her own shit. I guess…she had to grow up pretty fast, but she did it, and she was sweet about it too. Made me drink my juice in the morning,’ at this Joel smiled, tears threatening to spill, Shauna’s eyes wet as she watched him. ‘She was a brilliant little girl, and she was turning into a beautiful woman.’

He cleared his throat, letting himself remember her head on his shoulder as he all but forced her to watch some shitty Western on TV. Carrying her to bed, tucking her in, praying she never got so big he couldn’t lift her anymore, then after she was gone praying one day, somehow, she would.

Shauna wiped the tear from her cheek. ‘I figured when she was older, when I had my life back together, maybe we could…reconnect,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Joel, I know I left you both, left you the most, but…’

‘You were already gone,’ Joel said. ‘All those years, you were never really in it.’

Shauna let out a quiet little sob. ‘I wanted to be,’ she said, and he could tell that she meant it, and also he didn’t care, could never really care, when he saw the chunk she took out of their daughter when she left them, watched as that brave little girl grew out of the scar.

‘She never asked about you,’ he said, and he wanted it to be comforting and he wanted it to be cruel. He wanted to hurt her, and he wanted to hold her, wanted her to know that he’d long given up on her, even before she left them, but that he had been holding on anyway, because he thought that was what you did when you had a kid.

Shauna gasped, letting out a little hiccup of sadness.

‘Is that true?’ she asked, and she fixed him then with a hurt on her face unlike anything he’d seen in a long while. No one walked around that sad for the world to see in a place that would kill you for any weakness. He swallowed down the bile burning at the back of his throat.

‘No,’ he said, because she had written letters every week for a year to her mother that he had never sent. Because each Christmas she wrapped up a little gift for her mother that she hid behind the tree down by the corner, where she thought he couldn’t see. Because each year on her birthday she waited for the mailman, sat with a book on her lap she was pretending to read while she watched out the window, and he had to see her face fall when all that got delivered was just bills and a lottery ticket from Uncle Tommy. She never said the fuckin’ words, but she asked for her mother every day.

He had hated Shauna for it. Had burned up all the energy he had left in him working to hide his fury from his little girl.

Looking at her now, sad and folded up against herself on the end of the bed he wondered what for. All those feelings, so hot and so bright and so sharp at the time now faded, now boxed up. He wasn’t even sure if this was the same person in front of him, the one who started taking shards of his heart the moment he met her, who stranded him with the weight of her absence over years.

He wasn’t sure if he hated her anymore for it. He wasn’t sure if he felt anything at all.

‘Don’t cry,’ he said, because she was still snuffling.

‘I thought I was making it better for her, that she could finally be herself if I stopped crowding her. You know when two vines are planted in the same pot either one of them will strangle the other to survive? Only way to save them both is to get ‘em out.’  

Joel watched her, understanding, not wanting to.

‘I didn’t want to…pull the life out of her anymore, Joel. I had to break the pot.’

He felt the creak in his knees, the old scar on his abdomen starting to ache from standing too long. He crossed his arms over his chest, looked down at his shoes to assure himself he was still on solid ground.

‘Yeah, well, you broke it,’ he said. Shauna nodded, pulling at her sling and wincing slightly. ‘You hurtin’?’ Joel asked, and she sighed.

‘Yeah, but Wren said he’d try and get me something from the infirmary. I told him not to bother. Don’t feel like I can ask for anything when we just got here.’

‘The town’ll be suspicious,’ he informed her, plainly. ‘Three of you in one go, s’a lot.’

‘I figured I could tell them I’m a Miller,’ she said, watching his face, the way it fell. He swallowed. ‘I mean, technically I still am.’

‘You ain’t been a Miller for years, even when we were still together,’ he said, and this time he didn’t want to hurt her so much as state the plain truth.

‘I know, but…could be useful in a place like this.’  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sarah, aged 9, at the doorway, peeking in at her separating parents, wondering out of her room for all the shouting. He blinked her away. ‘I won’t do it if you don’t want me to,’ Shauna continued.

He thought of you. Your warm classroom, the little wood figurines he’d carved for you lined up on the edge of your desk.

‘Don’t,’ he said, grim and firm and honest.

‘Ok, Ok,’ she said, raising her hands in defeat. She sighed, dramatic and maybe just a little for effect. ‘I’ll let the town hate me.’

He remembered what it was like to argue with her. How she’d end up bursting into tears and he’d rush to comfort her, always wrap his arms around her even if he still seethed, and afterwards he’d always wonder if she was actually sad or if it was only ever just to win a point. Worse, when he realised he didn’t care, didn’t feel anything, either way.

‘They might hate ya,’ he agreed. ‘But just until they discover your winnin’ personality.’ She examined his face, searching it for anger, for hurt. He grinned at her. Let her off the hook.

--

It wasn’t that you were sad, exactly, although some part of you knew that you were. It wasn’t that you were mourning, because you knew what that felt like, and besides which, you hadn’t lost anything, not really. It wasn’t that you were lonely, because you’d already decided not to be. It was just that for a second there, things had been different. There had been the prospect of something, and now it was gone.

You watched as Joel sat with Ellie, Tommy, Maria and now Shauna. Maria bouncing Robin, growing like a weed despite barely more than a newborn, on her knee while Ellie cooed at him, tried to spoon feed him stew. You couldn’t help noticing the way Shauna ignored him, the way she almost turned her back to the infant, to instead lean in close to the adults at the table. You were probably missing it. You were only stealing glances, after all.

Word had spread that the three were staying, and you knew that Wren was already out on patrols because you’d seen him go out with the morning group to check the perimeter. The other one, Steven, was apparently good with animals so he had been placed on stable duty. Shauna was helping out with the town council, doing admin and filing and things. It made sense, and it was easy work, and you wondered how she’d survived so long on her own without apparently being able to shoot or ride worth a damn, but it didn’t matter because it didn’t involve you, anyway, unless Shauna happened to decide she needed to redo grade school.

Joel didn’t look at you, and you didn’t want him to, you really didn’t, not at all. A few times Ellie waved you over and you had to pretend you hadn’t seen her. You should have brought a book with you to try and make it even vaguely plausible. You would remember, next time.

You just weren’t sure how you were going to tell Ellie that you couldn’t tutor her anymore. It didn’t feel fair that she had to lose out, but at the same time you knew you didn’t have it in you. The idea of sitting at Joel’s kitchen table, remembering his lips on yours, his arms holding you to his chest, his little gasp as he consumed you. Rose would have been able to carry on. You weren’t Rose.

You weren’t sure why you came down to the mess for breakfast. Normally you just grabbed an apple and ate it at your desk. As you left, you noticed some of Ellie’s stars were still strung up along the walls. You wondered if they would ever come down.

--

‘Didn’t you see me?’ Ellie asked, bounding up to at the end of the school day as you wiped the chalk from the board.

‘Pretty sure I’ve been seeing you all day,’ you said, and she made a face.

‘No, I mean this morning. You came by and then you sat on your own?’

‘Oh, you were there? Sorry, I had my mind on…the eggs. Just hadn’t had them in a while. Must have been craving it.’

‘Are you ovulating?’ Ellie asked, in that unnerving way she had of cutting you directly to the quick.

You paused, considering your answer for a moment.

‘I’m not sure why you ask,’ you said, eventually, settling for truth.

‘Craving eggs,’ Ellie shrugged, as if this was the most obvious explanation.

‘I don’t think that’s how it works,’ you said, and then you paused, because to be honest your sex education also stopped around the end of the world. ‘I don’t think that’s how it works,’ you clarified.

‘Well, whatever, I just wanted to ask you what time you wanted me for tutoring today. You didn’t tell me last time.’

You felt your heart rate pick up. Part of you had wondered if you just said nothing maybe she would forget.

‘Hey, I’ve been thinking about that,’ you said, smiling like you were about to bestow her with good news. ‘You’ve been doing some really great work, really strong, and I can see that you’ve come along so much.’

You paused for a moment, watching the pride break like a dawn over her face, wanted to take a mental photo of it, laminate it and stick it in your memory for eternity.

‘So yeah, I don’t think you need me anymore,’ you said, the smile feeling forced across your cheeks now, the strain in the muscle pulling across the back of your scalp.

You watched as her face collapsed, the light immediately shuttering away from it. You swallowed. ‘Tutoring, I mean…I don’t think you need tutoring,’ you said.

You knew Ellie was doing better socially, you could see she was more talkative in class, that she and Dina were edging their way towards friendship. But you knew, too, how much of a comfort it was to have routine after so long of living through chaos. That the two of you in the dying light of the evening waiting for Joel to finish cooking dinner so you could stop pretending that you were doing any work and take yourselves in to him, that there was a gift in that, that there was a prize in it, and that you were taking it back from her now, snatching it from her arms. You swallowed, heavy and tired and wondering if you were doing the right thing and knowing that you were. That it was necessity. That it was choice.

‘Oh,’ she said, and you nodded at her, smiling still, trying to keep her energy up, trying to dull the blow.

‘You really are doing so well, I’m super proud,’ you said, and then you felt wrong, like you were her mother when really, you realised, you had become her friend.

‘Is this because of Joel being a shithead?’ she asked, and you shook your head to hard and so fast you could hear your neck creak in protest.

‘No,’ you said, tightly, trying to regain your composure enough to get the girl over you and out the door. ‘No, it really is just that you’re…a superstar.’

‘So why don’t you want to keep going, then?’ she asked. ‘It’s not like I know everything.’

You had thought of this question, and had prepared an answer, and even though it wasn’t even remotely true you knew it would appeal to Ellie’s better nature, that it would work on her, and you hated yourself for it even as your mouth started to form the words.

‘It wouldn’t be fair on the other kids,’ you said, and she nodded her head, immediately understanding, immediately agreeing, immediately nailing the last of your self-worth to the floor beneath your feet.

‘Right,’ she said, but she was quiet, and she was backing away, and you saw that her face was closed off, and that she was turning inwards again, just like she had been when she first got here. You stepped towards her, but she was already out the door.

‘Thank you for everything,’ you called after her, and you realised at the same moment that you said it how final it sounded, and how trite. You had dismissed her, thoroughly. Had slammed the door behind her as she left.

For a long while after you stood in your classroom and surveyed the tables in front of you, the pictures on the wall, the photos you’d pulled from old, half-rotten Encyclopaedias and taped to the walls. You couldn’t bring yourself to turn, to see the wooden figurines lined up along the edge of your desk. You stood, instead, facing where Ellie had been minutes ago, half an hour ago, an hour ago.

You wondered if you could unspool time around you, just wind it down to a stop so that you didn’t have to move into the next moments, into the ones without her, without you at their kitchen table, without Joel’s warm eyes on your face as he spooned mac and cheese into your bowl.

--

Joel didn’t like that Wren guy, and he wasn’t too sure about Steven, either. He didn’t like the way Steven eyed off the women in the town, like he was figuring out how best to herd them, seeing as how he was apparently a cattleman. Wren, well he just got on too well with the rest of them, had fit right in with Guillaume, and he fuckin’ hated Guillaume. That was too strong, maybe. He just didn’t trust any of ‘em, when it came down to it. Preferred to be defending himself and his loved ones if it ever came down to it, if he had somehow failed to get them all far, far away.

He found himself turning over what Shauna had said as he surveyed them now, coming to the end of his shift on the wall. He wondered if that was really something women out there were doing, having to do, to keep themselves alive and he knew that of course they were, knew that as much as he had seen it in the raider camps he’d had the unfortunate luck to come across, but now Joel was wondering what kind of man would let a woman do it. What kind of man would let her make the offer, let alone accept it. He knew the answer to that one, too.

As his shift ended, he decided he’d go talk to Tommy about it. Tommy had a good read for things like this. Would have the sense Joel didn’t to see it straight.

Except that it wasn’t just Tommy when Joel got back to his little office, the room crowded again with half of the town council, Maria and Shauna sitting perched on Tommy’s desk.

‘Seems risky,’ Tommy was saying, and at this Shauna rolled her eyes.

‘Course it’s risky, but show me something that isn’t,’ she huffed. Joel recognised that tone, had it imprinted somewhere along his spinal column.

‘Don’t see why its necessary, we have everything we need here,’ Robert was saying. Joel liked Robert. Robert was steady and had survived the fifteen-some years on his own by living off the same ranch he always had with his wife of thirty-years. He only came off it when she died, and he found himself unable to justify working land that size for one man. Joel could respect that.

‘If we don’t keep pushing out, we won’t have everything we need for much longer. We need to…keep up,’ Shauna was saying. Joel caught Tommy’s eye, who was looking at him as if this was somehow his fault.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ Joel asked, stepping forward and trying to ignore the way Shauna brightened when she saw him.

‘Town council meetin’,’ Robert said, ‘though as far as I can see it’s only half of us here.’

‘Not everyone was available at short notice,’ Shauna said, and he grunted at her.

‘That so?’ he asked. Joel watched his face carefully, as the older man gave absolutely nothing away.

‘I’ve got plans to expand, just an idea, really,’ Shauna said, backtracking when she saw Joel’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Thought I should bring it in for…consideration.’

‘You ain’t been here five minutes,’ Tommy started, but Joel waved his hand and the younger brother immediately stopped. He wasn’t happy, Joel saw the way he rolled his shoulders, the little tic in his jaw Joel was fairly sure his little brother had learnt from him, but he quietened down, just the same.

‘Not for me to say,’ Joel said, trying his hand at post-apocalyptic diplomacy, ‘but that feels like something…if the town council thinks it has merit, mind…seems like something the whole of Jackson should get a vote on.’

He watched as Shauna’s smile faltered, for just a second, and Joel was surprised to find none of her tells had eroded over time. It wasn’t the answer she had hoped for, he could see that. What he couldn’t see was why.

‘We’ll call a proper meeting, with all the council, to consider it first,’ Maria said, definitively. ‘Now it’s dinner time, and some of us got family we need to get to. G’night, all.’

Joel saw Shauna move towards him, darting off Tommy’s desk and over to his side, but he was quicker than her, pulling away through the side door and out onto the street before she could get to him. He didn’t know why he did it, just that his brain stem had told him to get out of there. He felt a little bit sorry about it, but not enough to change his mind.

At home, he slipped his feet from his boots and left them by the door, calling out for Ellie as he stepped inside. She wasn’t at the table doing her homework, wasn’t on the couch reading her comics. He felt a little shiver of hope in his belly as he walked out the back, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of the two of you before it got too dark to work.

‘Am I interrupting?’ he asked, only a little bit hoping that he was, as he rounded the corner to the back porch. He stopped when he saw her, folded up against herself with her head resting on her knee. It took her a moment to notice him, so she didn’t turn her gaze to him right away. When she finally did he stuttered, saw that her eyes were red-rimmed as she furiously tried to wipe the evidence away.

--

Later that evening you dozed on your couch, finding yourself deserving of the strain in your neck and the ache in your lower back. You would eventually take yourself off to bed but for right now you had your blanket and some pulpy murder mystery you were starting to realise you’d read two summers ago.

The pounding on your door startled you, jolting you up and off the couch. You could feel your pulse roaring up your neck as you looked down at your trembling hands. You allowed yourself a second to catch your breath, another second to wonder if there was ever a future for you where you didn’t startle at the slightest sound. This wasn’t slight, though, and it was still coming from your front porch.

‘Hello?’ you called out, willing the panic to evaporate from your voice such that whatever burglar or murderer was trying to get in would immediately reconsider his actions and retreat.

‘Teach!’ Joel bellowed, and you took a step back, his anger striking genuine fear in your belly. ‘Open the damn door,’ he followed up when you didn’t reply.

‘It’s late, Joel,’ you said, not moving, and you heard his grunt of frustration.

‘Open!’ he demanded again, and you wondered how far he’d go if you let him, if he’d splinter the wood. You tried to shake the tremor from your hands as you moved towards the door, bracing yourself against the frame as you pulled it open.

‘What the hell is the matter with you?’ Joel asked, his eyes crackling with barely restrained fury.

You knew. Of course you knew, although you hadn’t expected him to be so angry about it.  ‘She’s really doing so great…’ you started, but he wasn’t there to hear you out, wasn’t there to do anything other than chew your face off, it seemed.

‘Why…she’s barely talkin’. She’s over there all quiet at the kitchen table, won’t even swear or nothin’, tells me you said she don’t need you anymore?’

‘She doesn’t…’ you tried again, your voice feeble.

‘Ah, that’s bullshit,’ Joel said, and you faltered, casting your eyes down, unable to look at him. ‘You know it was more’n that.’

‘Joel, she’s a bright girl.’

‘You know what it’s like to lose someone?’ he asked you, and you reared back like he’d slapped you. ‘Because you actin’ an awful lot like you don’t.’

You could hear Rose in your ear, whispering at you to think for a second, reminding you that he was hurting, that he was worried for his girl.

‘You can’t fucking come here and ask me that,’ you said, instead, drowning Rose out. ‘On my fucking front porch? Fuck you.’

‘Fuck you,’ Joel shot back, shouldering his way further into the doorway while you planted your heels, squared your shoulders. You were furious now too, angry and hurt and wanting to tear his stupid gorgeous face off his stupid beautiful head. ‘She’s only ever had like…three people in her life she trusted, one she had to shoot, and the others is you and me.’

You didn’t hear him, not at first, priming an insult on the tip of your tongue, getting ready to spit venom and bile such that Rose had to scream over your shoulder to get your attention.

‘Wait…’ you said, faltering, ‘she had to what?’

But it was too late, now, Joel was too far gone, too angry, too hurt, too confused why he was telling you to fuck yourself when all he wanted was to carry you up to your bedroom and do it himself. Too surprised he was sitting at the table at the mess hall with fucking Shauna as if she hadn’t abandoned her daughter and him, as if Sarah didn’t matter, as if the loss could be erased just by her mother resurfacing. Too hurt for Ellie, too aware that it was hurt you had every right to inflict, that he had been the source of it, that you were just protecting yourself. Too sad and too old and too fucking tired for any of it. For parenting a teenager. For reparenting his daughter’s ghost.

‘You gonna stand there and tell me you don’t care about her?’ he was seething, barely hearing his own thoughts. ‘You gonna tell me you don’t care you’re ripping out her heart?’

For having you and not having you. For missing you and having to try so hard to look away from you in the mess hall.

‘Joel,’ you said, and suddenly your voice was so small, so far away. He looked down at you, saw that your eyes were wet. ‘What did she have to do?’

‘Let her tell you herself, if she’ll talk to you,’ he said, and he watched as your shoulders slumped.

Guilt, then. Already he could see he was snuffing out your light, your warmth. Not two minutes talking to him and you were drawn, pinched, folding in on yourself. He couldn’t keep doing this. Couldn’t keep going to you just to push you away. ‘M’sorry,’ he said, all the adrenaline retreating to leave him woozy and sick. ‘That wasn’t fair.’

‘No, I get it,’ you said, sniffling.

‘She just…she’d been doing so well.’

‘She still will,’ you said. ‘She’s so tough, tougher than I ever…’

‘F’you could find your way to still work with her…’

‘…but I just can’t…it can’t be where…’

He was nodding, too, the two of you nodding at each other so neither would have to say the words, talking over each other so you didn’t have to hear your own thoughts let alone the other person’s.

‘It’s different, now,’ you said, and he knew it, agreed immediately, tasted bitter across his throat that told him just how much he didn’t want it to be true.

‘She has her eyes,’ Joel blurted, surprising you both. ‘Shauna. Has Sarah’s eyes.’

He looked at you from under his brows like he was asking you a question, and you supposed in a way he was. Asking you to understand that he had this piece of her, this fragment, that he couldn’t turn away. Asking you to hold it for him, the brightness and the heat of it, that part of himself still reverberating with the spark of her, with the love of her pierced through it, hold it for him lest it scorch him. Asking you to forgive him, to let him go.

‘Oh, Joel,’ you said, and you wanted to throw your arms around his neck and bury your face in his shirt, hold him as he shook with it, with the love and the loss and the grief of it, as it wrung him dry. 

You took a step forward, holding out your hands to him. Without a second thought, he stepped away.

‘OK,’ you said, retracting your arms and wrapping them instead around your middle. ‘I’ll work something out with Ellie.’

‘Want us to still be friends,’ he said, barely scratching the surface of the things he wanted and knew he could never have.

You paused for a second, considering this.

‘We’ve always been friends, Joel,’ you said, after a while. You smiled at him, that same fixed grin you’d deployed on Ellie not six hours before.

You supposed it worked about as well as it did, then. In the circumstances, it would have to do.

--

Joel was cold. It was late, and it was dark, but his room had no business being cold like it was the dead of winter. He rugged himself up, put his jacket on over his old woollen pyjamas, blew hot air into his fingertips. Ellie had gone to bed after he’d got back, even if she’d been a little happier knowing you’d still agreed to work with her. He could read it on her face, knew Ellie better’n she knew herself in a lot of ways. It didn’t feel great that her Dad’d needed to go over and beg you to stay with her. He knew that, just as he knew the alternative was worse.

After she’d gone to bed he’d found himself wondering the house, trying to tread as light as he could so as not to disturb her, but still unable to still his hands. He considered going down to work the wall for a while, see if he could be of use, but coupled with his inability to stand still was also a bone-weary fatigue that would have made him dangerous up there. A herd of elephants with dynamite strapped to their bellies could have sidled up to the gate and he probably wouldn’t have clocked ‘em.

Up in his room he checked the window seals, looked for any lifting of the wall from the floor, checked the cornices for any gaps that could explain the cold. It made it impossible for him to settle, his bones jangling with the sharpness of the chill, his knee pulling him up to standing to try and shake some of the tightness out of the joint.

He felt like he might be going crazy. More than a few times he went and stood on the porch to try and figure if it was colder inside the house than outside of it, but each time he forgot exactly how vicious the chill had been. He worried, then, about a gas leak, that the town wasn’t getting any heat, that people would freeze in their beds even though it being a late Spring night, and he was walking, then, down the familiar path only because he’d taken it so many times in his head, right back to your front door.

Your lights were still on. For the second time that night he wrapped on your door, and when you pulled it open, he knew you hadn’t been sleeping either.

‘I just got so cold,’ he confessed, and you blinked up at him. He could feel the heat on his face radiating out from behind you, knew that if he lifted his fingertips to your cheek he would find it warm, welcoming.

He pulled you to him, snug into his body, and put his icy lips on yours.

Warm honey, slow and calming, seeping over the tip of his tongue.  

It’s hands, then, up under your shirt and onto your warm skin, backing you into your hallway and up against the wall, your head knocking with a thud into the plaster and neither of you noticing. Joel’s mind, finally quiet, just seeking out your warmth, driven by the want to have all of your skin mapped by his fingers, driven by the want to have all of you, take you apart in his hands. You hitched your thigh over his hip, felt him lift you and carry you over to your worn-out couch, leather and patchy and somehow now always reminding you of Joel.

Just a quiet huff as you both landed, Joel’s mouth seeking out yours again to latch to you, keeping his arms tight around your back, pulling you down onto him, grinding you onto his cock, already straining under the flimsy twenty-year old material of his sleep pants. You gasped into his mouth, the ache in your core screaming for attention as you shivered against him.

‘So fuckin’ beautiful,’ he muttered, almost too himself, as he lifted you, one arm on the back of the sofa to steady you both as he deposited you down onto the cushion beneath him, shucking off your own pyjamas as he slid down onto the floor beneath you. You mewled, wanting him back on top of you, wanting his heat and his muscles rippling under his soft skin, his broad chest pushing hard into yours as he hovered over you, the press of him into the seat of the couch.

He sensed you needing him, lifting one hand and running it up over your belly, coming to rest, palm up just below your breast where you grabbed it, held it in yours, let him anchor you to him while you threw your head back and hooked your ankles over his shoulders.

‘Fuck, Joel, fuck…’ you whimpered, needy and breathy and already so wet you could feel it trickling down between your cheeks to the leather. Joel, rearing back on his heels, took a moment to admire the view, his eyes dark and wolfish as he surveyed his prey.

‘I need to taste it,’ he grunted, palming himself through his pants as you glistened in front of him, warm skin glowing in the lamplight as he spread you, reached down with his hand and slid his fingers up the inside of your thigh, inching towards your drooling cunt.

You couldn’t speak, the back of your throat so dry you could only swallow and gasp, nodding your head at him, the thundering of your centre so encompassing now, so deafening, you could barely hear his high, gentle whimper as he descended, sliding his lips over you, his tongue licking a fat and not at all tentative stripe at your slit before pulling up, opening you, descending on your clit like he had a homing beacon, every nerve ending screaming for him as he sucked the fraught bud between his teeth.

Joel felt it, your warm nectar, sweet and scorching, sliding down his throat and he swallowed it down, consumed it, drank from you, felt the heat pooling in his belly where it would sustain him for another day. Still gripping your hand in his right, he slid his left further up to tease at your slit, the slick of you collecting on his skin as he hooked his fingers, spreading you further open again, unfolding you, fastening you to him as he reached high and forward, found that spongey spot that made your breath hitch.

He wasn’t even sure he was doing it for you, just needing it for himself, greedy and desperate, hunting for your heat. You were enlivening him, emboldening him, giving him something to shield and something to shield with. He muttered against you, little whimpered praises neither of you could make out, as he felt your cunt tighten around him, left your hand go to steady your hips, pull you harder onto his face as you bucked against him.

He wanted you to come. Wanted to hear you scream, feel your hands in his hair, wring you out with his tongue and his fingers, wanted to be the one that made it happen. He wanted you for his own, to consume you, keep you tucked away inside himself for crisp afternoons and chilly midnights. Wanted you, always wanted you, here like this, split open and writhing for him, always wet and dripping on his skin and his floor, open and needy and crying for him, grasping him to you, calling his name.

And when you did, when you finally released around him, when he swallowed down your come and your cries, with your hips in his hand and your cunt in his teeth he knew, then, this was it for him, that he’d never feel a heat like it again, that the wanting would be all the worse for having finally held it, for just a moment here in your living room, while you gasped and writhed and trembled, your breath the only sound as you fought to catch it.

Taglist (as always lemme know if you wanna jump on):

@harriedandharassed

@vickie5446

@kaseyconnour

@orcasoul

@missladym1981

@spacesoutdaydreamer

@tangled-tumbler-blog-blog

@fancyyoouu

@anoverwhelmingdin

@millersamour

@delicatetrashtree

@wand-erer5

[lollytea]

I think the first time Hunter gets sick post-finale, his automatic response is to walk it off. Because that's what he's always done, and if you can't even handle common mold, how pathetic are you?

But as soon as Willow realizes that he's sick she's like FUCK YES!!!! Wait I mean poor baby oh noooooooo :(((( [fuck yes!] Now is her chance to show off what wife material she is. She's gonna make him feel so fucking taken care of!! She's gonna crush it!!!!

She shows up at his bedside (Darius bullied him into quarantining in his room) with a flask of soup and a bunch of her own herbal treatments and spends the next hour doting on him.

And it is unbelievable how fast the switch in Hunter's brain flips and how he goes downplaying his illness to milking the fuck out of it. The boy who once walked through a blizzard on a broken leg is now all like "my head hurts 🥺 I think it would feel better if you played with my hair again 🥺"

And Willow, who is not an idiot, is just like "oh I am SO getting wifed 🤠" and goes to town on his hair until he falls asleep

[coff-in]

on the topic of calling boys mommy i sometimes think of an older milf-styled femboy who gives his "daughter" (forcibly feminized boytoy) an abundant supply of "milk" (cum) straight from the source (his fucking dick) and it occurs to me that sex maniac andrew would/could probably be that femboy

notes from coff-in: HEHEHEHE YEAH!!!

hella yapping down here (not a fic, just a ramble), NSFW, incest, forced feminization (watch out if you're uncomfortable with that)

i just, i wanna, hehehe!! >:3c ah, ah, ah, okay... i gotta calm down :')

milf andrew taking care of his daughter is just... paints such a wonderful image to me. i think i gotta let this though marinate in my brain more but i can see it. it's kinda blurry but i can see it. (no longer) repressed sex manic andrew would probably feel so free to be that milfy femboy, no longer concerned with the pressure or expectations of society. (in the original post at least) people thought that he was just constantly horny cause his dick was big but he wasn't!! he's just PACKING!!

he had to push himself so much to show that he wasn't (just) a cumbrained freak but a person who was smart and intelligent and had his own feelings and struggles and desires outside of sex! but since the quarantine and everything else, he can let go and stop fighting. yeah he's a sex fiend now but because it's he likes it, not because it's expected from him (and i doubt he's horny all the time, he's still a person afterall)

and once she becomes a milf, teehee :3c i can't help it, i like the thought a lot. she would be (AND IS) such a good mom... not the best but better than renee. i'm imagining her nursing forcedfem [reader] on her cock and telling her "watch the teeth, baby" and i just AAAUUGH i know this is a horny thing but my brain is jist conjuring up soft moments too

milf andrew in bed with her daughter resting her head on her chest as she reads a book, maybe aloud. doing her daughter's hair (ashley would help too, happy to help her mommy take care of her new sister). i can also see milf andrew doing clothes or lingerie shopping with her daughter/s and using the opportunity to have semi-public sex in the changing rooms

i feel so sad that i have like NO life experience to build off since i'm just an introverted homebody but trust me, TRUST ME there are hot incest moments between them all the time.

"if only we were blood related..." I'LL MAKE IT HAPPEN FOR YOU!!! PLEASE PLEASE!!! them being blood related makes it all the more better, i mean... no yeah, it makes this scenario way better in my head. andrew and [reader] (his brother) after burial canon or something and andrew is just becoming more fem and growing into herself and she takes [reader] down with her. ESPECIALLY after killing renee, she's like "i'm going to take care of you, okay?" and i just GRRRR I WANT HER IN ME PLEASE!!!

sorry

and if [reader] tries to fight back andrew would just, like... talk down to him, i guess? whispering in her confused daughter's ear "don't you trust mommy to help you? i'm just doing what's best for us, like i've always done for you and ashley. mommy knows best, after all." and [reader] is like... "fine" it would be fucking perfect if [reader] was originally against it but then after the power imbalance from andrew and the encouragement from ashely, [reader] just... gives in. she likes it when her mommy lets her suck her cock for milk and enjoys wearing matching lingerie sets with her sister ashley and does some housewife work because it helps her calm down or relax and... eheh ♡

sorry for the rant, i couldn't let this sit in my inbox :p

----

coff-in

[justjasper]

Only if for a Night [E] [5651 words]

An unsub has been drugging people, unlocking latent alpha/beta/omega traits and causing chaos. Morgan and Reid get dosed, and have to quarantine until the effects pass. Inevitably, they do not.

— — —

“Morgan, go back to your room,” Reid says from the other side of the door, voice strained.

“Pretty boy, I can smell you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to the wood. “Reid, please. Let me in.”

“Morgan I can’t, I’m reacting, it’s not safe.”

“Baby, please,” Morgan whines. There seems to be no room in his brain for shame any longer.

“If I let you in, I’m going to fuck you, Morgan,” Reid says through the door. “I think—I think, whether you want me to or not. So please leave.”

— — —

You can find more of my fic on my blog tag or Ao3. also on Twitter or Discord (Quan Tea Co & Adoribull Holiday) if you want to hang out!

[jmdbjk]

Jimin's mail

I would like to take this opportunity to address the Jimin's "stolen" mail incident and perhaps dispel some misinformation circulating about it in this day and age of shouting sabotage for everything.

This whole topic might be boring to everyone, but my brain won't let go of it so here it is:

This incident occurred early 2022.

For reference: Jimin purchased his apartment at Nine One Hannam in May 2021. It was a brand new building and he is the first owner of his unit. He paid in cash approx. $4.5 million USD.

In January 2022 this apartment unit was seized temporarily by the South Korea National Health Insurance agency (NHI) due to unpaid insurance premiums.

Boring but important: South Korea provides universal healthcare which is funded several ways including citizens paying a percentage of their monthly income. These premiums also fund the Medical Aid program for those who cannot pay.

The controversy: According to the NHI, Jimin was sent four notices by registered mail of his unpaid insurance premiums. But somehow, this correspondence from the NHI never made it to Jimin. BigHit took full responsibility for this "mishandling of the mail". A portion of the BigHit statement reads:

"Regarding this matter, the company is the first to receive all mail that arrives at the artists’ dorms, and in the process of relaying it to the artist, a portion of the mail was omitted by mistake. Due to Jimin’s activities abroad starting at the end of last year, his extended period of rest, and his scheduled activities abroad after that, he was unaware of matters such as [his premiums] being overdue. As soon as he found out, he paid the arrears in full, and at present, the situation has been resolved. We apologize for the fact that we have given the artist and fans cause for concern due to our company’s negligence."

Another source stated that some mail does go directly to members' homes and is retrieved by company staff where it is included with mail sent in care of the company which is then distributed to the respective member if necessary. This corroborates with the above statement by Bighit.

In an artist/agency relationship, one of the things the agency (company) provides are staff/managers who MANAGE their day-to-day business. Managers make it so artists can lead the crazy lives they live. Makes sense as the members are too busy to take care of mundane things like paying bills.

Was REGISTERED mail taken/intercepted/stolen four times from the mail room at BigHit/HYBE? I don't have clarification on that. But seems like taking someone's registered mail would be a punishable crime.

What was going on during this time: The group was on a winter break that began early December 2021 after their activities in Los Angeles concluded. Jin, Jimin and Jungkook returned to Korea almost immediately and entered self-quarantine for ten days before they were free to do what they wanted within the scope of Covid restrictions.

Refreshing everyone's memory about Bangtan and Covid: Dec. 24: Yoongi tests positive for Covid. Dec. 25: Jin and Namjoon test positive. Jan. 30: Jimin's Covid happens simultaneously with appendicitis. Feb. 15: Tae tests positive. Mar. 24: Hobi goes down for the count. Mar. 27: last but definitely not least, JK AFTER arriving in Vegas.

The members, including Jimin, were starting to post on their individual Instagrams in December. Between Dec. 21 to Jan. 9, Jimin posted photos of himself on both Instagram and Weverse at various places from his visit to Jeju Island. We don't know about the timing of the photos, whether they were posted immediately after he snapped them or posted them days/weeks later.

He posted Jan. 7 on Instagram and then his next post, this time on Weverse, wasn't until Feb. 2, immediately following his emergency appendectomy. He was in the hospital between Jan. 30 and Feb. 5 so he posted a message from his hospital bed (sweet baby).

If he did not get his apartment back until April, then he did not know about his apartment situation while he was in the hospital.

But the NHI sent four notices. So backing up further chronologically, if they seized his apartment on January 25, that means the first overdue payment notice was possibly sent in September 2021?

Sept. 13: receiving diplomat passports.

Sept. 20: UN visit and speech in New York

Oct. 24: online PTD concert

Preparations were then focused on PTD LA. They departed Seoul for Los Angeles on November 16, 2021.

They were busy. They depended on their staff to take care of their personal business.

All that time, Jimin was not aware that there was a lapse in his insurance payments. When he was made aware of the situation, he paid it all immediately.

I have no source that states exactly when this payment was received by the NHI or when it was processed.

They left March 28, 2022 for Las Vegas and returned to Seoul on April 18. There are conflicting media stories about exactly when the apartment seizure was resolved. Some say April 22.

When he was still in Seoul and not traveling to the States, where was Jimin sleeping between January 25 and April 22? Where did he recuperate when he was released from the hospital? Where was he watching "The Notebook" for the nth time? Whose sofa was he laid up on? Hmmmmmm? Did he still have access to his apartment even though it was seized? What's the point of seizing it if he still had access to it? Did he even live there? Maybe that's why he didn't know anything about the seizure because he didn't even live there to begin with? But if he did live there and couldn't access his apartment to sleep there because it was seized, why didn't it get resolved sooner than April 22?

I have so many questions.

We also need to remember that it is said during their time in Las Vegas is when Jimin confided in the members about his challenges. And he's said that these feelings ended up being expressed in the songs on his Face album. Maybe he didn't learn about the apartment mess until he was in Las Vegas and that was the catalyst that made him spill his guts to the members. Still doesn't answer a lot of the above questions....

Media broke with the news about the apartment seizure on the day that "With You," an OST for the TV drama "Our Blues," was released, April 24. Despite all this, "With You" became the fastest song in history to reach #1 on iTunes in 100 total countries, breaking the record held by "Dynamite". It is well known that even negative publicity is publicity. Personally, I don't think it had much effect on the success of the song. But Jimin's character did take a hit. Also in my opinion, he has since recovered well from all that crap. Just me talking about this is probably reminding people that this even happened. Sorry. Just forget I said anything. Ha ha. What apartment? Ha.

Whether the timing of the media breaking the story was on purpose or coincidental... we don't know. Stating purposeful sabotage of Jimin's song is speculation. A news outlet will break a story if its titillating enough regardless of timing. Jimin losing his apartment due to unpaid bills is intriguing and high drama involving a member of BTS, of course they were going to push that story out ASAP.

If the apartment seizure was resolved 2 days before the story broke, we don't know how this information got to the media. THAT is the big question. Is there some sort of process that allows this information to be released somewhere accessible to the public (and therefore the media). If so, what is the timing of that? Or did a news media outlet learn about the incident on April 22 and hold on to the information until April 24? We don't know.

Saying the media sabotaged Jimin's OST "With You" is not the full truth. It is misinformation at this point.

With the information I know of, I do not believe there was a break-in at Jimin's apartment. I can't find a reliable source to confirm anything about a break-in, suspicions of a break-in or any mention of one. Nine One is very locked down and secure so a break-in is unlikely. You cannot waltz into the apartment complex and snoop around. Unlike Hannam The Hill, Nine One is surrounded by a high wall with security stations at the entrances. However, someone who had access to his apartment such as a personal assistant or housekeeping could very well have entered without his permission. But we don't know.

If someone was determined to intercept his mail, they may not have needed access to his apartment but only to his mailbox. Where ever that is. We are told all mail is collected by staff or it is sent directly to the company... it is possible it was a mistake but what kind of idiot was handling the mail and "misplaced" registered mail four times? I do not have a reliable source confirming anyone was formally accused of stealing the mail at BigHit. They most likely dealt with it internally. At the time of the incident, I blogged that people were fired and security protocols were reviewed. I stand by that declaration. Since then, Jimin has been unyielding in maintaining his privacy. Only very recently have we seen him relaxing enough to show us glimpses of his matching gaming chairs, ceiling and edges of his television. We even got a quick view of some decor above the tv.

I am still unclear about the doxxing but I myself disturbingly did see an image online of some documents that seemed to have Jimin's personal information on them. I think this information is included in the NHI documents that never made it to Jimin. If those images were really his information and still exist on the internet, I cannot find them. These documents would have his resident registration number on them. I am assuming it's a total pain in the ass to be issued a new one.

I do not have a reliable source confirming that a news media entity is responsible for stealing the mail and also revealing Jimin's personal information. Saying news media broke into the HYBE building during this incident is misinformation.

All of these things that can't be confirmed can only be called hearsay and speculation.

Everything I have stated here is my opinion from information I witnessed as it unfolded in real time, as well as information available if you search for it.

If you lean toward conspiracy theories regarding sabotaging of everything Jimin does you will come to certain conclusions. And if you just take things at face value without speculating beyond that then you will come to a different conclusion. We won't all agree as to what exactly went down. If I come across information that is new to me regarding what happened, I may modify my opinion depending on what the new information is.

What I've stated is all I have to go on. I have questions. But I won't say someone broke into his apartment. I won't say someone stole his mail but I am still skeptical because I have too many other collateral questions about the whole incident.

If anyone else has any confirmed information about the incident and you want to talk about it, my DMs are open, asks are open, or you can discuss in the comments of this post as long as everyone stays respectful. I would love to learn about anything else if you have links to sources with new information.

And apologies for the long ramble because my brain is constantly including details that might not be pertinent but who knows...

[salvador-daley]

Chained ⛓ NEW CHAPTER

A Klaus Hargreeves murder mystery

A/N: Not me making you wait two months for an update. Sorry folks, my personal life has been kinda nuts lately and I’ve not had the time or brain capacity to focus on writing as much as I’d like. However, I am still chipping away at this story and the result is this fully loaded chapter which is CHOCKFULL of clues.

Many thanks to @ramblingluna aka @helunar1 for the absolutely glorious artwork, which I have been saving especially for this chapter. And thanks as always to @allisoooon for the patient beta read and unbending support. 😘😘

Thanks so much for reading and remember: your comments and kudos mean the world to me (and help to keep the writer’s block at bay) so please do lemme know your thoughts and theories.

Snippet from Chapter 28 Nancy Drew:

Klaus returns the glare for a moment longer, remembering the time he won a staring contest with a particularly pugnacious Yorkshire terrier that time he attempted to steal meds from a vet’s office and somehow ended up in the quarantine kennel.

But then the discomfort becomes unbearable and he can hold it in no longer. “Can I help you with something, Inspector Clouseau?”

Wesson nods, mostly to herself. “That’s a great question, Mr Hargreeves. A great question.” She reaches into a leather messenger bag by her side and pulls out a white spray bottle, placing it on the table in front of them. “Do you know what this is for, Mr Hargreeves?”

Klaus looks at it. The bottle has a label. Red writing, lots of warnings. Something scientific. Although he can’t make out the whole name from this angle, it looks like surface spray. He shrugs. “Cleaning your bathroom?”

Wesson reaches forward and wraps her hand around the bottle, squeezing it in her big fist. “This,” she says, “is a chemical called luminol.” She holds the bottle up to her face and admires it, turning it in her hand as she speaks. “Great little invention. It allows us to see traces of blood, even when it’s been cleaned up.”

Klaus gulps.

Ben looks at him.

Wesson continues. “We used this all over Mr Templeton’s house and do you know what we found, Mr Hargreeves?”

He knows what she found. He can’t let her know that though. He tucks his arms even tighter around his body and slouches against the red leather of the booth, cocking his chin at her in a way he hopes comes across as confident and defiant and not at all guilty as sin. “No? Surprise me.”

“Bloody footprints. All the way down the stairs. In the hallway, in the bathroom. Traces of blood all over his shower. We found blood on the door handle, on the nightstand. We even found it in the sink.”

Klaus decides to switch to his preferred tactic; feigned idiocy.

It works every time.

Well, it works some of the time.

It works about 30 per cent of the time, if he’s being honest.

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean to me, hmmn?”

Wesson lowers the bottle and leans in, penetrating him with her stare now.

He thinks of the dog at the vet’s office. How Klaus had poked his head through the doggie door and the beast had bared its teeth at him, its tiny body shaking all over with unchecked rage.

“It means,” she growls, “that someone was in the room when Mr Templeton died. That they were there when his throat was cut. That they got all covered in his blood and that afterwards they attempted to clean it up.”

Klaus freezes.

Ben’s eyes dart from Klaus to Wesson to Klaus again.

Wesson is still holding his gaze, attempting to snap him open, to break him like a dry twig.

He waits a beat.

“Have you ever seen Heat?” he asks. “Amazing film. Robert deNiro at his best.”

Read the rest on AO3

Tagging in the hopes you might reblog please pretty please: @badsext @softforklave @anglophile-rin @neist @purblzart @maerenee930 @firstpersonnarrator @allisoooon @cemeteryklaus @super-unpredictable98 @courtneytarynofficial @mokolataddict @pickledbeefwastaken @love-is-dirty-baby @rina-cydonia @inspiremeandsetmefree @jender123 @vonkimmeren @sylvertyger @merrilark @rob-private @pietro-t1me @not-oscar-wilde @squishitude

[lionlena]

Why I think Fireflies are DUMB and Marlene is cruel

I re-watched episode 9 and this scene caught my attention

Okay, I know Marlene said the patrol didn't know them, but their behavior is still stupid to me. They didn't know it was Joel... Yes, that JOEL (damn dangerous dude). What did they see? The girl and probably her dad in the open space and yet they decided to waste the stun grenade launcher.

I'm assuming this isn't something you can buy on ebay in post-apocalyptic times. So? What should they do? They have the upper hand, they're obscured, they've got guns, and these two can't see them. In addition, Joel is not holding a gun in his hands, but has it slung over his shoulder. It would be enough to fire a warning shot in the air and shout: "Stop! You are surrounded! Put your hands up! Tell me who you are and what you are looking for!"

Is it really that hard? I'm under the impression that it is because fireflies are untrained and unorganized. I saw a similar situation in episode 7. Seriously, didn't any of the fireflies (with more than two brain cells) say, "Hey, this young girl with no experience is supposed to guard the warehouse by herself? Maybe someone older and more experienced should be with her? You know, so she doesn't do anything stupid. Like she don't go to quarantine zone and go get friend? I'm just saying"

I know FEDRA is evil anyway, but the fireflies will never defeat them. Why? Because FEDRA has a structure, a hierarchy and they are organized.

And now Marlene... She is surprised that Joel made it to their base. “We lost half our crew crossing the country. I had five men whose only job was to protect me. I still nearly died. How did you do that?"

My assumptions are that Marlene may have assumed Ellie was already dead. How long has it been since she last saw her? Four months? Half a year? She couldn't be 100% sure that Joel wouldn't abandon Ellie. Don't get me wrong. I love Joel. I love what a great father he is to Ellie, but Marlene didn't know that. To her, Joel was a smuggler who was supposed to smuggle Ellie in exchange for a reward. Any other smuggler would have decided after a week that all the hard work wasn't worth it. So what am I aiming for? I don't think Marlene was prepared for Ellie's arrival. The fireflies and the doctors weren't prepared either. The entire laboratory facilities were probably not prepared (assuming there were any at all some laboratory). And yet Marlene decided to kill Ellie. She didn't want to spend even one day with her friend's daughter. Why? Because she is cruel and blindly believes in something that has no logical or scientific basis. She stubbornly wants to save a world that no longer exists and that will never exist again.

And she's also cruel to Joel. She says, "I owe you a favor. We all are." And yet she denies him the most basic thing, which is goodbye. Anyone who, like me, has lost a loved one without being able to say goodbye to them knows how painful it is.

And she's also cruel to Anna. She promised her that she would take care of the baby, and what she did... 1/ She gave Ellie to FEDRA 2/ She gave Ellie to Joel Again, I love Joel, but to Marlene Joel  is a cruel, brutal, heartless smuggler. 3/ She gave Ellie to a doctor who shouldn't even be called a doctor (Hippocratic Oath says something to someone? "Primum non nocere") Probably this doctor could have been blind, deaf, and paralyzed in his right arm, and Marlene would have agreed to the operation anyway.

She says: Our doctor thinks... Thinks? what the fuck? He should be sure. IN 100%. Because if it's true and Ellie is the only chance to create a cure, then you can't assume anything... YOU HAVE TO BE SURE OF IT

But the peak of her cruelty for me are these words: I do understand. I am the only one who understands...

How dare you? How fucking dare you say that! You don't understand anything!!! You didn't lose your baby. For twenty years you haven't had the same nightmare that one day became true again. You don't know what it's like to be a parent again. You don't know what Ellie's been through. You didn't see her fear, her tears, her laughter. You weren't with her the first time she drove the car, the first time she slept in the woods, the first time she saw a giraffe.

you know nothing jon snow

Ok, and back to fireflies and their stupidity again.

If Ellie was so important. Why was the operating room so poorly protected? At least three soldiers should stand by the doctor and not move even when they hears shots.

But again they showed their disorganization. Why? Perhaps the biggest mistake is not having the right leader. Imagine if someone like Joel was their leader. Someone who always expects the worst. Someone who thinks first and then acts.

That's why fireflies are stupid to me. Because first they act (throw a grenade, carry out an operation... they hand over the children to a smuggler) and only then... wait... No, they don't think. They only act.

And what do they get in return? Angry Joel in killer mode :D So seriously. It wasn't even Joel's fault. The fireflies asked for it.

[gardenerian]

tag game! tag game! it's time for a tag game! ty @heymacy @energievie @deedala @mmmichyyy @sxltburn for the tags ❤️ i smooch you all!

name: mel

age: wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?

your time zone: edt babey

what do you do for work? suffer academia

do you have any pets? sebastian, the dumbest of all dumb baby cats

what first drew you to this fandom? i watched the show off and on while it was airing, then gave up after a while. rewatched the entire thing juuuust before the pandemic after i saw a video clip here on the tumbles. i dipped my toe into the fandom then, but once quarantine really started my brain was all in! and i met the loves of my entire life - it's been the best thing!

are you a morning person or a night owl? hoot hoot

what are your hobbies? mmmm! niche history things, writing, readin books, Consuming Media aklsfh, walks and being outside, goofing around with my pals

how tall are you? 5'3 🤏🏻

if you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live? west of ireland

favorite color? some days it's blue, some days it's green

favorite book? *knocks on your door* hello, do you have a moment to talk about how to build a boat by elaine feeney and how it was SNUBBED by the booker prize committee?

favorite movie? the royal tenenbaums orrr bright star ✨

favorite fic? restoration 🛠

favorite musical artist: petey, future islands, baby queen

what is your average screen time so far this week? i refuse to look at this lmao

what's the first app you open in the morning? depending on the day, it's email (everybody say booooo) or discord (everybody say yaaaaaaay)

how long have you been on tumblr? oh my god lol FOURTEEN YEARS i will die here 😇

finally (and i know this one is hard) tell me a fun fact about yourself: my due date was april 26 but i said fuck that and arrived in february and i remain convinced that this dictates my entire personality I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SPRING BABY 😤

feelin tag shy but if you are reading this i am tagging you! if you want! i love you!

[yabagofmilfs]

15 people, 15 questions

thanks for the tags @babygirlboberrey, @girlfriendline, and @crosbyism!

1. are you named after anyone?

no, but i was almost named after my dad's ex-gf. awkward.

2. when was the last time you cried?

about a real thing? on christmas eve, because i am constitutionally unable to deal with change / it's been a really tough month. but i tear up several times a day thinking about my special guys.

3. do you have kids?

one horrible goblin boy (affectionate).

4. what sports do you play/ have you played?

i was on various swim teams for a lot of years, but otherwise have zero athletic ability. no hand-eye coordination, and absolutely no awareness of my own physical body or how it works. can't run, can't throw, can't catch. i also have almost no competitive drive in that vein. (sidney crosby would hate me.)

5. do you use sarcasm?

more than i should, but unfortunately i am a product of my environment (double whammy of asshole father and british stepmother).

6. what’s the first thing you notice about people?

i am horribly unobservant about physical characteristics (compounded by very bad eyesight), but i read people very well? idk how to describe that.

7. what’s your eye colour?

greenish bluish grayish. but mostly green.

8. scary movies or happy endings?

happy endings. i'm a huuuuuuuuuuuuuge weenie about scary things, especially if it involves ghosts / demons, etc. i was raised by an insane woman in a weird religious sect, and some things just never leave you. i have a horrible tendency to brain spiral about things even when i know i'm being ridiculous. for example, one time i watched a youtube video about the three men and a baby ghost and i literally could not sleep that night because i felt sure if i looked at my bedroom window there would be a child's face in it. it's fine! i'm normal!

9. any talents?

i have a photographic memory that is a blessing and a curse (see above), but sometimes comes in handy for stupid things like connecting the dots between random gifs of sid and old kiss cam footage. i'm also great at word games and trivia, and a fantastic cook and baker when i have the energy to do either.

10. where were you born?

at disneyland.

11. what are your hobbies?

being weird on the internet. reading. writing. watching every non-war documentary i can get my hands on. starting very detailed excel spreadsheets and then forgetting they exist.

12. do you have any pets?

two cats. a calico named moxie (moo) who is gorgeous and sweet but also a complete brat. i believe quarantine may have broken her brain because she cannot stand not to be touching someone at all times, and not just touching you but laying on your chest and kneading your jugular with her claws out if you're not giving her enough attention (it is never enough attention).

and then there's the feral gremlin who lives under my bed. technically she doesn't have a real name because we couldn't decide. we called her the tiny one forever, and eventually that became tiny > teeny > reenie > reen bean, which is what we mostly call her now. we adopted her because we thought moo needed a friend, but they hate each other. :) reen bean was rescued from a hoarding situation, and we learned after the fact that she's part siamese--only the annoying parts, though. she looks like a tuxie, but she has the yowl of a siamese twice her size. she hates everyone but me, and will growl like a demon if anyone touches her belly or dares to come to the door.

13. how tall are you?

5'2 on a good day.

14. favourite subject in school?

once upon a time i was a dual lit and psych major and i loved every second of it. i went to a very liberal arts college, so there were a lot of fun courses to choose from. a couple that stand out: queering victorian lit, medieval french lit exploring the monster trope, and the psychology of queer intimacy.

15. dream job?

the same one every former gifted child who read a lot has: open a 24-hour cafe bookstore with live music on the weekends. i wish i could get my brain to heal enough to start writing books again, but perhaps if i win the lottery i can quit my toxic job and open up a bookstore and that would do it. two birds and all.

tagging: i think this has made the rounds by now, so i won't tag anyone specifically but if you're reading this consider yourself tagged my friend.

[thewakingcloak]

The State of Things Past

this post is mirrored from the Studio Spacefarer Patreon! please consider supporting me, and you’ll get access to devlog posts, gifs, and other info before the public!

Like I mentioned in my previous post, The Waking Cloak has been in development for eight years.

ProtoDungeon: Episode III has itself been in development for a few years, pretty much since 2019 (oooof). I've gotten plenty of questions about how the project is coming, as well as the occasional question of whether The Waking Cloak / ProtoDungeon is even alive at all at this point. Thank you for asking this. It means people are still interested in these games.

Okay, but still, what happened? Why are things taking so long? Well, this post is the first in the Christmas Carol series, in which the ~Ghost of Spacefarer Past~ appears to explain things (wooo spooky explanation sounds).

Progress has been made, very slowly, on ProtoDungeon: Episode III. I'd love to have done more, but, well… in the time since I released Episode II, we continued adjusting to parenthood for our first kid, went through the pandemic, had a second baby (who is now almost 3yo), and survived through a series of really difficult events, which culminated in a move to a new house in a new town and the start of a new chapter (but that last bit we'll save that for the Ghost of Christmas Present so he feels useful).

But yeah, it's been a rough ride. My wife and I are intentionally open about what's been going on. At the same time, the internet is an extremely public place, and I don't want to overshare, or worse, trigger anything for anyone, so I'll try to keep this list brief:

Two miscarriages (the first one was late term, and absolutely, brutally devastating)

The loss of our faith community due to the pandemic

Loss of job for my wife due to the pandemic (the pandemic was unkind to teachers)

Loss of a dream job prospect for my wife (same issue)

The great Texas freeze and power outage (us huddling under blankets in shifts through the night with our newborn infant (he's fine now!))

Severe, life-threatening post-partum and post-natal depression

Family covid and two-week cabin-fever quarantines (twice, despite being vaccinated and careful)

The death of my grandma (we were not able to attend her memorial due to aforementioned covid and living on the other side of the country)

Multiple heart attacks for my father despite his active and healthy lifestyle

Autoimmune disease scare for my wife (may still be a thing, just dormant?)

etc., etc., ad infinitum.

A lot of people have had things significantly worse, so this is definitely not an attempt to "compare griefs" as it were. This is just context for, no matter how much I wanted it to be otherwise, the fact that I didn't have the mental or emotional (or temporal) space for creativity. It was one thing after another, and we were just trying to keep our heads above water.

Even when we'd mostly recovered from the hits that just kept comin', we moved away from what my wife lovingly refers to as the "trauma house", and she started a teaching job at a brand-new school. Both were good things, but they were pretty big transitions, and it takes time for the ol' brains to adjust. We love our new home now and have a bit more breathing room.

Okay but also I HAVE been working on ProtoDungeon. Dev was really sporadic, but it did happen. The next post will have more detail on the status of Episode III, but there were kind of two big things I worked on during the past three years, big shifts in the foundation of ProtoDungeon and The Waking Cloak.

First, I switched game perspective. I made a few posts about this a while back, but PD/TWC interiors were originally like Zelda interiors (where you see the insides of all four walls). There are good reasons to do this, but it was also kinda making me crazy. So I switched to a more natural front-perspective, keeping things consistent with the exteriors. It definitely was the right choice for the game I wanted to build, but it took time.

Second, and building on that, I made the game fully faux-3D. You can walk behind or in front of stuff--not something the old Zelda games did, and still pretty rare for 2D games. I was toying with the idea for a long time, but I played through an old PlayStation title, Alundra, and that convinced me it could be done. It's way harder than you might expect, and it was a massive block for me for literally years. I was able to slowly work my way past it and finally resolved it with a 3D z-tilting method, but dev slowed to a crawl.

And that's it for now! The ghost releases you from your vision of Spacefarer Past….

Thanks for reading :)

[sixofcrowdaydreams]

There's a handful of reasons I relate to Wylan so strongly, but one of them has to be the unique experience of being an illiterate adult.

A few years ago, right before the pandemic, I moved across the world to work in a country where I didn't speak the main language. None of the languages commonly spoken in my new home uses the Latin alphabet so attempting to read and pronounce any letters/words in an unfamiliar writing system has been difficult.

Just don't be ignorant, you might think. Learn the language! For the record, I did. Well, I started to, but then the pandemic hit. My language class stopped and strict quarantines limited opportunities to practice. Two years and two babies later the world opened back up. Work and my tiny dictators, I mean, toddlers have kept me too busy to throw myself into learning the language with the gusto I once had. But over the years I've learned enough to get by with basic pleasantries: hello, goodbye, thank you, yes, no. Numbers 1-10. And how to order food at a restaurant. "How are you?" "Good." Unfortunately, that’s the limited extent of my conversational abilities.

The alphabet still trips me up and I often feel like a kindergartner slowly stringing syllables together and incorrectly sounding out words. Plus, there's the bonus of pronouncing the words but still not knowing they actually mean.

So I relate to Wylan a little bit in having to navigate the world at a disadvantage, one he cannot fully understand. Luckily for Wylan he can speak even though he can’t read, which gives him more coping strategies than are available to me. But you don’t realize just how much is written, especially in the modern world, until you are unable to read it.

Being an illiterate adult is a humbling experience. I cannot emphasize that enough. Book Wylan is a teenager, but was thrown into the “real world” and left to fend for himself as if he were an adult. Show Wylan is an illiterate adult who was also more or less thrown into the wild world. And I’d like to imagine that he shares similar illiterate adult encounters and experiences with me.

There isn’t a moment that I forget that I can’t read the language around me. However, it’s very easy to tune out the writing. To be blind to it and not see signs or labels because my brain stops looking for them, unable to to understand them.

Getting lost. Knowing the name of the place, a building, an address, the street that I'm searching for, but not being able to locate it by sight even though it is right there.

Walking past shops and stores unable to read their name and wondering what’s inside. What do they sell? What business do they hold? There’s no way of knowing unless I go inside myself.

Shopping and buying items based on the image on the packaging. Trying to figure out if there’s any difference between two items. Occasionally guessing wrong, buying the wrong thing.

Need instructions? Written directions (like for cooking)? Lol, Guess I'm going to wing it and hope for the best.

Being unable to read a written menu and ordering something generic because the restaurant probably serves it.

Putting off chores that require using the skill I don't have.

Having to act overly polite to everyone (regardless of how I feel) because I am the inconvenience when everyone else is just living their normal life.

Being treated like a child because, in my inability to read, I have the skills of a child so people will treat me the same way they would a child. And worse, all the while still having to act so polite about it because again, I am the inconvenience, even though I am being spoken down to like a child.

Accidentally, unintentionally being rude because I can't follow the sign's directions.

Pretending that I can read (or speak). Sometimes nodding along and agreeing with without any context is easier than a admitting I don't have a clue what's happening.

And in the modern day... I rely heavily on my cell phone to translate the way Wylan would use speech to text features. And there are times when there's no cell service, the phone or app stop working correctly. The translations/transcriptions are imperfect and confusing. It's scary when those safety nets stop working.

So yeah, being an illiterate adult is quite the experience. It can be exhausting. I am incredibly lucky that in my case it's due to living in a multicultural world and that given the time and patience, I could became literate and fluent in another language. The entire experience gives quite the insight on the hurdles and experiences Wylan might face.

[spockandawe]

I think i have... mostly turned a corner. Halfway through last night i went from sleeping two hours at a time propped up in a sitting position to five hours flat on my back! Physical exertion still makes me wheeze hilariously, but sitting quietly and doing nothing does not! My abs are SO SORE from coughing, but the amount of actual coughing has eased off, even if it still sounds disgusting! I am still weak and wobbly like a baby deer, but i managed to do some unpacking today! The majority of my remaining boxes are quarantined to my kitchen, which is nearly impassable, but shhhh, it's progress!

I was called out in an earlier sickpost for having border collie brain, which is a hilariously apt dunk on my personality, so I am in a tug-of-war with myself to fake the feeling of productivity by constant restless posting on here, versus doing some kind of quiet media consumption I've been meaning to catch up on anyways (solution: i deadlock myself and do neither and [border collie vibration intensifies]), but GOD, this is agonizing, i yearn for even the productivity of my office job 😂

[crystal-overdrive]

Writer Interview Tag ✍️

Thank you for the tag @darkurgetrash!

When did you start writing?

I'm a pandemic writer! I'd always liked the idea of writing, but lockdown gave me the time to actually commit to finishing pieces. I wrote my first visual novel when I was 26, moved into narrative design at work at 27, then started my master's degree in creative writing at 29. Towards Tyranny is the first fanfiction I've written, though I have been a reader since 2008-ish. From both perspectives I suppose I'm relatively late to writing. Sometimes I feel like I'm ancient and sometimes I feel very young, but I think having a decade of life experience under my belt before I started writing has helped me to craft more meaningful narratives. The best writers I know are in their 50s and I'm twenty years off that! With admitting that I'm actually educated in and have professional experience with writing, I feel like I must explain that Towards Tyranny is 100% unedited - pure brain garbage. I'm more invested in keeping up with my schedule and delivering a story than crafting fantastic (or even middling) prose.

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

Outside of fic I mostly write science-fiction and drama. I listen to a lot of horror audio drama and fiction podcasts, and while there is a horror element lurking in the background of some of my work, I'm yet to fully venture into that territory.

Most of the sci-fi I read is lefty political spec-fic. Eventually I'd like my own sf work to contain those sorts of themes but I don't think I'm politically astute enough right now to do that justice.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

One of the best-worst comments I ever got from a professor was "Neal Stephenson can get away with this. You are not Neal Stephenson," in reference to my use of dense neologisms and tech-industry specific language. He later said the piece was better than Blade Runner so, idk, maybe I can get away with that! 😂 I got another Philip K Dick comparison with my current supervisor when we were talking about theme and he told me his prose is shit but he does theme so well that it doesn't matter. 😬 With prose, the dream is to be some combination of Ursula K Le Guin and William Gibson, write some ecofeminist cyberpunk stuff. With drama I'm obsessed with Caryl Chruchill. She breaks the rules in such delightful ways, and my latest play cribs her werido no-punctuation style.

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

I have my own office because when I was working both my partner and I were under NDAs, so we had to give up the spare bedroom so we could stop sharing the office. I couldn't go back now. Having space in the house just for me is so wonderful. My desk is frequently an absolute state, but it's organised chaos, I know where everything is. I have my craft books in here and a big whiteboard for all my tasks for the week. Behind my monitor I have a motivation wall of printed out comments on my work, and I also have all the fandom artwork I've bought framed in here. The other art in the house is a little more tasteful so this is the sexy Gortash quarantine zone.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

I think it depends on your definition of muse. If it means "the will to write", there is no muse. Its all routine and deadlines, baby. I know I sound like one of those grouchy old writers, but you sit and you write, that's it. Some days it's crap. Most days it isn't. In terms of idea generation, my primary technique is just daydreaming, honestly. I joke with my partner that I'm "going to bed to watch TV" which actually means just imagining what's going to happen next in my story for like 2 hours before I fall asleep. I go on a walk most days and think then. In dire moments just lying on the floor until an idea comes also works. When I'm actually gearing stuff up for pitching I look back through my old notebooks, make mind maps and take inspiration from news and magazines. I have a box with clippings from Wired, New Scientist and those trashy "true story" magazines like Take a Break. Juxtaposing headlines and images from those often gives me something interesting to work with. I went to an archives workshop recently so I might try archive diving when I start my next project.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Alternative realities and expectations of women seem to saturate my writing. This year I've written a screenplay about jumping dimensions which questioned the value of motherhood, part of a novel about teenage girls being suicide baited in VR to achieve eternal beauty, an interactive fiction piece about a game able to alter reality and a radio play about simulation theory.

Towards Tyranny is absolutely loaded with the expectations of women thing, with marriage, children, parental expectations and societal expectations being really core to Tav's life choices and dilemmas. It's a pretty negative take considering where we're going right now.

What is your reason for writing?

That's an interesting question! There's absolutely no doubt that Towards Tyranny is kind of therapy for me. I wrote my way through a crisis of faith, through feeling like I was perceived as unequal to my partner, through losing friends to mortgages and pets and babies. I honestly don't think I would be engaged right now if I hadn't written this. I'm really terrible at identifying my own emotions and for some reason making up a hot character with all my worst traits and sending her down the fascist pipeline has helped me with that. 😂

I think at this point with TT I'm now writing for the audience. I know you're "not supposed" to do that but I don't create things to hide them away, I create things to connect with others, in the hope that someone else sees themselves in my viewpoint. I doubt I'm so unique that no one else has these problems!

In my more general writing life I suppose that is it, I write to connect with people, to share ideas, maybe? I just enjoy it, really.

Is there any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

Every single time I get a comment it makes me so excited. I fucking live for comments. My favourites are definitely ones that speculate on what's coming next. The fun part of working in a serial format is going on that guessing journey with the readers and seeing where they think things are going. I'm pretty convinced that my readers have a very different idea of how TT will end compared to me, which is going to be interesting. 👀

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

For my wider work I almost don't want to be thought of, I'm big believer in death of the author and am really interested in audience interpretations and what they do with the work. With the fic, it's all about community. I must admit I have a very cringe fantasy of like, expertly ordering wine in my gorgeous heels at some BG3 convention and someone being like "you wrote Towards Tyranny, didn't you?". That's fucking embarrassing lol. But that's the point of (what used to be) a self-insert, right? You but cool and hot? I suppose I want the audience to think I'm smart, elegant, astute, while honestly what I'm telling them is that I'm a dumbass who doesn't know her own emotions and has a crisis over how people view her every other week.

There's definitely a lot of power in knowing that people are waiting for you to post next week and to know that you're eliciting emotion from them. My posting schedule is important to me. I would die if I thought my audience saw me as flaky or unable to commit and finish what I started.

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

My dialogue is pretty good. Most of my education has been in writing for stage and screen, and I think that comes across in my prose too. I don't have a car, so I spend a lot of time being nosy on public transport and listening to how people talk, and I hope that's filtered into how I write different voices.

How do you feel about your own writing?

Some days I think I'm the Goddess' gift to the Earth and other days I think I'm the fucking worst and should just give up. The objective truth is that I'm...fine? I think I'm in a pretty good place as an early career writer. I've got loads of stuff to develop, but my plays are being picked up by scratch nights and small theatres, and I've had positive feedback on my prose by published authors. As I said before Towards Tyranny is not an accurate reflection of my skill level but I do really like it, it's fun, it has stuff to say, it's hot. I've had a lot of doubts about it given it's my first longform piece and my first fanwork, particularly with the sex scenes and the idea that it probably won't end how the readership wants it to, but it does have a readership who have been incredibly kind about it, which has really bolstered me in moments of doubt.