#Cotton Storage Bags

[giftingproducts]

Quapri offers Customizable Cotton Drawstring Bags made from eco-friendly, high-quality cotton, perfect for branding, giveaways, and product packaging. These reusable cotton pouches can be custom printed or embroidered with your logo, brand name, or design, making them ideal for events, retail stores, and promotional campaigns. Our cotton drawstring bags are durable, lightweight, and versatile, providing a sustainable packaging solution that enhances your brand visibility.

Our Customizable Cotton Drawstring Bags

Our customizable cotton drawstring bags offer the perfect blend of functionality and style at Quapri. Use these sacks for promotions, events, or daily purposes. They have a spacious design with a single drawstring closure and an added zipped compartment for security.

Cotton drawstring bags can be customized according to your preference, so you can easily display your brand message or unique design. Learn how this handy bag can boost your visibility and satisfy your functional requirements.

[sakshikaribykriti]

Block print fabric travel makeup bags make for fun, girlie gifts! Pick these as Bridesmaid gifts, for travel essentials, makeup storage, for storing delicates or for hoarding stationery if you like. These fairly large and spacious bright bohemian bags will add a ray of sunshine to your day!

[urbancreative]

Our organic cotton drawstring bags have designed to support your low waste and plastic free life style and are available in a range of sizes to suit a variety of needs at home and outside. Use these bags for plastic free vegetable and grocery shopping and storage, as a travel accessory, a laundry bag a gift bag or to even store toys.

These durable bags are available in GOTS certified organic cotton in a variety of  sizes and  solid colours. The draw strings are made of 100% durable cotton tape.

[green-witch-archives]

Guide to Drying Herbs

Drying herbs is a simple practice, and there are several methods to choose from depending on the type of herb and your desire use. Here's how I dry my herbs:

1. Drying on Newspaper

2. Hanging Herbs Upside Down

3. Pressing Herbs

4. Drying Small Petals in Pouches

General Tips for Best Results

Use Breathable Cloths: Wrapping your herbs or laying them on a breathable cloth allows air to circulate freely, preventing mold while catching any small leaves or flowers that shed during the drying process.

Timing: Dry herbs as soon as possible after harvesting to retain their potency and fragrance.

Environment: Choose a dry, cool, and ventilated area to prevent mold or mildew.

Labeling: If drying multiple herbs, label them to avoid confusion.

Storage: Once dried, store your herbs in airtight containers away from sunlight and moisture.

Using Dried Herbs

Always check if the plant is safe for use before collecting it. Do not make tea or touch anything with unknown properties. Always clean your plants before drying.

[shanneltarot]

Large Drawstring Laundry Bag

Large capacity drawstring laundry storage bag striped multiple color pink green clothes dorm storage bag, Reseller storage bags https://shanneltarot.com/large-capacity-drawstring-laundry-storage-bag-striped-multiple-color-pink-green-clothes-dorm-storage-bag-reseller-storage-bags/ https://shanneltarot.com/large-capacity-drawstring-laundry-storage-bag-striped-multiple-color-pink-green-clothes-dorm-storage-bag-reseller-storage-bags/ Introducing our beautiful handcrafted Large Capacity Drawstring Laundry Storage Bag – a stylish and practical solution for your clothing organization needs. This vibrant and colorful bag boasts a playful blend of multicolor pink, yellow, green, and white stripes, adding a delightful touch to your living space.Measuring a generous 25 inches (approximate) in width and 24 inches in length, this spacious drawstring fabric bag offers ample room to accommodate your laundry and store your clothing items with ease. The convenient drawstring closure ensures that your belongings stay secure and enclosed.Elevate your storage game with this eye-catching and functional masterpiece that seamlessly combines form and function. Whether you're sorting laundry or stashing seasonal attire, our Large Capacity Drawstring Laundry Storage Bag is your go-to companion for a clutter-free and charmingly organized home.

[kaisosims]

HRT Clutter

Happy Pride Month!

HRT Clutter provides 12 new clutter items from various medical treatments and gender affirming care. I wanted to add these everyday items to the Sims 4 for realistic decorative and storytelling purposes.

I felt very inspired to add some HRT related clutter with the addition of top surgery scars and binders to the base game this year! Woot!

12 new items:

Antiseptic | 4 swatches – isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide

Bandaids and Alcohol Wipes | 3 swatches

Binder Clutter | 15 swatches – original mesh and texture by EA/Maxis

Cotton Balls | 4 swatches

Hormone Vial | 3 swatches

Injection Storage Bag | 8 swatches

Hormone Patches | 4 swatches

Pill Bottle | 3 swatches – choose between 1, 2, and 3 pill bottles

Pill Packets | 4 swatches

Sharps Container | 4 swatches

Hormone Storage Bin | 6 swatches

Trans Tape | 12 swatches – download the wearable CAS version with matching swatches here! : https://www.patreon.com/posts/functional-trans-78916042

All items are 100% 3D modelled and textured by me except for binder clutter 😊

Some medical and product branding directly or loosely resembles real brands. I do not take credit for those product designs, I only recreated them for the Sims for realism purposes :]

All items are Base Game Compatible with all necessary LODs.

Find items in this pack easily by searching HRT or Kaiso

Download (free!): https://www.patreon.com/posts/84331093

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - November 15-21

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles! (sorry it's slightly late, the links didn't wanna work and I couldn't figure it out all day)

1. Wyoming's abortion ban has been overturned, including its ban on abortion medication

“Wyoming is the second state to have its near-total abortion ban overturned this month[…. Seven other states] also approved amendments protecting the right to an abortion. A lawsuit seeking to challenge the [FDA]’s approval of abortion medication recently failed when the Supreme Court refused to hear it[….]”

2. Patches of wildflowers in cities can be just as good for insects as natural meadows – study

“This study confirmed that small areas of urban wildflowers have a high concentration of pollinating insects, and are as valuable to many pollinators as larger areas of natural meadow that you would typically find rurally.”

3. Paris could offer new parents anti-pollution baby 'gift bags' to combat 'forever chemicals'

“The bag includes a stainless steel baby cup, a wooden toy, reusable cotton wipes, and non-toxic cleaning supplies as part of a "green prescription". […] The city will also have 44 centres for protecting mothers and infants that will be without any pollutants[….]”

4. Indigenous guardians embark on a sacred pact to protect the lowland tapir in Colombia

“The tapir is now the focus of an Indigenous-led conservation project[… A proposed “biocultural corridor”] will protect not only the populations and movements of wildlife such as tapirs, but also the cultural traditions and spirituality of the Inga and other neighboring Indigenous peoples[….]”

5. Denmark will plant 1 billion trees and convert 10% of farmland into forest

“[…] 43 billion kroner ($6.1 billion) have been earmarked to acquire land from farmers over the next two decades[.… In addition,] livestock farmers will be taxed for the greenhouse gases emitted by their cows, sheep and pigs from 2030, the first country to do so[….]”

6. The biggest grid storage project using old batteries is online in Texas

“[Element operates “used EV battery packs” with software that can] fine-tune commands at the cell level, instead of treating all the batteries as a monolithic whole. This enables the system to get more use out of each cell without stressing any so much that they break down[….]””

7. Durable supramolecular plastic is fully ocean-degradable and doesn't generate microplastics

“The new material is as strong as conventional plastics and biodegradable, [… and] is therefore expected to help reduce harmful microplastic pollution that accumulates in oceans and soil and eventually enters the food chain.”

8. Big Oil Tax Could Boost Global Loss and Damage Fund by 2000%

“[… A] tax on fossil fuel extraction, which would increase each year, combined with additional taxes on excess profits would […] generate hundreds of billions of dollars by the end of the decade to assist poor and vulnerable communities with the impact of the climate crisis[….]”

9. Rooftop solar meets 107.5 pct of South Australia’s demand, no emergency measures needed

“[T]he state was able to export around 658 MW of capacity to Victoria at the time[….] The export capacity is expected to increase significantly as the new transmission link to NSW[…] should be able to allow an extra 150 MW to be transferred in either direction by Christmas.”

10. Light-altering paint for greenhouses could help lengthen the fruit growing season in less sunny countries

“[Scientists] have developed a spray coating for greenhouses that could help UK farmers to produce more crops in the future using the same or less energy[… by optimising] the wavelength of light shining onto the plants, improving their growth and yield.”

November 8-14 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[littlereaderxfandoms]

L.B.L.

Request (by @spencers-bookworm): Hi! I seen you wanting requests so what about spencer x bau!reader were reader has a bad day at work and ends up hiding and regressing in a storage cupboard or something. Spencer comes and finds them, comforts them and takes them home to have some much needed caregiver and regressor time.

I also just want to say I love your blog so far and really appreciate what you're writing as I feel there's never enough x reader age regression fics.

Little!reader x CG!Spencer (+ BAU team + precinct people)

Summary: Your day goes horribly horribly wrong and Spencer has to intervene.

Genre: Hurt/Comfort (?)

Length: Around 1k

Nothing was going right. First, you spilled your coffee all over your white cotton shirt. Then, you found out that you forgot your go bag at home. Then, you had to borrow a shirt from Morgan because none of the ladies were in yet, and nor was Spencer, which was very embarrassing. And then, you got a stern scolding from Hotch for forgetting your go bag at home when you needed to immediately leave for an urgent case where even the briefing would happen on the plane. If that wasn’t bad enough, the other detectives and police officers at the precinct were picking on you whenever you were alone.

It was no surprise that you broke down. And it was especially no surprise to Spencer because he knew that you haven’t had the chance to regress in quite a while. So when he got back from the latest crime scene and Emily told him that you were in the storage closet because you needed some space, he knew he had to intervene.

You looked up with teary eyes and called out when you heard the door to the storage closet being turned, “I’ll be out in a second!”

“Sweetheart,” Spencer spoke, seeing as the closet was locked, ”can you let me in please?”

You sniffled as you thought for a second before shuffling forward to open the lock, letting Spencer open the door as you sat back, barely able to hold in your tears and sobs.

“Oh darling…” Spencer quickly locked the door behind him, sitting next to you and pulling you into his arms.

“Daddy…” Your voice cracked as you whispered before letting go and sobbing into Spencer’s chest, clinging to him.

Spencer shushed you lightly, letting you cry, and held you close. Once you calmed down to just sniffles, he pulled back a little to look at you, gently wiping the last of the tears away.

“Better?” Spencer whispered, prompting you to nod in response, not wanting to speak. “Come on, let’s get you to the hotel.”

You whined lightly at that, standing up with him. “Still have work…”

“Baby, I’ll talk to Hotch. We are taking an LBL.” Spencer unlocked the door, ignoring your whines and protests against taking the leave.

In your entire 2 years at the BAU, you have made sure to always be prepared and make sure to take regular regression breaks so that you don’t ever have to utilize a Little Breakdown Leave. To you, they are just embarrassing. These leaves are designed to help littles and caregivers take a leave from work in case the little has a breakdown before or at work. While you always tried to be nice and helpful to those at the office who have had to use them, you never really got over how it felt embarrassing for you to be having a breakdown.

Hotch was quick to approve it, letting Spencer drag you back to the car and to the hotel against your wishes to keep working.

“Why don’t you want to just take the leave? It doesn’t have to be embarrassing sweetheart.” Spencer held your hand softly as you sniffled at your protests being ignored.

“But it is! Especially when you are already considered dumb by others!” You exclaimed angrily. You didn’t want the detectives and police officers at the precinct to think that they were right about you not being able to work because you were a little.

“Excuse me?” Spencer looked surprised. “Who said you are dumb?”

“The detectives and the officers at the precinct…” You mumbled, already feeling worse at just thinking that. You didn’t notice Spencer clenching his jaw in anger as you looked out the window.

“Listen up baby.” You looked at Spencer with wide eyes, a little surprised by the stern tone. “Nobody, and I mean nobody has the right to call you dumb. You are smart, strong, brave, and everything that those stupid men aren’t. Just because you are a little, doesn’t mean that you aren’t all those things. You hear me?”

You nodded before realizing you needed to speak up, “Yes daddy…”

“You don’t get to do that either. You don’t get to talk down to my baby. Capiche?” Spencer glanced at you, holding your hand in a tight, comforting grip, making you smile.

“Yes daddy.”

Spencer kissed your cheek once he parked the car. “I love you, sweetie. Remember that and the fact that you are better than every single officer and detective we had in the precinct today.”

You smiled a little, feeling better but still not the best. But you knew that it would take time to get over their words. You were more sensitive than most littles in the bureau, so Spencer too knew that it would take some time before you felt confident again. He remembered the amount of time it took him and the team to get you out of your shell and see your confidence.

Spencer took you back to your room, helping you get a bath. An hour later, you were both comfortably cuddling on the bed, watching a movie as Spencer fed you mac and cheese with chicken nuggets and fries.

Having had the time to regress and recharge that night, you came into the precinct feeling much better than the day before. The pep talk you got from Spencer also helped you a lot with regaining your confidence, at least around your team.

It also seemed that Hotch must have had a talk with the detectives and officers as they didn’t make any more comments around you, whether you were alone or not. It didn’t take long for you to figure out where the others had been stuck the day prior and help solve the case on the very same day, proving to the detectives and officers just how valuable you actually were.

It was safe to say that you had much of your confidence back by the time you got on the jet to get back home.

[fictionalmenxyn]

༺𝐚 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝༻

Pairing: cowboy!rafe x cowgirl!reader

Warning: language, suggestive touching/speaking and that’s all :)

(Just a blurb not a chapter)

༺❂༻

Just another sunny day at Y/l/n ranch. The warm weather and slight summer breeze runs through your hair. Thankfully the breeze isn’t strong enough to wear a jacket or knock your brown cowboy hat off.

You were currently squatting, grabbing a big bag of chicken feed. As you were about to stand up with the big bag, there was a knock. You looked up, over your shoulder. You smiled at the sight. It was Rafe, his famous smirk on his lips.

“Hey doll, need help?”

“Uh yeah sure, thanks”

You moved out of the way for Rafe to effortlessly pick up the chicken feed and walk out of the storage shed. You point to your quad “just put it on there f’me, please” he nodded and walked over putting the bag down. You climb onto the quad. You look to Rafe “I thought you had to help your dad out today?” He smile and rested his one palm on the front of your quad. “We ended up doing at all yesterday, turns out the fence for the goats didn’t take as long as we thought.”

You smiled “you got the kids?!” He chuckled and nodded “yeah, baby, we got ‘em.” You smile widens “aww, when are they arriving at the ranch?” “Next week, and before you say it, yes, you can come and see ‘em.” You practically squealed in excitement, to which he laughed at.

You offered “since you probably don’t have much to do, you can hang out with me and help a bit…” he smiled and nodded “sure thing, princess.” He walked round and climbed onto the quad. Wrapping his one arm around your waist as the other holds the bag of chicken feed so it wouldn’t fall off. You turned the ignition of the quad before driving it down a small dirt path and over to the ducks and chickens. You park up the quad and climb off, your brown worn in Chelsea Docs hit the dirt and gravel.

You were about to reach for the bag, Rafe swatted your hands away “I’ve got it.” You playfully roll your eyes. He knew you could do it, you’ve done it many times. By he wanted to.

You walk over to the coops, grabbing the ‘egg collector’ your mother would say. It’s a navy apron that has many pockets to fit eggs in. You started to collect the eggs as Rafe would feel the ducks and chickens.

You feel pinching on your leg, you laugh “Betty, quit!” You look down to see the chicken pecking at your leg… once again… like always.

You see Rafe walk back over “how many eggs?” You smile and turn to him “uhh seven chicken, three duck.” He smiles “seems like a good day, eh?” You nod.

You head over to the quad and putting the eggs in the cream that’s tied onto the back of the quad by bungee cords. You carefully place the eggs into the cotton and straw. You look over to see your two border collies run over, Zeus and Athena. You raise an eyebrow, they were in the house earlier. Then you see your younger brother by the open front door. You shout “what’re you doing with the dogs!?” He shouted back “mom said to bring the sheep in, shaving day later today!” You nodded.

Rafe smiled “let’s get this flock in, huh?” You nodded and climbed onto the quad “drop the eggs off first.” He climbed on and wrapped both arms around your waist. He rested his chin on your shoulder as you drove. As you make your way over to the front of the house, your mom was already at the porch waiting. You smile “hey momma” she smiled “hey both, got the eggs?” Rafe nodded “got ‘em all here for you, ma’am.” Your mother playfully rolls her eyes “Rafe, you don’t need to go all formal on me, I’m particularly another mother to ya!” You all laugh. She steps down from the porch and collected the eggs from the basket and into her cardigan pockets.

“Alright, I’ll let you two gather the flock in.” She gave you both a wave before heading inside. You turn in the quad, heading down one of the far fields.

As you rolled up, Zeus and Athena ran along the sides of the quad and waited for your call. “Walk up!” The two dogs ran into the large open field.

You stood on the quad, Rafe remains seated. His hands on the outside of your jean covered thighs. You shout “Zeus away t’me!” Zeus pushes the flock to the right. “Athena come by!” She pushes the rest of the flock to the left. Brining the flock of sheep into the middle of the field.

Soon enough, you and the help of your two border collies, had got the sheep into a small field ready for later. Rafe smiles and pats your thigh “atta girl.” You playfully roll your eyes as you sit on the quad. You thought for a moment.

“A penny for ya thought?”

“I can’t remember what else… oh! I remember!”

You turn the quad back on and drive towards the stables.

Soon enough you’re outside the horses stables. You park up and climb off, Rafe doing the same.

You walk into the large open stables, horses hooves and neighs can be heard. You walk over to your horses stable ‘thunder’. You climb up on the shelf as you couldn’t see over the tall (taller than you, not taller than Rafe) stable door. Rage smirks “need a hand?” You fake laugh “har har, funny…” you look over and see your stallion.

Your horse since you were five, you grew up together, literally. You smile when you see the grey and white horse. The name came from his colour of her coat. The mix of grey and white, representing a thunder cloud.

You reach out “hey there, girl, gonna give ya a fresh stable.” You hop down and grab the two fresh bales of hay. You look to Rafe “you gonna grab the hay? Or move Thunder to the outside part?” He nodded at the hay “I’ll take the hay, you get her out.” You nod. Opening the stable door, you walk over to Thunder. “Hey sweet girl, gonna have to get you to go outside f’me.”

You pat her side, using yourself as a ‘traffic cone’ you guide her to the extension of her stable. It had an indoor outdoor type of place. You were moving her to the outside part. Once you got her outside, you closed the gate. Her head peaking through the gap of the gate and the tall doorframe. You patted her neck “won’t be too long.”

You turn to see Rafe moving the second bale to near the stable door. You both grab a pitchfork each and started to dig up any dung.

You pick up one of the bales of hay, bringing it inside the stable. You pull out your pocket knife and tug on one of the strings. You rub your knife against the string, you huff when it’s not working. “You’ve forgotten to sharping your knife, huh?” You nodded at Rafe’s question.

Rafe handed you his pocket knife. “Thanks.” You use his knife that cuts the string without moving your hand against it. You do the same for three other strings. You pocket the strings. And then you both started to kick the hay around. As you try to even out the hay, you hear Rafe and his not so subtle evil laugh. As you were about to turn around, you feel hay getting kicked over you.

“You fuckin’! Get back here!”

You started to chase him around the stables. Once you got the chance, you jumped on Rafe’s back. He held your thighs so you wouldn’t fall. You balled your fist and gave him a good old noogie against his blond hair.

He laughed “hey! I’ll get ya back for that!” You laugh and hop down from his back.

Sometime later…

After a good days work, you both had got to your room. Rafe had already showed in your en-suite. Now it’s your turn. You took your Docs off, tossing them near your bedroom door. You pull your tshirt off and same goes with your jeans. Rafe let out a low whistle “damn girl, strippin’ right in front of me now??” You smile and flip him off as you stand in your en-suite.

He laughed as he rest his head on your pillows “gotta say, I’m liking the view back here!” You fake laugh, which made him laugh, then you closed the bathroom door.

After around ten or so minutes, you reemerge. You wearing one of Rafe’s Carhartt camouflage hoodies along with a pair of black cycling shorts. You walk over to the bed and climb on. Rafe was quick to pull you onto him. Your body on his. His arms snake under the hoodie and around your waist. He kissed the top of your head “good job today, baby.” “Thank you.”

You rest your chin on his chest as you look up to him. He smiles then places a soft kiss on your pink lips. You smile when he pulls away. You rest your head back on his chest.

The silence was comforting, after hearing dogs bark, horses neigh, engines roar and loads more of animals. The silence was nice after a hard day of work. That was all interrupted when you swatted Rafe’s chest. “Rafe! Don’t kill the mood!”

He chuckles, his hand still lightly squeezing your ass. “What?! Can’t help myself, when it’s right there..”

“It was staring at me first!”

“Oh that ol’ chest nut, eh?!”

You both stared at each other, then it all broke when you both started laughing. He kept his hands right where they were when you swatted him. You didn’t mind, why would you?

You close your eyes, resting your head back on his chest. You smile to yourself. Then you feel Rafe moved under you, next thing you hear is your tv. You look over to see he’s putting on a tv show you were both watching together. You both cuddle as you watched the show together, after a hard day at work, it always pays off.

༺❂༻

[motherofagony]

A HEART FOR EATING // vol. 2

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: post outbreak!joel x f!reader setting: jackson, wy (think tlou pt. 2 minus the golfing) rating: mature, 18+, minors dni word count: 8.7k series summary: a vicious raider attack robs you of human connection and lights a fire of destruction in your life in jackson. joel's fixated on you, and your lives tangle. revenge becomes a needful thing. chapter summary: you take care of joel after a patrol injury, but you suspect there's more to it than he's telling you. the atmosphere shifts as you and joel grow (begrudgingly) closer. content warnings + tags: age gap (we'll say 15-20 years), protective!joel, brief masturbation (f!reader), praise kink for two seconds, blood, bodily injuries, needles (reader gives joel stitches), dissociation/triggers, alcohol, angst, sexual tension intensifies, The First Kiss™, soft!joel vol. 1 // vol. 2 series playlist a/n: we're picking up speed, folks. world-building is my weakness, so i hope you enjoy this nonetheless. honorable mention goes to the readers in the trenches, waiting patiently for joel to [redacted] reader senseless until she [redacted] all over his [redacted]. thank you for the love on the series so far. taglist: @ghostwritesthings, @widowssbite, @p3rkerr, @eternallyvenus, @punkshort if anyone would like to be added/removed to the taglist (or if i missed anyone), please send me a DM!

You’ve always hated flying.

In the great before, the stone ages of family vacations and things to look forward to, fears were singular and planes were yours.

Your family never had a lot of money, not really, but on the special occasion of a death in the family, you’d find yourself trapped to a seat in a metal tube. Going nowhere but up. Sitting through safety instructions that came from smiling, lipsticked mouths that were only hypotheticals until they weren’t.

It’s like a rollercoaster, your dad would say, amused in the way only a dad can be and sleeping through damn near anything in the same fashion. It did nothing to calm the knocking of your knees, to quell the flip of your stomach as you climbed higher and higher until you couldn’t see anything but cotton ball clouds.

It was always unnatural to you that something so heavy could float, that you were supposed to go on doing human things and drinking your ginger ale and munching your pre-packaged snack option. As if you weren’t being hurled into the sky with no one walking you through it.

As if the plummet onto tarmac meant no harm, just completely normal erratic braking that felt a lot like the moments before a crash.

There was no control — it was in someone else’s hands that you never saw. And as you fell, you were supposed to say thank you, that’s exactly what I paid for.

This is your version of the oxygen mask. This is you putting yours on before you help Joel.

You’re on your knees digging through your med bag, thumbing through bandages, checking for a quick count of gloves, antibiotics, wash cloths. You fumble with the zipper, fighting with the tremor that starts in your forearms and liquifies into your wrists. There isn’t much in the way of supplies unless you ransack what’s kept in storage, but there’s no time, and you’re not sure of what you’re about to walk into.

Waiting any moment for a scream, or the blast of a gun when they realize Joel’s not Joel anymore.

And it isn’t really a big possibility in the grand scheme of things, if you consider that he would’ve likely turned on the route home. But it’s still there, tickling the back of your head, nudging your navel uncomfortably. Nothing’s impossible.

You of all people know that.

You linger in your living room, giving a final sweep. Worst case, you can run back for what’s forgotten, but something about the idea of abandoning a vulnerable Joel – if only for a minute – doesn’t settle right in your stomach.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re shoving a bottle of whiskey into the bag, the only anesthetic on hand. And if you’re being honest with yourself, you need to score back some points.

The steps leading up to Joel’s house are sturdy, and you imagine it’s because of the pride he takes in what’s his. Before this, his house was just another skeleton of roof, foundation, windows, and siding.

The kind of houses you pass by every day that are rife with familiarity but you don’t know what it’s like to see the people inside eat dinner, brush their teeth. Fight. Fuck.

Fresh paint from only two seasons ago, reinforced porch posts. A swing. It’s weird to see permanence in this day and age, but his intention to anchor himself and grow roots here flutters meaningfully inside you.

It’s always been a sacred thing to you, you don’t know why. A place you’d never dreamed of entering, but dreamed about what it would smell like. A pair of boots haphazard by the front door, small piles of organized chaos, of collected tangibles. A you never know if you’ll need this in one corner, a saving that for a rainy day shelved in another.

So when you raise your hand to knock, you feel like an intruder, an unwelcome invasion of privacy. And you don’t know why you knock at all, you nearly think better of it given the circumstances, but you’re testing the atmosphere, hoping for voices inside instead of a struggle.

Ellie’s swinging the door open, relief smoothing out the lines in her forehead when she sees you. Her presence seems to answer any unspoken questions you had about Joel being infected, and you don’t voice them to her when you can see unrest in her antsy legs.

“Hey. Sorry for the wait. He alright?”

Her teeth are worrying her lip, probably more traumatized by the sight of him than anything. A few strands of hair have freed themselves from her lazy half-bun at the base of her neck, caught in the crossfire when she ran her hands through it, you think.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes, committing to it. “Yeah, he’s okay. Bleeding stopped, nothing seems broken. Just needs stitches, I think.”

It sounds more to convince herself than anything else. There’s a foreign fragility to her, and you hate it.

“He tell you what happened?”

The question strikes a nerve. Ellie’s shaking her bowed head, scoffing in a half-laugh that doesn’t touch her eyes. Her hand wraps around her knuckles, cracking slowly in an effort to alleviate the tension that’s reached a fever pitch inside her.

“He won’t tell me, says it doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have gone alone anyway, he was bein’ a dick. ‘I wanna think, kiddo - need t’clear my head,’” she mocks in a gruff, rolling pitch, the perfect dosage of Texas.

It levels you, potent. Are you the thing Joel needed to clear his head of?

You’re weirdly longing for it, but being flicked away like a bug, peeled away layer by layer from him isn’t something you want.

There’s hope that you’re contagious. That you’re haunting him and lurking in the darkest corners of his mind like an apparition like he has yours. And maybe there’s hope after all, something left to salvage.

But you play dumb, furrow your brow a little too expertly.

Ellie’s measuring you, and there’s a glimpse of worry but she hides it in a way that you wouldn’t know what you were looking for if you hadn’t already found it.

“Anything you wanna tell me about the other night? He was pissed when he left,” she tacks on quietly.

You go a little slack-jawed. You don’t even know how to put it into words, and you couldn’t tell her what it meant even if you tried.

What’s there to even say?

“You know what, none of my business,” she says, her hands lifting in tired surrender when you don’t answer, ignoring your near-sputter. “But you’re not off the hook, just make sure the old man doesn’t croak. And tell him he scared the shit outta me.”

You exhale and hope it doesn’t read too much as relief. You’ll have to answer to her later, but at least you might have an answer to give.

“Handful of salt in the wound, rub in circular motions – got it. Tell Tommy I’ll catch up later.”

Your shoulders scrape affectionately as you nudge past each other, and you cast a wide look at the periphery of Joel Miller’s house. The feeling of unwelcome disappears, and if anything, you’re being tugged further inside. Imagining what it’s like to be a fixture, an adornment in his weird little life.

Nooks that you assumed would be messy are neat, coiffed even. There’s that unavoidable smudge of secondhand all over the furniture – mottled ever so slightly, aged uneven in places that only an apocalypse can do. But it’s an otherwise tidy existence. Another surprise from Joel that you’d never pick up on if you only witnessed him nursing a drink at the bar.

An oak bookshelf props itself at the bottom of the stairs and it rivals your own, dust gathering in thin lines where he’s repeatedly shelved this, reread that. There are paintings hung decisively on most of the walls, breathtaking rural landscapes of wherever.

You’re lugging the bag upstairs, counting your breaths with each step. The whiskey rattles mutely against the first aid tin, and it’s a toss-up now of who you really brought it for.

The landing mirrors the ground level, a purposeful littering of tchotchkes. Doors line the second floor, some closed, some ajar but not inviting, and you realize you have no idea which one you’re looking for. You sway uninvited by the bannister until you hear the unmistakable hiss of breath between clenched teeth, then a soft moan as his weight shifts.

And you’re stepping inside a room – his bedroom – warmed in the soft beginnings of sunset. Joel’s sprawled asymmetrically on his bed, eyes pinched shut, delirious with blood loss but already looking substantially less like a corpse. A damp rag settles just above his brow, and the handiwork of Ellie.

There’s an unrecognizable hurt in him, wounded in ways that he shouldn’t be capable of.

He doesn’t give any indication that he knows you’re here until he’s rasping out something weak disguised as stern.

“I ain’t bit. Shut the door behind you.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“How did you –?”

Joel just huffs in response, as indignant as his body lets him be.

“You see anyone else here? They might as well’ve jumped out the window, as fast as they dumped me ‘n left. I ain’t stupid.”

You accept that and drop the pretense, pursing your lips with a nod. He doesn’t seem that offended, knows it’s just the nature of the beast.

You move over to his bedside, unpacking the bag quickly on a side table, looping your metaphorical stethoscope around your neck and switching gears into a mode that’s strictly doctoral.

Yet, there’s still that hum beneath your skin, the fizzle of unfinished business. It’s thick in the space between you, in the way he flicks his gaze at you lazily. You’ll let him foster the anger, giving it a home. You can be the martyr he says you are.

This new lens feels calmer, almost professional. Your nerves are still firing rapidly, and your composure is forced, but it’s better than nothing.

You drag a chair from the corner up to Joel’s bed, not letting your eyes wander too far into the depths of the space. You don’t have time to dissect the idiosyncrasies of his life. Not yet.

He still hasn’t opened his eyes, but you get the sense that he’s tracking your every move. His limbs are concrete, the tendons in his forearms so tense and coiled like any and every movement is forbidden.

“Joel.”

He grunts, a pained translation. Still no effort to move.

“I need to take a look at you,” you say patiently, bargaining like you would with a kid. “Wanna tell me what hurts?”

Another grunt, softer this time. He motions vaguely, weakly to his head, then the left flank of his abdomen.

You already know what you’ll find under the rag on his head, and it bodes well that the bleeding looks to have stopped. His stomach wound, on the other hand, was enough to bleed through two layers.

“Alright. Lemme see.”

A muted whimper echoes in his throat, so uncharacteristically that it tugs on your heart. Still statuesque, unmoving.

Your fingers are deft, careful as they unbutton the first, second, third buttons of his flannel. Joel’s stock-still, and his breath comes in sharp, slow waves through his nose. Your own breath kind of sits in the back of your throat, and you pretend with a hurried exhale that you weren’t just holding it.

Your fingers reach his navel on the last button, and you’re gently tucking each panel of his shirt under him on either side, focusing too hard on not touching him. It feels like something is somersaulting low in your stomach.

You can’t even dare yourself to look at his chest, his stomach. The patch of hair leading down to the band of his pants.

Get it together. That’s not what this is.

An angry gash looks up at you, thankfully clotted with dried patches of blood. It’s about two delicate fingers long, a nasty slice. It looks clean, abrupt in shape but suspiciously manmade. Not too deep, but not superficial enough to heal without some assistance.

And thank god, not nearly as bad as you thought it would be.

Joel’s looking at you now through heavy lids, wary of you, but something like fear touches the corners of his eyes. You fight to stay medical, methodical in your diagnosis. No emotion slips out, nothing allowed in.

You sit back calmly, letting loose a sigh. Not letting yourself bathe in the intimacy of the moment, in the way he’s staring.

“You need stitches,” you announce simply.

“Like hell.”

“Joel.”

He’s scowling, a hurt animal pissed at its own vulnerability. Silence passes like a ship between you, and for a moment, you think he’ll really fight you on this. He can’t hide anything when he’s like this, the weighing of his options evident in the tick of his jaw, the pathetic pinch just in the center of his brows.

“Fine,” he grits out. “Make it quick.”

This fucker.

You’re rolling your eyes, unceremoniously tugging the rag from his forehead. The cloth is red but not soaked, just twinged pink around the edges. Joel curses, just an octave above unintelligible.

His hand is shooting to the cut near his hairline and you’re smacking it away before he can pollute it.

“Lay still, fuck’s sake,” you chastise. “An infection’ll put you out longer than a few days. Unless you have a puzzle you been meaning to get around to?”

The faux-threat calms him immediately, and the shift in restraint doesn’t go unchecked. He doesn’t say another word, but you catch a glare and a twitch of his mouth.

You make quick work of cleaning him up, squeezing rubbing alcohol on a clean towel and scrubbing patient circles through the mess of dried blood. Joel releases sharp noises you can only describe as growls when you get too close to the border of his cuts.

It’s primal, a dog asserting dominance with his leg caught in a trap.

You try to lose the attitude, and it’s difficult when your patient hates you, doesn’t hate you, won’t clarify either way.

There’s a hint of purple that’s developing like fresh film on the mountains of his knuckles that doesn’t go unnoticed. Places on the most taut peaks of flesh where his skin has split, marred with scrapes that look like indents of teeth. And in the right light, there’s a discoloration of something in the same family splayed on his ribs.

And that… you know that when you see it. Even if everything else can be explained away.

“You wanna talk about it?” you say quietly.

There’s an intermission where he doesn’t respond. Too long to be the truth, too short to come up with a lie. And you know he’s been waiting for this question, might’ve already thought of a story.

“Got clumsy,” Joel recites. “Tripped on some stairs that were caving in, hit my head.”

“Bullshit.” And it’s a statement, not an insult. It doesn’t cover why he has a certified stab wound in his side.

Another stretch of silence, lack of defensiveness, makes it clear that he knows you know. But he doesn’t elaborate, and for whatever reason, you don’t push it.

And maybe it’s enough to acknowledge this sort of thing for now. You can stow it away, let it keep you up at night. Draw parallels where there possibly aren’t any. If he’d run into a human thing, he’d be much worse off, right?

Just like you were.

You take care in lining up the supplies to stitch in neat order beside you, mulling over each step in your mind. Stalling, maybe.

You pull the whiskey bottle out of your bag by the neck and nudge Joel with the cap.

“Something to take the edge off.”

He kind of hesitates, but there’s a tenderness. Recognizing it as an act of mercy, a peace offering.

There’s nothing said, but he takes the bait, spinning off the top and swallowing a messy mouthful. A drip escapes through the corner of his mouth and slips into his beard.

You can feel the taste of it blossoming on your tongue.

He grunts his thanks and keeps a steady grip on the neck of the bottle, and the network of veins in his forearm unwind.

You clamp the needle, laced through with something thicker than thread but not quite medical grade. Joel exhales a shaky whine when you pierce the skin, and his fist grips the sheets when you twist clockwise to push the needle through to the other side.

“You’re doing great,” you murmur.

The needle weaves over the cut, greeting the other side. You pull it through and up, and his lower lip trembles, sweat beading his forehead.

“First one done,” you say, praising him but also yourself.

Joel’s still clenching the linens on the bed, ignoring you and hiding out in his own mind somewhere.

You don’t tell him that you’ve only ever practiced on fruit, that your suture knowledge comes exclusively from the one medical text you have and endless hours of TV you grew up on.

Silence envelopes you again, heavier than before if possible. The pressure waxes and wanes like nighttime waves, licking the shore between you. And it’s not angry, just something… else.

“Some house you got,” you note casually as a distraction, like you’re commenting on the weather. It comes off relaxed enough, though any conversation between you feels like flossing a crowded mouth.

His eyes sharpen, and you think it’s in excruciation, but there’s a twinge of apprehension. You straighten for a moment, hands fixed mid-stitch, and roll your eyes.

“Okay, cool it, Home Alone, I’m not casing the place.”

Joel takes a turn rolling his eyes. You swear that you see his mouth twitch again, but you hang your head, dabbing a cloth where pinpricks of blood form.

You try again.

“I like your paintings.”

You dare to look up, and his mouth is in a tight line.

“You like my paintings.” he repeats dully, not a question. Joel’s as cynical as you, and he thinks it’s a jab, not sincere.

“You’re not gonna make this easy on me, are you?”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it.”

Now’s as good a time as any. You sigh at that.

“Look, the other night wasn’t my finest moment. It didn’t need to go that way,” you mutter, leaning on the concentration of sewing up Joel’s skin. Otherwise, you might feel too strongly, dissect your word choice with an uncomfortable linger. “Sorry. I know you were trying to help.”

He goes rigid as your second stitch meets a third. The bottle tips to his lips again, and you wonder if it’s an act of liquid courage. You boldly hope so.

“Nah, I shoulda kept my mouth shut. Been thinkin’ I needed to apologize anyway,” he admits, and you know he’s happy you made the first move. You can already feel him loosen, but maybe it’s the alcohol. “You ain’t a martyr, y’know.”

Oh.

The needle hooks into the final sliver of skin, your handiwork tightening into a neat line. You sit back, wiping your brow with the ungloved section of your wrist. It’s a treaty, a handshake at the very least.

“Actually, I think you hit the nail on the head with that one,” you smirk, olive branch fully hanging between your teeth now. “Keeping up the charade is so exhausting.”

Joel presses out a pained half-laugh, and you feel something crumbling between you.

You tie off the last stitch, trimming the excess thread off the knot. The clamp clatters into the tray, and you give it a final once-over before peeling a large rectangle of bandage from your kit and pressing it gently over the wound.

“All done,” you quip, peeling your gloves off. “Didn’t even have to amputate.”

“Not too bad,” he grunts.

“I’ll add it to your tab.”

While you’re riding the high of approval, you stand and move to the foot of the bed. Joel’s boots are still on, laced messily.

And for some reason, you don’t even ask permission, you just start untying, tipping them off and lining them next to one another on the hardwood.

He doesn’t say a word. Out of confusion, maybe.

You scoot your chair and makeshift flatlay along with you, positioning yourself at Joel’s head. That look is back, a side-stare that steals your breath.

That look that knows you could absolutely ruin him, and he’d either thank you or kill you.

The pads of your fingers brush back the hair from his forehead, still slightly matted with blood. It’s a surface cut, but crescent-shaped and easily hidden by a curl of brown, peppered with grey. Butterfly closure it is.

No signs of a concussion show themselves. At least there’s that.

“You might have a scar,” you murmur. Being this close to Joel makes you feel like you’re wearing two layers too many.

And he hasn’t broken the stare, not even minutely.

“Add it to the collection,” he says lowly, not an ounce of self-pity.

Your eyes flash to the scar near his temple. You’re exercising full-on restraint not to ask him about it. But it’s not the time, something you could try to pry out of him later. And knowing there’ll be a later makes you relax your shoulders, unclench your jaw.

He’s nice enough to pretend not to notice, or he’s in too much pain to mention it.

You dab the damp rag around the border of his cut again, mopping up any excess. You reach for the isopropyl.

“You might wanna take another swig,” you warn. And he obeys, down the hatch and white-knuckling through it.

“Good boy,” you’re murmuring automatically, and it just slips out.

Your mouth falls open just so, and Joel’s coughing, clearing his throat against the burn of whiskey. You’re pleading with the universe that his cough was close enough, loud enough to cover the words, but his face has turned a shade of red that’s probably rivaling the heat that reaches your ears.

Good boy? Jesus Christ.

If there was ever a heightened moment of being fucking touch-starved, it’s this.

You make haste with the disinfectant and place the closures over the cut. The bloodied towels and scraps from the DIY surgery are cleaned up, tied neatly into a plastic bag. And now, this is the part where you run and never face him again.

You’re already making plans to board up your windows, maybe have Ellie deliver your meals solely through a slot in the door.

But Joel’s pain is overriding everything, and he’s sunken even further back into the pillow, his head lolling to prop on his shoulder. He’s whispering a weak thanks that’s incoherent at best. You tug the blanket up and over him.

You grab a glass from downstairs, fill it to the brim with water and bring it to him. He groans at the sight, petulant.

“I’m not leaving until you finish this.”

His lifts his arm for it, scowling. “Gimme the damn thing.”

Satisfied, you hand it over and watch him drink it down, his throat bobbing in a hearty gulp. Your gaze can’t help but snag on it.

You have got to get the fuck out of here.

You come back with a refilled glass and sit it on his bedside table, close enough within reach. The medical bag is packed up and ready, sagging slightly in areas where you’ve emptied it. It knocks against your already-knocking knees, and you’re grateful to use its weight as an excuse for how blurred you feel.

“I need to talk to Tommy. You gonna be alright for a bit?”

His eyes are closed again, on the outskirts of rest, but his mouth pulls up in the ghost of smile.

“Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart.”

And you hope he means it.

—

You track down an unsettled Tommy, finding him pacing in the back of the general store. He’s restocking some shelves but not quite – there’s an gross pairing of tinned fish and fresh eggs sitting on a display that’s unappetizing at best.

“He’s okay. No bite,” you add lowly, acutely aware of how many pairs of ears are in the store. “But he needs to be monitored.”

Tommy slackens, rubbing his eyes that are full of exhaustion and bruised with worry. Index finger and thumb stroking the respective tails of his mustache one, two, three times as the gravity of that strikes him.

He loops you into an embrace, and it’s kind, full of ease. The smell of firewood and smoke tickles your nose. His worry evaporates then, and honestly, so does yours.

“He doin’ alright?”

You chew on that for a moment and nod. There are complications, but nothing to do with Joel’s health.

“He was pissed about the stitches, but I didn’t have a choice. Cut was pretty deep.”

“So… he tell you what happened, then?”

There’s that question again. You feel like you should have an answer, but if he wouldn’t clue in Ellie, you sure as hell wouldn’t be.

Like squeezing blood from a stone, your dad used to say.

“No,” you lie instinctively. You don’t know why.

But it isn’t really. Not if you don’t know the full truth yourself. There’s just something about Joel’s omission that makes you feel entitled to find out first.

“He said he fell down some stairs,” you amend, “just didn’t say where or how.”

Tommy offers you the same look that Ellie gave you – a raised brow coupled with a touch of disbelief.

“If you say so.”

You shrug, playing it as cool as’ll come natural to you. “You know Joel. Doesn’t want to make a fuss.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and rolling out his shoulders that you know have been holding tension. He believes that, at least.

“Sounds like you know him, too.”

—

A few days come and go.

Ellie takes on a lot of the recovery, but she doesn’t like messing with stitches — creeps me the fuck out that you did that without puking all over him, she claims — and she’s eager to substitute for the patrol routes while Joel’s down and out. You offer to step in, with a totally normal and selfless motive.

If she thinks anything else of it, you’d be the last to know.

Your new itinerary consists of changing Joel’s bandages, cleaning up through his hissed breaths and every goddamn it. Twice a day, morning and night and sometimes in closer intervals, but never approaching the cusp of any boundary.

Joel’s fiercely independent, swatting your hands when you try to help. Donning a clean flannel in the space between your lunchtime visit and your nightcap, despite you telling him that he shouldn’t be pushing his mobility.

That said, he’s marginally better about following doctor’s orders, drinking the water you leave on his nightstand but neglecting the pills that would stop him from coiling in on himself like a ready spring. And he doesn’t say it but you know it’s because he thinks it’d be a waste.

You trade regular formalities at first, each of you standing behind your respective walls, daring the other to toe a bit closer.

Joel doesn’t ask, but you bring him some short stories to pass the time and he devours them. You didn’t think much of it other than just straying past the point of being nice, but your heart sings a bit at how he leaves his shell at your coaxing.

You learn Bradbury is his favorite, but when he finishes The Most Dangerous Game, it’s the most he’s ever spoken to you in one sitting, astounded at the perfectly tied bow of an ending, asking you questions that only the author could answer. But it’s a marvel to witness, something you think about when you’re cleaning stables or washing dishes.

He’s unraveling for you, a loose thread tugged too hard on your favorite sweater. He talks of the places in the paintings, sometimes abruptly, like he isn’t sure what his cue is or if he has one.

Mentions of pre-Jackson when there was so much uncertainty and isolation, but it was coupled with those types of watercolor skies that you couldn’t paint if you tried.

These little pieces of him that make him whole – it’s like you’re both in on the same secret. And Joel isn’t doing it to lighten the tension, to be nice; that isn’t his brand of politeness. He just revels in the holy act of confession with you as his witness.

You come to learn that his room is modest, different from the rest of his house. Clues of hobbies sprawled on his desk – leatherworking tools and hand drawn blueprints that you can’t get a good look at with just a sidelong glance.

There’s a dusty stereo tucked at the back towards the wall, and you picture a content Joel, sketching new plans for a porch swing or some small addition while old bluesy country croons from the speakers.

You like this daydream, placing him in something lighthearted where his only worry is that he’s losing daylight on yardwork.

The two of you talk about little bits of everything and nothing. Reminiscing about sending snail mail, discussing what you think places like Italy look like now. How close you came to crossing an ocean in another life.

Tonight, you have a night terror that clings to you like wet denim. Stop-motion, nonsensical. Your head ricocheting into concrete, hitting your temple just so. Flashes of the people that used to be your parents, your friends.

And just as the life drains from you, blood seeping onto the floor and into spidering cracks, you wake up a flailing mess.

You practice your routine, twisting on knobs of lamps and plugging in the twinkling lights hanging around the perimeter of the living room. You press your cheek to the floor, checking under your bed for monsters for good measure.

Bleary-eyed, you’re climbing back under the covers, pulling them snug up to your chin.

There’s a neediness crawling its way through your organs with a one-way ticket south. The juxtaposition of fear mingles with an otherness, and it anchors itself to Joel.

You never cared for a protector, still don’t, but the eagerness that sprouts from him to defend your honor — and for nothing in return — magnetizes you on a cellular level.

Your fingers are dipping into the band of your already-damp underwear, taking inventory of what the thought of him does to you. Body on auto-pilot. A pool of dripping neediness, so slick that you’re coating your clit in excess and rubbing in tight circles.

He doesn’t even have to touch you, and it’s pathetic.

Images of Joel’s beard scratching your thighs swirls behind your eyelids, your hand gliding between the glistening of your folds. Fingers crook inside you, dipping into the last knuckle, and you’re choking on a gasp, already on the edge.

You wish they were more calloused, thicker, with length that can hit the spot that’s desperately out of reach.

You wish they were Joel’s.

It takes only a minute, some curling and pumping of your wrist to make it quick in case it’ll only ever be a fantasy. The wet noises of your arousal are nothing short of obscene, and you’re coming loudly, sharply on a string of moans.

In some ways, you think, you have already died.

And fuck. It’s so poetic it makes you sick.

—

On the fourth day, Maria sends you to Joel’s with some stew — two hearty containers that're meant for the both of you.

She’s been taking her shift at his place, carrying over containers of this and that to keep him fed. You wonder how often she takes on that role anyway, sans injury. You don’t peg Joel as the type to eat three square meals a day of his own accord.

Tell Joel I can’t make it tonight. Gotta do inventory.

She makes no room for elaboration, so you don’t ask. But you thank her with a hug, and you could swear that she’s giving you a conspiratorial smirk.

When you knock on Joel’s bedroom, he gives a new, warm invitation, coated in subtle hospitality. It’s a far stretch from the unaffected what? you might’ve received a week ago.

You place the stew down on the bedside table, along with some bowls and spoons you plucked from his kitchen. He just looks up at you from his bed, uncertainty reaching the lines of his forehead.

“It’s all Maria,” you explain and he hums, catching up.

“Explains a lot,” he mutters.

You eat quietly for a little over ten minutes. Joel’s flannel today boasts a rich navy, buttoned up to the top but not far enough to hide the sprinkling of hair that peeks through.

He catches you staring and pins you with a dark glance.

“You afraid of the dark or somethin’?”

Joel’s ask cuts through the air, and your spoon stops mid-route to your open mouth. It’s so out of the blue that it stuns you momentarily.

“Sorry?”

“You turn the lights on at night.”

What you thought to be private moments of fear were actually on display for all to see.

For Joel to see.

And the memory of your thighs trapping your hand as you came over and over again on your fingers… you’re grateful to at least have had some decorum to draw your bedroom curtains.

“Um.” You dig for a way to say nope, I’m actually just a pussy and I see things that aren’t there. Also, I was touching myself thinking about you last night. “No, just nightmares.”

Every inch of your skin feels like it’s searing. A bead of sweat makes a slow descent down your spine to your tailbone. You laugh lightly to deflect.

Joel’s mouth thins into a tight line.

“It’s nothing,” you promise.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he snaps. His brows are knitted in fury, misdirected. But you get it.

Your stomach is rumbling, but you’ve effectively lost whatever appetite you had. The bowl finds a space on the side table, and you’re pulling your knees to your chest protectively, thumbing at the fray on the cuff of your jeans.

You don’t mean to scowl, but you can’t help it. You can’t even meet his eyes.

Joel’s sighing, his own bowl discarded on the nightstand, grazing the lip of yours.

“Look, it’s not my business,” he starts, choosing his words carefully, “but that kinda shit worries me.”

When you do look up, he’s rubbing his beard with rigid fingers. You should feel nice and fuzzy that he cares enough to point it out, but it’s just embarrassment instead.

That, on top of everything else, you can’t even get through the night without waking up in a cold sweat.

“I know how it looks,” you say in surrender, “but I swear I’m fine.”

You can imagine what it would feel like to really mean it; it’s just on the tip of your tongue. There is a defiance there, it’s just struggling to find a way out.

“You sure about that?”

You let your feet touch the floor, straightening out your legs and busying yourself with smoothing the creases in your pants.

“You worry about everyone else like this?” you muse, hoping to redirect.

Joel’s scratching the back of his neck, eyes fixed anywhere else.

“Always worried about you.”

If you were any farther away, you wouldn’t have heard him.

Outside, kids are yelling, playing tag. You watch in jealousy, can almost hear the crunch of their boots and their tiny, inconsequential conversations. It takes you longer than intended to give a response, and he waits, patiently. Just trickles a look from the crown of your head to your hands to your face. Searching for a reaction.

“You’re about ten months late, Miller.” And you’re smiling briefly. You mean it as playful, but it’s colored with sadness.

His eyes glaze, and the wheels are turning, wondering if that also means too late.

“Didn’t want you to think I was takin’ advantage of the situation. And I thought Max —” Joel bites down on the name.

“Fuck Max,” you spit in disgust. “That was never a thing.”

You don’t have to make eye contact to see that he’s pleased by that. He hums in the back of his throat. Resists a shit-eating grin. From the looks of Joel connecting the dots, you don’t need say much else.

“Yeah, well. We all failed you,” he insists. “I failed you.”

It sets an incredulous spark in some hidden part of you. Nails cut into your palm, your fists balling harshly. Everyone else? Sure, you’d give him that. Jackson spit you out, with the exception of a select few.

But Joel?

“You saved me.”

“Not good enough,” he says under his breath.

—

The next day, you let yourself inside, already learning the language of Joel’s house when you press a little extra weight against the door to seal it shut when it sticks.

It’s quiet, on the cusp of 8, and you wouldn’t be surprised if Joel’s on the brink of sleep.

The sun’s long settled over the mountain, so there’s not much in the way of guidance.

It’s dark, but you expected it to be. You draw the curtains one by one, moving blindly from room to room yet knowing exactly where your feet are. It strikes you as odd, a visitor keeping pace with an unfamiliar house.

But if Joel’s anything, it’s predictable. Unfussy in the way he keeps out of the way, even in his own space. Takes pride in it, sure, but lives in a way that demands nothing but cherishes everything, even the absence of something.

Meaning there’s nothing too unexpected, too risky in its placement. He doesn’t take up too much room in the event that it’s gone tomorrow.

When your hands fumble for the switch of the living room lamp, the bulb springs to life and bathes a wary Joel in light. Sitting on the couch, slouched with residual soreness, but waiting.

For you.

“Jesus, fuck — what the fuck, Joel —”

“You’re late.”

“— sitting in the fucking dark like a lunatic —”

He puts a hand up to stop you, as if to press your mute button.

“I didn’t fall down any stairs.”

Your hands have risen to your chest in the shock of him there, and you’re gripping your shirt in the way he had almost a week ago. You don’t miss that little detail, so much so that you struggle to piece together what he’s saying.

It punches you abnormal; you kept so busy with leaving the subject alone that it slipped your mind that he lied.

“Sit down.”

You’re obedient and you don’t know why. You find a seat across from him, pulling up a stool that’s meant for feet, not your ass. Something crackles beside you, and the embers of a dying fire glow and warm to the left of you.

Your leg crosses over your knee, creating a 45-degree angle that you rest your elbows on. “Yeah, I gathered as much, thanks. You’re a terrible liar.”

Joel’s just eyeing you. And it’s not in a way that sizes you up, more of a calculation of what to say next. What to give away. There’s a beat of this, then another, then another.

“I thought ‘bed rest’ was pretty self-explanatory.”

You’re growing impatient, filling the room just to do it. You both know what happened, and maybe that’s what’s needling at you. That you’re the one person who’d understand the most, but the one person he doesn’t want to know.

It feels wretched and seething, knowing something but not enough.

“I’m gonna need you to cut to the part where you tell me what happened, Joel.”

At that, Joel drags in a breath and leans deeper into the couch. His gaze has moved to somewhere far off, burning into the drawn curtains like he can see outside, can see directly into the window of your kitchen. And with sudden clarity, you realize that he could — it’s a clean diagonal stare.

Are you afraid of the dark?

How many times has he sat in this very spot, taking in the show, watching you make tea, watching you read, watching you stutter and shake with sobs? Witnessing the onslaught of a nightmare?

Touching yourself? Watching you undress?

You aren’t the voyeuristic type, just uncaring to the point of defenseless. But Joel keeping an eye on you in this way is the coup de grâce that does you in. There’s no question now of whether he cares.

“I took Mountain View, headed for the outpost. Not much up that way lately, maybe one or two infected every once ‘n a while,” he says, and it’s unsettling that he’s talking in a way that could be to anyone or no one at all. “Thought I’d stop at the pharmacy on the way up, check that off, too. ‘Cept I wasn’t the only one with that idea.”

He pauses only to crack his knuckles for effect. Fingertips splay on his spread knees, and what seemed so fragile earlier, watercolors of bruises stretching from ligament to tendon, seems threatening now.

“One was lootin’ in the back, didn’t hear me come in. I thought he mighta been alone ‘til his friend followed me in,” he pauses, lost in thought. “Got into it with him.”

As if on cue, the gory split-skin of his hands flexes. Offensive wounds.

You were right, but you wish you weren’t.

“His friend came up from the back, ‘n they took turns for a minute. Long enough for me to get a good look. I ended up takin’ out the shorter one, other one was gone before I could get up.”

Joel doesn’t lift his head, just his eyes. The skin around them crinkles in sinister shapes, lids disappeared, lashes nearly touching brow. You know it’s not anger directed at you, but it’s shrinking you back down into an armchair, your fingers digging and clawing at the fabric without recognizing it.

“Know what’s funny about that?”

You don’t think you can answer with the desert that runs through your mouth. And whatever it is, it’s anything but.

“Not a lot of activity along the outposts this way, unless it’s infected. Everyone else comes straight through to Jackson. The logs say we’ve only run into two groups of raiders in the last five years along the patrol route,” another pause for emphasis. “And one of them was ten months ago.”

Something catches in your chest.

And then there’s a dam that breaks, pure relief. Relief that Joel’s seen the thing you’ve been pointing and screaming at while everyone else shrugs their shoulders and squints.

Then — panic.

Ice sneaks into your veins. The tips of your fingers run numb. It strikes you that you’re standing, that the foot stool is tipped on its side.

He doesn’t move, but there’s a contained rage in his eyes and his voice. A temper bubbling now that you’ve confirmed what he suspected.

“He have any tattoos?” Joel asks roughly.

There’s a flash of stars, hand-poked, bordering on downright sloppy.

“Who?” You say dumbly, but it’s obvious what he’s referring to. He’s seen it, too, and he’s seen it this week.

“You know who.”

You do.

You could draw it from memory if he asked.

Your weight becomes too much for your legs, and you collapse back down, this time into a chair that supports your amoeba-like state as everything in you turns to jelly.

“They’re getting closer. We were in Teton, so if they made it this far —” you jumble out, not sure if it’s just meaningless vomit to his ears. By his solemn nod, it isn’t.

He’s up and out of his seat with a wince that’s not as severe as before, his eyes careful on you, on your hands that you’re gripping together tightly to keep them still.

The isolation of his side is evident in the way he closes the space between you, but he masks the grimace as best he can. There’s a reprimand in you somewhere that he should be resting, lying down at least, but you know it’s pointless.

“Hey.”

He’s kneeling as much as his flank will allow, a pain in his eyes that isn’t for himself. Those fingertips scale the cliff of your jaw, ghosting as if he’s afraid to overstep. They’re prodding you to meet his eyes, and when you do, he drops his hand like he’s been burned.

It connects fiercely to a memory that you try to hold in your hands. A snowy, reminiscent one that slips through like a ribbon of smoke.

“Ain’t gotta worry about him. I’ll take care of it.”

You laugh, a real one that’s stained with sarcasm.

“What does that mean?”

Joel softens now, and the shift startles you. He thinks for a beat before answering.

“Whatever you need it to mean.”

It feels incomprehensible that anyone would willingly put themselves in danger for you, even adjacently, but then who noticed you were missing that day? Who led the pack, found you bleeding out?

The weather was violent, incoherent — a lost cause, a needle in the proverbial haystack. He already toed the line of a dangerous, potentially fruitless rescue mission.

And you never even thanked him.

“Why?” You ask it for the second time in as much as a week. It’s disjointed in conversation, but he knows that you need this answer.

“You remember how you were before?”

And for a split-second, you try.

There are glimpses, a rickety reel of kids tugging on your pant leg as they beg you to join them during recess, a glittering spray of laughter with Ellie as empty beer cans and discarded guitars litter her living room floor.

Of your friends’ faces on too many relaxed, sunny patrols, sometimes forcing them into a detour into the abandoned record store through Alpine so you can see what’s left.

Dinner in warm houses like Tommy and Maria’s, so full to the brim of love and potatoes and mead that you stumble on down to your house with cheeks burning and tuck yourself in with all of the lights off.

Visions of Joel that are fleeting, taped in frames on a film strip, but friendly exchanges.

But it’s a faceless narration. The accident wiped clean of any room for interpretation. Any visitation with these memories. You can place yourself in them, but can’t for the life of you feel tethered to her.

Frustrated, eyes watering, you shake your head.

“That’s why.”

Now he’s holding your jaw like he would some fragile thing, slotting his thumb just under the pulse thrumming in your neck, feeling the echo of it in his hand. There’s a silence, as if he’s straining to hear, to know the sound and syllables of your livelihood. You wish he’d press harder, bring you to the precipice of pleasure and death.

If only to know what it feels to be glass in Joel Miller’s hands, to be given the taste of death after he’d given you the gift of life all those months ago.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs. You know he can feel the adrenaline in your pulse point.

“Joel,” it falls out as a whisper, and you hate how good his name feels in your mouth.

He’s looking at you with empathy, thumbing through the pages of every agony you’ve succumbed to. It’s new and buzzing, knowing that there’s nothing you’d ever have to explain to Joel. No reasoning or fine print for how you are, he just knows. And he stays anyway.

A tear tracks a salty line down your face and it meets the pad of his thumb, an easy swipe.

And there’s a surge low in your throat, seesawing with satisfaction and the tell-tale lump of more tears if you lean in hard enough. Joel never shows his hand, the last to fold, but it feels a lot like you’re the prize he was waiting to throw cards down for.

So, you lean. Concave cheek into his calloused hand, tears without sobs leaking between his fingers down into his sleeve. The weight of only the world — your world, plural and shared — pushing you into him. The cataclysmic release that you’ve been aching for.

Your head is against his chest, cheek pressed against flannel because he’s guided you there. And it’s nice, you think, nice that he’s being a gentleman about the whole thing.

A gentleman just finger-combing through your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

It’s serene, and you’d happily make a home there and fall asleep if it wasn’t for the hammering of your heartbeat. You know he can feel it, and your quickened breath is the cherry on top.

Joel levels your faces, and his fingers are deja vu on the braille of each ridged cheekbone. He’s waiting on a cue, a line to be given to him from offstage, but you see flames licking through each darkened iris.

Something keeps holding him back, keeps holding you back. He’s too careful, afraid of cutting his hands on you. And in exploring every facet of that, it’s because he doesn’t want to bleed on you, not because the sharpest parts of you could hurt him.

You keep telling yourself it’s foreign and you’re strangers to one another.

But is it? Are you?

As if he’s reading your mind, Joel closes the distance in one fell swoop, and he kisses you.

It’s clumsy at first, in the way that clumsy is when you’re learning each other’s mouths. You taste the dregs of whiskey, of something wanton, and every unspoken word that’s ever misted between you. Years of forming smile lines and the prickle of his unkempt beard against your chin, taste the stories of every scar.

You’re tangling with him, lips pressing urgently against Joel. His tongue’s expert but gentle when he dips it inside your mouth, and you’re swapping breathless sighs. You can only imagine what he’s tasting of you, what flavor he’s been dreaming of.

His hands are still at either side of your face, thumbs pressing sweetly into the bony part of your jaw. Joel’s stilling the unrest in you that’s put its bags down and refused to leave. It quiets, tips a hat and walks out, leaving a welcome calm in place.

There’s a chasteness, but you know he’s just as desperate and hungry as you are. Wanting to claim, to devour each other entirely. And it’s not lost on you that he’s on his knees, hands clasping your face in prayer like you’re some communion he’s drinking from.

He engulfs you, and you’re moving together, fitting together like you were poured from the same mold. Joel’s fingers have moved to thread through your hair, one of his hands cradling the back of your head and tugging just barely.

Enough that magma pools in between your hips.

But he slows, letting loose a low groan into the heat of your mouth. It’s helpless, like he’s accepted he can’t swim and has submerged his head underwater.

And when you finally break apart, Joel’s pupils are dilated, on the cusp of black. Your collective breaths are uneven. He looks at you in awe.

“Been wantin’ to do that for a long, long time,” he’s saying, but you can barely hear him. Not when your heart is catching up with the rest of you, roaring above everything else. His thumb skates over your bottom lip, and the instinct to unhinge your jaw for him shouldn’t be there, but it is.

Maybe this sort of suffering is worth it, if it’s Joel you’re suffering for.

If you weren’t in trouble before, you sure as fuck are now.

[cicada-heart]

another thing i made recently! a heart shaped tote bag ❤️ one of my first projects made on my vintage singer sewing machine. it’s been sitting in storage for a while but i decided to pull it out and get it fixed up and in working order last week and i’ve been teaching myself how to use it since!

this bag was made from salvaged cotton i rescued from the side of the road 🤘

etsy // patreon

[milkweedman]

Have not really shown much in the way of finished bags ... this one is a very simple mesh bag made with the remnants of some of my first naturally dyed handspun; not sure what breed the wool is but I definitely dyed it with yellow onion skins. The gray and brown brim are natural wool colors (also handspun scrap).

Also; I have no proof of this because my phone just sometimes decides not to save pictures, but the drawstring cord I used (handspun cotton linen blend. Hand blended too) was already tied in a circle to block it. This is obvious in retrospect but you can crochet over a tied cord and have it seat itself instead of needing to thread it through and then tie it. Also meant I didn't have to cut it which was great. I discovered this largely thru being too lazy to get scissors.

These mesh bags love to be incredibly misshapen when filled... I find it very charming honestly. The fleece inside is my beautiful jacob lambs fleece I just washed. I probably will try to find another bag for the Jacob though, it's too big for this bag and is very squished, which is not a great storage idea long term. Looks nice though.

...some of the bags. A lot of these I made a while ago, love them all though.

[urbancreative]

With a traditional minimalistic Japanese design, the bento bag is a highly versatile and multi functional bag. Use it to store veggies and fruit, to store roti or bread is a bread basket or  to carry your lunch box or even as a travel organizer. Carry them in your handbag when you go to the market to shop plastic free.

[ladytemeraire]

My number 1 travel tip, especially if you travel with any regularity and DOUBLE especially if you have ADHD:

Refill your toiletries and travel supplies as soon as you get home from a trip.

If the same night is too much (totally get it, I've had some business trips where I don't get home until midnight or later), at least stick it in the bathroom for you to refill in the next few days. As soon as they're refilled, store them by your suitcase or duffel bag or whatever traveling things you use. For me, the list of things to check/refill looks like:

Shampoo

Conditioner

Body wash

Deep conditioner/detangler (I mix these in one bottle since I use about a 1:1 ratio)

Makeup remover

Lotion

Any other hair products (YMMV)

Any other skincare products (YMMV)

Any makeup like loose powder that you decant into travel containers

Cotton pads and cotton swabs

I have a set of 3 sizes of suitcases that nest inside each other, and I store all my travel supplies and packing cubes inside the smallest one (or right next to the suitcases in a cabinet) so it's right there the next time I'm packing for a trip.

Additional travel tips:

If you need to replace anything you can't immediately refill (such as shaving cream, toothpaste, or other toiletries in squeeze tubes/spray cans) or replace anything that tore/broke/got lost (such as a packing cube or a hair wrap), add that to your shopping list for the next trip so you replace it ASAP.

I recommend immediately laundering things like silk bonnets, TurbiTowels/other hair wrap towels, etc and stashing them with your travel supplies ASAP, so you know they're clean and ready to go when you're packing next time.

Things like meds/supplements/vitamins, pantiliners, period supplies, contacts, etc I will pack for the specific trip depending on trip length (e.g. 2 day work trip vs 7 day Christmas-to-New-Year's-with-family), so I don't refill those until I'm actively packing for a trip. That said, I still stash their storage container with the rest of my travel supplies so I don't have to go hunting for it when the time comes.

If you only travel 1-2 times per year (say, around the November/December holidays) and you're worried about things expiring before the next trip, that's totally valid! Don't refill it if it expires in 3 months! Instead, I recommend setting a calendar reminder/alarm on your phone for a week or two ahead of your regular holiday travel to get your refills in order. There's nothing more stressful than being in the thick of packing and realizing you only have one day's worth of shampoo for a five day trip and not enough in your home supply to refill it. Save yourself the stress!

The minute you KNOW you're going to travel on a certain day (e.g. your boss says "we need you to leave Wednesday", or a family member dies and you find out you need to leave this Friday), set an alarm/calendar reminder for a day or two before you know you have to leave to charge any travel items and/or replace any batteries. Thinking specifically of things like electric toothbrushes, waterpiks, electric razors, computer keyboards/mice, etc.

If there's something you use both at home and traveling and you always seem to forget or overlook it? Consider purchasing a second one of that item. I consider this part of my ADHD tax. I have two silk bonnets, two TurbiTowels, two charging/USB docks that plug into the wall, a smaller travel keyboard in addition to my full sized one at home, and a travel toothbrush and waterpik in addition to my home versions. I recognize this takes a certain amount of financial security and privilege, YMMV. That said, the cost of buying a second one dedicated for travel (either up front or in a sale if you can wait and stalk deals) is, to me, far less than the stress and aggravation of not having the thing while traveling, or having to wrangle a full sized thing instead of a travel sized thing.

Questions? Thoughts? Want recommendations? Drop them in the reblogs and comments! I'm always interested in other people's systems and I love to find ways to make things more efficient!

[deadfrog-and-friends]

Pilgrim's Progress

(content warning: this story involves sex)

Pilgrim loved accompanying its witch on journeys, but not any more than your everyday doll. Why shouldn't a doll be happy, brimming with Purpose, to be so indispensable to its witch that she insisted on giving up valuable luggage space to bring it along? Especially on a flight. Pilgrim took up most of the space in Miss Zephyr’s carry-on bag.

It was great fun, flying. Miss was always so stressed, but Pilgrim enjoyed going through security, being x-rayed, observing the curious looks of the security angels as they peeked in. Pilgrim would stay very Still because only Still dolls could travel as luggage. Fidgety dolls needed at least child tickets on most airlines. One had to be Still so as to stay in overhead storage the whole flight. Pilgrim adored overhead storage. This, it was convinced, was the way to travel.

Then when the flight was over and they were wherever they were staying, Zephyr would unpack it and make love to it on the bed, saying “good doll... good doll... good doll.” This was the primary reason Pilgrim was brought along.

Pilgrim didn't know what to think when it learned Zephyr meant to take another doll on her next flight: Courage, a doll of cotton and stuffing, that had become a new favorite of their witch. Unseemly jealousy rippled in Pilgrim’s heart--of course Courage was the better travel doll, it could be squished in any old bag and half its clothes besides—until Pilgrim realized that Zephyr meant to take them both. It felt better still when Courage confided that it was indeed very anxious about travel, particularly air travel. Pilgrim offered to take it under its wing, so to say.

However, adding a new doll into the mix complicated things. The first complication came before they even left. Zephyr thought Courage could easily squish into her usual carry-on bag with Pilgrim, but with both dolls the bag would not zip shut anymore. Zephyr did not have time to get another bag--packing the dolls had been left to the last minute as usual--and her solution was to have both dolls strip down to their undergarments, and to disassemble Pilgrim, so that its limbs could be positioned freely. The clothes were added to the checked luggage, and Pilgrim and Courage were zipped up together, Courage’s face pressed companionably in Pilgrim's neck.

As they rode in the cab to the airport, Miss must have stopped paying attention because the bag next to her fell sideways. Pilgrim felt Courage’s soft weight on its torso. Courage squeaked out, “pretty confined, huh. One gets used to it, that one said?”

“Yes,” Pilgrim whispered, though it had never been this tight, it had never been disassembled like this. It actually felt rather unsettled, not being able to feel its arms or legs, much less move them. Vulnerable. The cab lurched, and the dolls tumbled from the backseat to the floor. Courage gave a soft, muffled cry. “Hush now,” Pilgrim said. “Traveling dolls must keep quiet.” It was a bit rattled though. If it had more space and the use of its limbs, it knew it could have thrown its weight in the other direction and maybe prevented the fall. Zephyr came to the rescue though, picking them up and holding them in her lap, apologizing under her breath.

At the airport, everything went smoothly until they got to the security checkpoint. Usually the TSA Angel was content to just peek in the bag to confirm that the doll it saw on the X Ray was sufficiently Still. But there was such a confusing mass of limbs, the Angel insisted on taking everything out and spreading it all over the table. "Keep Still," Pilgrim whispered to Courage, as the bag began to unzip. Pilgrim could feel Courage's tiny cloth heart pounding against its own chest.

A crowd of travelers lingered, watching piece by piece of the plastic ball joint doll emerge from the backpack. Courage stayed as Still as possible but could not stop itself from trembling in fear as it lay face up on the table where the Angel left it. A child pointed it out "Mommy why doesn't that dolly have clothes?" "Well, sweetie, dolls don't always have to wear clothes." "I wish I didn't have to wear clothes." Courage was mortified. Pilgrim was not exempt. "Mommy why isn't that dolls arms and legs attached?" "Don't you people have planes to catch?" Zephyr hissed, her voice crackling with wrath. The questions stopped.

The Angel had all of Pilgrim's parts sorted out on the table and it was just staring at them, a faint blush on its cheeks growing stronger.

"Excuse me," Zephyr said to the angel. "Is there a problem? Are you done ogling my dolls? May I pack them up again?"

The Angel hesitated, considering insisting on a cavity search. Something in Zephyr's tone discouraged it, though. "Very well," it said. "Pack up thy dolls. May thy travels be swift and safe, good pilgrims."

Zephyr stuffed everything back into her bag and rushed to her gate. "G-goodness," Courage said, its voice coming from the bottom of the bag where its head had been unceremoniously stuck.

Pilgrim struggled to regain its composure. Courage's sewn lips were -- there -- pressed against Pilgrim's underwear, pressed right up against the place that belonged to Miss. "It's not usually like that," Pilgrim explained, realizing that its own head was between Courage's legs. Oh dear. Hopefully when they got to the gate, Miss would peek in and rearrange them--but as soon as they got to the gate they were already boarding and Miss got in line and then they were on the plane!

"It will get much better now," Pilgrim said, wishing it was the kind of doll who could speak without moving its lips, because the friction seemed to be provoking some sort of unwanted response in Courage.

"It-It will?" Courage asked.

"Overhead storage," Pilgrim explained. It was just so nice, being tucked away, in between other carry on bags, above Miss and the other passengers, listening to the flight attendants--dolls, usually--walking up and down the aisles with their trays of food. It wanted to explain this, but it daren't say anything else because it could feel something hardening against its cheek, along with Courage's hot breath near its dollparts.

Which was bad. Dolls didn't have to breathe, but if they did, it was a sign that--Pilgrim was panting a bit itself.

Miss must have found her seat, because they were being hoisted up into the overhead compartment--but they wouldn't slide in. Pilgrim felt luggage bashing against its head on either side, there just wasn't space. "Miss, let this one help you. Let this one find a place for that bag," came the voice of a doll and Pilgrim wanted to scream "no! how dare you!" and could feel Courage tensing up.

"Oh, um, thank you," said Zephyr, a touch anxious, as she handed over the bag. They were whisked away by the attendant, who attempted to shove them in three more overhead compartments before returning to Zephyr with the bad news.

"This one is so sorry, miss. It's a full flight, the compartments are full and there isn't any space for your bag. This one can offer to check it for you, free of charge. This one will make sure it is very well looked after."

Zephyr was silent for a moment. "I--okay, then." She sounded disappointed. "I will be reunited with my luggage after the flight, and it will behave very well."

"Um, of course, Miss," said the attendant. "This one will get this checked for you right now, so the flight can get underway and you can be reunited with your luggage as soon as possible."

So Pilgrim and Courage were brought down to the cargo hold.

In the midst of being thrown around with the checked baggage, Courage's little appendage worked its way out of its underwear. Squished under so many other bags, Pilgrim felt like the considerate thing to do would be to allow it to occupy the empty space within its mouth. No sense making the poor thing more uncomfortable than it already must be. Courage seemed grateful and did its best to rub its face against the growing wet spot on Pilgrim's underwear, which somehow over the course of the flight worked itself entirely off.

Though the witch usually waited until getting to the hotel room to open the carry-on bag which held her doll cargo, this time, anxious to confirm her dolls were okay, she opened it at baggage claim, in the midst of all of the other travelers claiming their bags.

Pilgrim spit out Courage's dick. "Miss!" it cried. "Miss!" came Courage's muffled cry from the bottom of the bag. They were very happy to see her.

"Ah," said Zephyr. She was happy to see them as well. "Let's get to the hotel room and get you two cleaned up."

[yi7hui]

If you ever have doubts about your crochet journey, here's mine!

May of 2023: Around summer vacation of 2023, I rediscovered my passion for crocheting. I already knew a bit about needlework/fiber art since I grew up surrounded by people with the same hobbies. It was just a matter of time 'til I come back to my roots.

July 05, 2023: I successfully bought yarn! It's only Milk Cotton yarn (4 ply) and while it's not the best kind, it was good for beginners.

July 07, 2023: I bought an ergonomic crochet hook set, complete with stitch markers and even knitting tools. I immediately started learning from tutorials on YouTube.

July 08, 2023: I bought some fiber fill and , as well as black bead eyes for plushies since I watched tutorials about amigurumis first (it was what I was recommended to learn first). Let's just say it didn't turn out well in my experience...

August 27, 2023: I bought a large capacity storage bag to store my yarns and kit. I only put them in a shoe box since I don't know if I'll take a liking with my new hobby. I did love it and have been exploring more about yarns!

August 29, 2023: I bought some bamboo yarn since I liked the result from a vlogger on TikTok and wanted to try it out.

August 31, 2023: I bought some chunky yarn to continue my amigurumi journey. It didn't turn out well and was just a waste of time... I also bought some bamboo crochet hooks but I haven't really had the chance to use them...

September 01, 2023: I bought more fiber fill. At this point, I was just making a pillowcase instead of plushies since I no longer had the passion to continue making amigurumis. Despite this, I did buy a set of beaded eyes.

October 10, 2023: I decided to try out making keychains. While working on this, my crochet hook broke...

October 20, 2023: I bought a set of new crochet hooks. It's made out of aluminum and will withstand my grip strength (probably). My mom also said that they used to use similar crochet hooks before so I look forward to using it for a very long time.

November of 2023: I decided to take a break for this month since I wasn't feeling well...

December 15, 2023: Around Christmas vacation, I decided to crochet again, buying some 8 ply milk cotton yarn and made a beanie for some practice.

December 27, 2023: I bought more milk cotton yarn to make small bags, keychains, and coasters.

January 11, 2024: I decided to try a new hobby that is still on the same (if not higher and more difficult) wavelength as crocheting; I decided to try knitting. I bought a 4.0mm circular knitting needle (as recommended) and immediately hated it.

March 05, 2024: I bought some compression gloves since I've been crocheting nonstop.

March 06, 2024: I bought 100% pure cotton yarn from a trusted local shop and immediately fell in love. I stopped buying milk cotton yarn around this time as well.

March 12, 2024: I bought straight knitting needles (4.5mm).

May 16, 2024: I bought mercerized cotton yarn (5ply) and crocheted tumbler sleeves for my family.

May 22, 2024: I wanted to give chunky yarn another chance so I bought more. Wrong move for me. I only made rugs out of it.

May 27, 2024: I bought 8.0mm knitting needles made out of aluminum and made a hand towel for our kitchen.

June 08, 2024: I bought some milk cotton yarn to try out amigurumi again (I never learn) and this time, I wanted to try making a doll. I didn't get pass the head...

July 25, 2024: More milk cotton yarn...

September 16, 2024: I bought lace yarn. It was really thin! I made a coaster out of it. I wanted to crochet a doily but I got lazy and only got around the third part of the pattern before I gave up.

October 18, 2024: I bought more knitting needles. This time, I bought different sized but certainly smaller than the 8.0mm I bought since it was hard to navigate with.

October 20, 2024: I bought Rainbow Cotton yarn but have not decided on what to make with it.

Around this time, I bought my friend (who also crochets and does business with it!) a set of crochet hooks.

October 23, 2024: I bought more Rainbow Cotton yarn since I decided to make a long-sleeved mesh top. It is my very first official project after a year of practice :)

November 02, 2024: I bought a cone of undyed Cotton Yarn to surprise my sister with a white cardigan.

November 05, 2024: I bought some Aqua Blue Bamboo yarn but still hadn't decided on what to make with it...

November 30, 2024: I bought more undyed Cotton Yarn to complete my sister's cardigan.

December of 2024: I completed my sister's cardigan!

January 31, 2025: I bought more Aqua Blue Bamboo yarn to make my mom her own cardigan (with pockets!).

February 05, 2025: I bought more yarn to finish my mom's cardigan.

February 16, 2025: I made this blog :)

A Note on Dates: The dates you see here are based on when I bought the materials, not the exact dates I worked on each project.

It's been almost two years since I started crocheting, but it wasn't until October 2024 that I felt like I truly found my stride with my first mesh top. If you're just starting out, please don't feel like you need to make huge projects right away! I spent my first year experimenting, and I ended up with tons of practice pieces and granny squares in all sorts of yarns and sizes.

While I'm not planning to make a big impact on this community, I am passionate about sharing my journey and inspiring others. This blog will also be a great way for me to keep track of my progress and stay motivated.

Thank you for reading! I hope your crochet journey is filled with joy and creativity.