#fuck man i just want to exist all the time i think

[jessthebaker]

Ugh, Adira, my heart. So many feels here. I get why this chapter took you some extra time to write.

The subtle homage to the original game cast, that took me how many thousands of words to finally pick up on? Brilliant.

Sheep being called the fluffy shits. Bahaha.

The reverence given to Ellie's knife and Joel's watch.

"Whatcha reading, Ellie?" "oh, just porn." made me guffaw.

This, super Dad Joel knowing all about loving fiercely. Ooof:

Spoilers and Maria Appreciation under the cut

I loved the attack, as hard as it is to envision. The allusion to Abby being scared of heights and not knowing that the Roost is uplifted, yes I also wonder if the teens came with a plan and then had to ditch it at the last minute for a new plan? In any case, fuck them kids. Sorry their families got murdered, but fuck off.

Maria seemingly coming around to Joel's particular set of skills after a year of knowing him, and now that his skills are needed in defense of Jackson, she doesn't disapprove.

Side tangent: Maria is a wonderfully complex character and she gets a lot of flak in fandom for being so judgemental of Joel at first, but I appreciate the hard position she's in. Running a functioning town in the middle of nowhere at the end of the world? Keeping her people safe while also helping them regain their humanity? Seeing an older man travelling alone with a young girl, and that man being Big Bad Joel who she's heard about from Tommy? That's a hell of a situation for her to be put into. And you can't tell me any reasonable person in OUR world would ignore that giant red flag. I appreciate Maria so so much. She feels vaguely hypocritical in this particular plot point, and Lark calls her on it, but she's not wrong. Jackson is vulnerable as long as outsiders know of its existence, and she has to consider the safey of the many over the desire to return to a gentler humanity.

And on Joel's return: "He’s taking his time coming down. Doesn’t want to force himself back into a space so safe and quiet after pushing through one so big and mean." - Your prose is so lyrical. Mate. Love it.

Joel apologising to Lark, her gentle redirection of who he really needs to apologise to, and the quiet way it's done and acknowledged without Lark getting involved, yet she sees the results of that conversation later on.

The shadowbox with the watch inside, ready to be taken off a wrist for good (or maybe just for now?), and still being clearly on display and not shoved in a drawer and forgotten, or mourned privately. Everyone in Joel's family knows who the watch signifies and he doesn't hide it away anymore. I think I love this point the most, because he is allowing Sarah to exist in the world again, at peace with her memory, not hiding it away and lashing out at people out for daring to speak her name. He can lay down the burden of keeping her a secret and just...live. Wonderful stuff, Adira.

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 4: Winter

Fandom: The Last of Us (TV)/ Joel Miller

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. Old enough to have been an adult on Outbreak Day. Wyoming born and bred. Sheep farmer, easy-going but confident and self-sufficient. Likes to sing, not a great cook. Childhood friend of Maria. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.

Rating: Mature.

Warnings: Mentions of sex but nothing explicit. Canon-typical violence, bodily harm, death,  (blood, broken bones, knife wounds, shooting, blunt force) and PTSD.

Summary: Revenge comes calling and you work though it as a family.

A/N: Series set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although it does use some characters/elements from the second game.

I’m so sorry it’s taken this long to get to winter. This one was difficult for me to face writing for reasons that may be made clear. But it was very rewarding. <3

The air is thin and cold this morning, takes your breath and makes a show of it as you quickstep it down to the stables. The sun is just starting to make the frost sparkle and no doubt Goldie will be using up the rest of the firewood at the Roost today.

Good thing you have a Joel who’s ready to chop more.

Although he’s also a Joel that’s forgotten his tea, the “stuff with the things in it” that Willa gave him for the stiffness in his knees. With this cold he’s going to want it today on patrol and the last thing you think you can stand is the tug in your heart when he comes home complaining of the cold and the ache and you sitting warm and cozy with his thermos on the counter when you had the legs to trot it on out to him.

It’s a relief to round the corner and find the patrol party still at the stable gate, Tommy helping one of the teens with their rifle strap, and Joel waiting on horseback, weaving his gloved fingers together, packing them down at the valleys to get his hands all the way in.

He’d laid one of those hands on your cheek this morning. Gentle. First thing you saw when you opened your eyes. Like most mornings now. His thumb rounding the rim of your cheek so he could lean in and take a good long drink of a kiss.

He likes it that way…soft, slow. Likes to pull you in as close as he can, twist his forehead into your temple when he hits his peak, jaw clenched in agonized pleasure, kisses along your jawline when you find yours, his eyes half-lidded and watching you in a hazy awe. He’s quiet but thorough, completely  present like he can’t believe he’s got this little slice of warmth, sighs a hushed curse in your ear and calls you sweetheart in the same breath, and then sleeps like a baby the whole night through.

He doesn’t like to talk about the past much, but listening’s your specialty and it comes out in bits and pieces, stuck between the little he does say. You come to understand that he very rarely got to be very close with anyone while Sarah was growing up. There were the years when everything was a nightmare. Then there was Tess and she brought him out of that, thank goodness. But it took time. And there was also denial and survival and means to their ends. There might indeed have been strong love there. But you have the feeling he’s not had this–or anything like it–for a long, long time.

So if he wants it soft and slow, then who are you to deny him?

Maybe it shouldn’t be so surprising that it was him who pulled you in a little closer.

“What if you didn’t move in with Tommy and Maria this winter?” He’d lingered the morning after Christmas, leaning one shoulder against the frame of your bedroom door, savoring the show of you getting dressed for the day.

“And waste the fuel? Why? So we can cuddle up now and then without your brother down the hall? You keep me plenty warm, Joel Miller, but I’m not going to heat this whole house just for me and your more-than-casual visits. Everyone’s got a responsibility here to conserve in the winter. This is how I do my part. And besides,” you purred as he stepped in to button up your flannel for you, freeing up your fingers so they could run through his curls, “I know where you live and your bed’s good as mine.”

“You seem to like it there well enough.”

“I do.” His beard was growing in all but a patch on his jaw that was now your right to kiss.

“Well I was thinkin’ we just make it ours for the winter.”

His hands had circled your hips and his words had stopped your heart, but there was little for to say with his lips pressed against yours.

So mornings often started as they did today, waking to find Joel beside you, roused because you can feel him watching you with that little half smile that reveals the crack in his weary heart where the light shines through. Who needs spring to come with sunshine like that to turn to? Now there are family breakfasts with Ellie and cozy days knitting in the company of Maria and Riley and then warm nights with Joel on one of those pillowtopped mattresses that were all the rage before the outbreak…the ones that are great when you have a stiff back, but even better because the springs don’t squeak…

“Aw dammit,” Joel says when he sees you nearing the stables with the thermos, “Knew I forgot something.”

“Two somethings,” you say pointing to his bare head and passing your hat up to him in the saddle. “Your ears are already bright red. Here. Take my hat.”

“This’s Ellie’s.”

“Huh. Guess I just grabbed one on my way out. Oops. Be a man. Wear a pompom.”

He pulls it down over his ears and smiles. “Matches my scarf.”

You’d had a small batch of deep red wool you’d managed to squeak a hat and scarf out of and gifting the hat to Ellie around Christmas, but the scarf went to Joel. He may not want anyone to think of him as sentimental, but it was worth your while to make it easy on him by giving him something that was also practical. Even if he had his jacket zipped up all the way, it was always there, tucked around his neck; he may leave his ears to the elements but he never went anywhere without that scarf.

The line of horses start making their way toward the Jackson gates and you squeeze Joel’s shin before stepping out of the way, letting him and his horse follow the group. He simply lets a gloved finger glance your cheek as he passes by.

All the way out here on this side of the apocalypse and humans still have a million variations on saying “I love having you around and I’d like to keep it that way.”

________

“Ellie’s more than welcome around here if you and Joel don’t want to leave her home alone.”

Maria’s lightly bouncing a wet-faced and blubbering Riley on her lap, trying to tempt him with a frozen carrot for his teething. He has tommy’s curls and they sproing with every boing.

“Nah, she wants to come out. We’ll be dividing the ewes and driving part of the flock into the old town for the rest  of the overwinter and she wants to see how it's done. Should see it, if she thinks she’ll be entering the rotation at any point. Speaking of,” you grunt, leaning down to gather your knitting basket and gather your things, “I promised I’d meet her after school. She’s gotten into collecting cassette tapes and the commissary says she’s hit her quota on goods this week. Gonna give up a couple credits so she can discover the wonders of Joan Jett and the Beastie Boys.”

“That’s throwing gas on the fire. She pick those out herself?”

“Nope. My points, my choice. And I say that girl needs to fight for her right to party and put another dime in the jukebox, baby.”

Maria rolls her eyes, chuckles, goes light on the sarcasm. “You’re the coolest auntie.”

“Don’t I know it,” you laugh, tying up your boots.

“Joel’s gonna just love that.”

Leaning in to bop a quick kiss to Riley’s head, you give Maria a crazed grin. “So much.”

Ten minutes later, Ellie has her doubts, holding up a cassette at the commissary. “But there’s a dinosaur on this one! How can it not be great?”

“Listen, missy. I’m not saying Dinosaur Jr. doesn’t have a place in music history, but I’m telling you that you’re likely to be disappointed. Trust me. Just this once.”

Ellie makes a face but you glance past it, distracted by what you see through the window behind her. Following your focus, she turns to look too. “Who’re they?”

All of the patrol horses coming back in have two people on them–a member of the party, and a stranger. And all the strangers can’t be more than teenagers.

“Dunno, but it looks like you’re about to get some new classmates. I’ll sign these out. You go ahead and make a good first impression.”

“You’re just sending me out there because you know if they’re infected, I can’t catch it.”

“If they were infected, they wouldn’t be on those horses or inside those gates. I’m sending you out there because you have a way of reading people. Go.”

Something in that puts a gasp in her throat and a sparkle in her eye and her ponytail whips behind her as she goes, striving to live up to the compliment.

But really, you just want half a minute to take a good look at the kids without Ellie asking questions. They’re all scrawny and filthy. Backpacks. Been traveling and living rough for a while now. Where’d they come from? What’s their story? Not an adult among them. How have they survived? You’d swear something feels off, but that’s the world now. Can’t be too careful. Everything seems off all the time. 

Question is, off by how much?

You find Joel in the group; he’s the only one riding with a kid in front of him rather than hanging on behind. And once he gets down off the horse and reaches up to help his passenger down, you can see why.

She’s pregnant.

Shit. She’s what, fifteen? Sixteen?

Shit.

“There’s a house up near mine has good plumbing turned on.” Tommy’s speaking over his shoulder to the small group and leading his horse to the stable door as you come out of the commissary. “We’ll get you all washed up and fed. There’s at least two beds there and some other furniture fit to sleep on if it makes you comfortable to stay together. Give me a minute to put Lady away here and we’ll walk on up together. Joel? A word?”

Handing off the pregnant girl’s backpack to her, Joel takes the reins of his horse and follows his brother inside, leaving the newcomers to look around them and take in the town.

All but one. A girl with hair that’s neither light brown or dark blonde, somewhere in between. Your mother would have called it dirty dishwater blonde and you always thought that was rude. But your mother also would have said the girl had a hatchet of a face with a strong jaw like that. And it’s that girl whose head whips around the second she heard Joel’s name, quickly scanning the patrol to ascertain who belonged to it, and stands watching the stable door in thought long after the Miller brothers were gone.

Was Joel her father’s name? Her brother’s? Is it hers or close to hers? Is she a Jo or Joelle?

“Abby. Hey,” a boy calls and she turns. “Mel should get a bed and we can share. Manny and Nora can share too…if you’re okay with taking a couch.”

“Fine,” Abby says. Her eyes and mouth all unmoving lines.

“Hey. Welcome to Jackson. I’m Ellie.” Your starling jams her hands in her pockets as all the new eyes turn her way. “It looks like you’ve been wandering. Where you coming from?”

The boy who spoke before blinks and opens his mouth to say something, hesitates. You’d take him for the leader up until the moment Abby speaks for him.

“West of here. QZ. Seattle.”

“Oh. Cool,” says Ellie with a bounce to her nod. Easy. Instantly welcoming. “I came out of Boston.”

Seattle QZ. The same one your dead husband and his sister came from. Not a good place. Warring factions and nothing but oppression and disease, last you heard. Good that they got out. They’re gonna need to be de-loused. 

But Seattle’s also much harder than most zones to break free of. You’ve been told the Western Liberation Front makes FEDRA look like a bucket of clowns.

“Seattle?” Now it’s your turn to pull focus from the group. “We’ve had refugees from there before. You really get out of there in one group like this? With no grown ups?”

Abby rips her eyes away from Ellie. “It’s a long story,” she says, shutting the questioning down.

There’s a moment that hangs between you and that stinks faintly of threat, but is mostly just the smell of feral kids. Tension breaks as the men emerge from the stable.

“We all ready?” Tommy says, making his way down the road and waving a hand for them to follow. “New home’s this way.”

Ellie starts to fall in with the group and you pull her back in close, speak low. “Go with them if you want, but keep your distance.”

“What? Why?”

“These are your first refugees. You’ll learn that they sometimes bring things with ‘em.”

Her face screws into a question mark. “What things?”

“Fleas. Lice. Viruses. Just give ‘em some space for a while.”

After the quickest flash of disgust, Ellie’s tried and true compassion kicks in and she gives an understanding nod as she turns to go, tape cassettes clattering in her jacket pocket.

You keep watching her even as you speak to the owner of the hand snaking around your waist. “Where’d you find them?”

“Up at the old crossing. They were under attack.”

“Jesus.”

“Nope. Infected.”

“Been a while since we’ve seen any of those stumble through here.”

“Infected? Or the kids.”

Turning to him in exasperation you look him over. “Both. And the same goes for you as for Ellie, Foxy. Let’s take you home and wash that scarf and hat. Run a fine-toothed comb through that hair just to make sure.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” he says, stopping when he catches your zero-temperature glare. If it’s something else you love about Joel, he recognizes when something’s important to you and answers a lady with composure and respect. “Yes, ma’am.”

____

“You couldn’t have found her some Cash or Fleetwood Mac or something?”Joel grumbles into the fireplace as he places another log on the coal bed and moves the poker around like he’s doing something.

Ellie sits on a blanket near the fire, reading a comic book, headphones on, Joan Jett’s grinding guitar bleeding out into the otherwise quiet living room. With his face turned to the fire and Ellie facing away from you, she most likely can’t hear the conversation that’s happening around her if you keep your voices low.

“You’re just jealous that she asked me to pick something out instead of you,” you smile on the couch, picking up your feet and swinging them into his lap as he sits down beside you. “80’s rock is good for her spiky little soul.”

“80’s means trouble,” he counters, considering her as his hands absently squeeze and rub at your feet.

You go back to your book. Seemingly anyway. It’s easy to steal observing glances from where you are. The thoughtful concern he has for Ellie. You can see him looking over the wood in the hopper and calculating how many days of fuel he has before you all head out to the Roost. A twist of a lip tells you he’s realized he might be a day short and needs to chop more. His gaze drops to his lap as he lightly massages your feet–just running his hands along their contours, pressing a thumb in here and there to tenderize a muscle. The firelight loves him, plays at the edges of his curls, slides down his nose, kisses the purse of his lips.

You jump as he slides a tickling fingertip up the sole of one foot. “Hey!”

“What you get for staring.”

“I wasn’t staring at you, I was reading.”

“Must be pretty small print you don’t turn a page for five minutes.”

Taking off your readers and closing the book, you sit up and deposit them on the coffee table. From here it’s easy to scoot up to him and lean an elbow on the couch back. “What’s got you so thinky tonight, hmm? You look like you’ve got your worry pants on.” There’s a curl right behind his ear that’s so easy to twirl in your fingers and you indulge. You’ve found a little touch helps him open up.

“I can’t help thinking about those kids, thinkin’ they could just wander out in the world like that. If it weren’t for us hearing the runners….” He goes quiet a minute and you let him, his gaze haunting Ellie’s direction but living somewhere in the past. “They gotta be somebody’s kids. I can’t believe Seattle’s so bad they just let ‘em run wild…let ‘em run away from the best you got for ‘em.”

A faint guitar blares from Ellie’s headphones as she flips a page, purses her lips, absently nods along.

“Yeah, well teenagers rebel, Foxy. That’s what they do.”

“No,” he says, softly, resolutely, a tick of his jaw. “Not all of ‘em. Not if they’re loved. And fiercely. And I don’t know a love that isn’t fierce.”

It’s the look on his face that makes you believe him.

Love isn’t a word that Joel bandies about. It’s easy to see it work in him. The way he tells Ellie no when she wants to do something reckless but promises her something just as exciting, going to any length to make her smile. The way he holds Riley’s head in the crook of his arm, his other hand reflexively coming out in defense if anyone gets too near the baby’s soft spot. The way he shoves his brother with a laugh when Tommy picks on him or how he helps Maria to her feet when she’s been on the floor too long, even if she says she doesn’t need it.

The way he… with you he…

His hands work at your feet again. He understands the minute levels of his strength, knows how firm to go without bringing pain.

With you, it’s the way he rolls over and shows you his soft places, invites you in to be a part of it.

Not really what you’d call fierce. Does that mean he doesn’t–

“Is a cherry bomb like a little bomb or a big bomb?” Ellie asks, an earpad pulled away from her ear and spilling Cherie Currie’s stuttered chorus.

“It’s a little one. A firework. But it packs a big punch. It’ll take your fingers off. Hello, world, I’m your wild girl, I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch cherry bomb,” you sing, pushing your foot against Joel’s thigh with every beat. 

“Alright, that’s it,” he says, wrapping a big hand around your ankle to secure it. “Ellie, run on up and get my guitar. Lemme teach you a better song.”

In the minute it takes for her to come back, Joel foregoes softness for force, tickling relentlessly, almost ending up with a foot in his face with how much you squirm.

___

Church isn’t really your thing, never was. You have your own way of listening to the beauty of the earth that doesn’t mean sacrificing a morning sleeping in to listen to lessons you’ve already learned and hold true.

But today you’ve come to the after-brunch curious to welcome the new residents and managed to show up a little early. So you’re standing in the back of the mess hall with Maria and Riley, waiting for the final hymn to end, for the preacher to call an end to the service and a beginning to the meal.

Maria leans in and murmurs in your ear as the final chorus comes. “Tommy and the crew are working on one of those bigger houses with the vaulted ceilings in the new district so the church can have its own building.”

“They’re not gonna like having to walk over there.”

She shrugs, adjusts Riley’s teething toy and bounces him up a notch. “Might cause some of them to move over there. Thin out the density. Easier on the power grid. We do have five new residents.” 

You watch as one of the new boys–Owen–helps the pregnant Mel to her feet. “Soon to be six.”

Once the kitchen starts serving, Owen and Mel find their way over to your table, eager to meet Riley and ask Maria all kinds of questions about childbirth and your friend finds herself in a mentoring role she didn’t ask for. She’s not opposed to being helpful, just lets her judgment slide through on the whole babies having babies thing which completely flies over the kids’ heads.

They’re good enough kids, but something tastes a little sour when Owen tries to include you in the conversation.

“What about you? You and…is his name Joel? You gonna have any kids?”

It’s a rude question. He’s earned your side eye and he knows it, but smiles through it, playing innocent.

“Already got one. One’s enough,” you laugh, sly, chewing through some boiled oats and letting him know you’re gonna let that one slide.

“Oh, yeah, right. Ellie, right?” he asks, with a flick of his eyes to a table behind you. Turning, you find Abby at a table with some other residents and when you turn back it’s with a dry expression that tells him he’s worn out his turns at beating the bush and should be out with it.

“We just were wondering if she’d show us around,” Mel explains. “She’s the only one of the children here who will talk to us.”

You snort. “Don’t let Ellie hear you call her a child. She’s short for her age, but she’s not much younger than you. She likes people, but that won’t win you any points.”

“And don’t worry about the other kids,” Maria takes over, shooting you a look. “They’ll come around. A lot of them were born here and they don’t see a ton of new people.”

“Are they not coming to the brunch today?” Owen asks.

“Who?”

“Ellie and Joel.”

Shaking your head, you swallow your latest bite. “Joel and Tommy are off getting some work done in the new sector and Ellie would bite my face off if I woke her up before high noon on a weekend. But she knows where you’re staying. I’ll send her around to you once she’s up and acting like a whole human.”

You’re about to change the subject and ask them a few questions of your own but Riley starts fussing and Mel asks to hold him and the whole baby talk starts up again.

When you look over your shoulder, Abby is gone from the table. Left her dish for someone else to clean up.

There’s a thought creeps in that maybe Ellie can teach them all some manners. And then you remember the mouth on your starling and smile.

____

“And Owen showed me some of his drawings and they’re so amazing. He’s like a fucking Picasso or something. He says he’ll give me lessons if I can get Mr. Scowlface here to take him out hunting. Says he misses hunting deer with his dad. And Abby wants to go too. I told her how you taught me to use a shotgun and she seemed really interested to learn. She might want to join the patrols some day. But I told them not this week since we’re going out to the Meadow and they all had questions about that. Abby especially–” 

Ellie has a remarkable talent for chewing and talking at the same time. She catches a piece of apple that escapes her mouth, slurping it off the back of her hand where it landed, then downs the rest of the milk and wipes her mouth with the cuff of her sweater, leaving you to negate your silent praise of her manners from earlier in the week and giving you a break in the chatter to speak.

“Well, you’re a little young to be recruiting your own Roostlings, but if Abby or any of the others want to come out sometime and see what the fuss is about, they’re welcome. I’d rather them wait until spring though, or at least until we get the whole of the flock back from the deep winter holding grounds. Chickadee’s taking up the caboose on that.”

As you push the carafe of chicory coffee toward Joel and clear the breakfast plates, Ellie snatches the last hunk of bread you left on yours, shaking her head. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

Joel scoffs. “Last car on a train.” He takes a long, loud drag of his coffee, pouring on the annoyance to get a glare out of the girl and succeeds. “Well, if she don’t like heights, she’s not going to enjoy learning patrol duty either, not with the watchtowers and the mountain trails. And don’t go promising services you can’t guarantee. I’m not a scout leader.”

“What’s a scout leader?”

“Someone with a lot more patience than me. Get.”

Taking up her backpack, Ellie makes her way to the front vestibule to pull on her gear.

“Don’t forget your hat and scarf!” You call to her, but smile at Joel as you perch your butt against the table and tuck a little curl behind his ear. He’ll ask you to cut it soon. And you’ll put it off for as long as possible.Tickles, he'll say. I know, you'll say.

“Thanks, Gramma Betty!” she calls back and pulls the door shut behind her as Joel lays a warm hand on your outer thigh.

“What’er you getting up to today?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m in carding mode. Got a whole bag of washed fleece needs combing. I’d ask you what you’re up to, but I assume you and Tommy are gonna be tearing down some poor old house.”

There’s a moment where he squints, thiinking. His thumb tracing the outer seam of your jeans. 

“I want you to come with me. Got something to show you.”

“Really. Well I like the sound of that. I could use a little walk in the bitter cold with a mystery at the end of it. Gonna have to go pull on a heavier sweater though. Might need to take this one off first. You wanna come watch?”

There’s a knock at the front. Tommy. The door opening.

Joel only grins fondly and pats your thigh, sending you off, before pushing the chair back from the table and separating himself from his coffee mug. “I’ll catch the later show. ‘Specially if it calls for audience participation.”

Five minutes later, bundled and booted, the three of you head out toward the new section, Joel with his scarf tucked in tight and hat pulled down low, and Tommy with a set forced upon him because you’re quickly becoming the winter clothing police around here.

It’s not a long walk. Jackson was never more than a few miles wide and this is just the first expansion of the wall. You’ve wandered over during the construction crew’s activities enough to know the way without being led, but what you’re expecting is for Joel to lead you away from the furthest street, away from the beautiful A-frame house so neatly repaired along with its pretty neighbors and up the street with Tommy to the next clutch of houses they’ve been working on. 

But instead, Joel tells his brother he’ll be along in a minute, and Tommy smiles knowingly as he continues on, leaving the two of you in the walkway up to the pretty A-frame that’s so much like the Roost’s bigger sister.

“You know what today is?” Joel asks, hands in pockets, squinting up at the peaked roof.

“Friday?”

“Probably,” he says, shifting focus to his boots. “I was thinking more holiday-wise.”

The air’s particularly crisp today, hitches in your lungs as you take each mental step and catch up with him.

February 14. Valentine’s.

As your mouth drops open, he jerks his chin at the house. “You like this one, right?”

“What…what are you….Joel?”

There’s a cringe that belies his confidence, maybe a tinge of regret. “I just figured we were gettin’ along so well, that maybe you’d… It was just an idea–”

He can’t even look you in the eye until you yank his hand awkwardly out of his pocket and wrap your gloved hand around his. He seems almost shocked to see your tears welling up–true, half from the cold–but he’s also relieved. Big breath in, big breath out. That must have been the hard part.

Words aren’t Joel’s way. This is how he tells you just how deep his feelings go. You know he’s had time to imagine with every window replaced, every floorboard leveled out, every load bearing wall reinforced,  just which family was going to get to live in this house and what kind of life they might make in it.

What kind of life you might make together here.

So you take his lead and say only what’s necessary, as steadily as you’re able. 

“Take me inside.”

His sheepish grin confirms that it was exactly what he’d hoped to hear.

The interior’s simple, but gorgeous. The dark wood gleams, and the whole back wall of the A frame is windowed. The triangle at the top replaced with a leaded stained glass in a sunrise of orange and rose that reflects the undertones in the timber inside and the pines out the window, the mosaic just high enough to catch the last rays that will come in over the mountains at the end of the day and turn the whole place into a dream. The open floorplan has the kitchen near the door, but over by the windows….

Joel gives the tour. The hand-laid stones in the fireplace. The built-in shelves for your books. This is the corner where your favorite chair can go, nearest the fire and where there’s good light for spinning. This rug was here, still good. He points out to the little shed in the back–a place for wool dying, he can hang pegs in there however you need them.

If he weren’t so occupied in explaining the wood he chose to finish the countertop, the way he followed the original dovetailing in the doorframe, the pattern he made with the reclaimed wood in the floorboards, he may have seen you admiring the most important part of the house…or, rather, the most important person in it.

There’s more. Two bedrooms, one off each side of the main part of the house, each with its own bathroom, the larger one with its own porch overlooking a little creek.

“The basement’s not quite done, but I figure I’ll just use that for my own. Felt you might not like the…vibe…”

Ah yes. The former owners. He took care of that too. 

He took care of everything.

“I love it, Joel.”

“Yeah?”

“If there was a stronger word, it would be yours, believe me.”

He only wraps his arms around you as you dive in to squeeze him.

“Good,” is all he says. Breathes in the scent of your hair. “That’s good.”

________

The ewes hate the leader ropes, but they follow, bleating now and then as you slowly guide them through the woods toward the Meadow’s north entrance. Joel’s got two behind his and Ellie’s horse, and you’ve got four behind yours, a small party, but the only ones that were ready to come on back out after the coldest weeks.

Goldie’s happy to lead them out to the rest of the flock while you and Joel go up and get situated, get warm, get ready for the week ahead. Ellie follows Goldie and Joel hangs his watch by the door. All’s quiet in the Roost.

Until Joel’s tongue clicks. “That beam is bowing,” he points up to one of the main rafter struts on the far side of the room. “Wood stove keeps this side warm and the snow melts off, but there’s no balcony on the other side. No way to rake the snow off the roof. Tommy should have known better.”

“Well it’s not like he’s had a lot of practice with big boy tree forts, I’m guessing,” you say, dumping a sack of potatoes near the cook pile and throwing the stack of fresh sheets onto the bed. “Does it need to come down?”

“Don’t think so. But come spring we’ll add on another balcony and do some reinforcement.”

As he runs his hand up the wall seam, you come up behind him, hugging him from the back with the sole purpose of distracting him, your way of letting him know he’s obsessing like an old man. It gives you the right angle to grab onto his open jacket and start pulling it off him. “Take this off and stay awhile.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Goldie takes her leave on your horse, guiding Joel and Ellie’s behind, glad to be going back to more warm water than she can heat on a stovetop, and Ellie helps to cart a few buckets of the colder variety up from the stream so you can all just stay in for the night.

Then it’s stew and cards, and Ellie kicking Joel’s ass at Scrabble, all of you bundled in wool sweaters and slippers handmade by you and Chickadee, the firelight glinting off the game tiles, highlighting the glee in the girl’s eyes, the resigned agony in Joel’s smile.

Almost a whole year now she’s been coming out here with you, and it’s wondrous how much she’s grown inside and out. You never felt lonely at the Roost, in fact, you had always very much enjoyed the solitude. Now you don’t think you could abide it. It’s only a home for a week at a time, but only when they come out here with you now.

It’s a nice night. Stars are out. Ellie’s still staring out at them as you and Joel fall asleep in the big bed.

_____

It’s the scent of woodsmoke that wakes you in the middle of the night, sitting you up straight in bed. Or so you think, except that the embers in the stove are low, so it can’t be that. 

No. It’s a voice outside.

“Burn in hell, Joel Miller!”

Is that…Ellie? What’s she doing outside? No. Not Ellie. No it’s–

“Abby?” Ellie says blearily from the bunk above you.

There’s someone in the room moving swiftly toward you from the windows, hulking, with a rifle–

Joel.

“Get up. Both of you. Get out. The place is on fire.” 

It doesn’t register.

“What? What fire? Joel? What’s happening–”

He shakes your shoulder, pulling you from the bed. “Get Ellie out. Now!”

There’s no other thought, just fumbling in the dark as Ellie jumps down beside you and dives for her jacket, shoving her feet into her boots without doing up the laces while you reach out one hand to catch hers for when it comes to you. The other gropes the near table for the walkie and thumbs the button.

“Meadowlark to patrol. Meadowlark to Goldfinch. We’re in trouble, there’s a fire and–”

The whole cabin sways. A gunshot from the balcony. Joel growling over his shoulder. “Get out! Now!”

“Joel–!”

“NOW!”

The ladder is still sliding down into place when you jump on it and ride it part of the way down, still waking up as Ellie’s boots come fast, almost kicking you in the face as she follows you down the rungs two at a time, moving through a plume of choking blackness only to come out below it to a roaring bonfire that’s eating through the Roost’s supports.

Oh god. The Roost…

is burning….

“JOELLLLLL!” you scream up as your stocking feet hit the ground hard, as you catch Ellie and pull her off the ladder and stumble backward, as something hits your head hard and causes you to let go, as separate sets of arms grab each of yours and drag you roughly backward, fast enough to keep your feet from catching up until you’re on your knees.

There’s a crackle in the air– “Patrol to Meadowlark. What’s the trouble?” 

The walkie lies somewhere in the pine needles just out of reach and you’re screaming at it for help but all that comes out of your mouth is a string of names and no’s and helps. You’re able to yank your non-dominant arm free, pitching forward, clawing for the radio, until a flash of hard silver–a meteorite, exquisitely dense and smooth, malignant, swift, direct–cracks down on your forearm with a sickening thud, shattering the bone.

The world slides out of focus through a screen of sudden pain.

At first, you assume you’ve been shot in the arm. But then a figure steps around to your line of sight. Abby. With a golf club? What? Why? Where did she get that? The commissary? Why the fuck would they stock golf clubs? What the fuck is going on? 

And you watch as Abby picks up the walkie. Tosses it into the fire.

The hands are back upon you now, forcing you back to your knees, and a third set joins them, wrapping around your forehead and chin, pulling you back against a belly and you struggle.

Where’s Ellie.

You’re able to twist your head to one side despite being held. She’s there on the ground, face down, groaning, with Owen’s knee in her back.

“Ellie? Honey?”

One pair of hands holding you twists you hard, meaning to pull you further away from her without compliance from the other hands or consent from your muscle structure and there’s a sickening pop as your shoulder leaves its socket and then your scream drowns out everything even the roar of the fire.

“She keeps it in her pocket,” Abby says. Rooting into Ellie’s pocket, Owen finds the knife and pulls it out–the one she cherishes, imbued with the legend of her mother, given to her on the same day as her name, her life, and her orphanhood.

The day Ellie told you the story, you’d taken steel wool to the knife and cleaned it. Oiled the hinge. Shined it up good and pretty.

It flips open easily in Owen’s paw. It twirls swiftly around, and points downward, his fingers closing over the hilt, thumb curling over the butt of the handle to give it more leverage when he’s ready to bring it down.

The night is horribly black and lit along the edges in orange fire.

There’s a loud crack. Owen’s thigh explodes in a splatter of blood and he falls backward off Ellie, screaming. The hands around your head let go and Mel runs to him.

Joel stalks out of the plume of black smoke, cocking the rifle, pointing only long enough at Owen to confirm he’s down and then swinging the barrel around to Abby.

A stand off. No sound or movement but the whoosh of flames and a few ground-muffled cries from Owen, a few sniffles and shushes from Mel.

“Who the fuck are you,” Joel growls out over the steel barrel, his cheek quivering in barely hinged anger.

Abby stands, solid, unyielding, straight as the blonde braid hanging down her back, club wound up tight, ready for the pitch, a face full of lines and soot and destruction.

“The last survivors of the Firefly massacre. You didn’t think to check the rest of the compound? Like the whole team was just one-offs? Like none of them had family, you sick fuck? You fucking orphaned us. Left us to fend for ourselves. Go ahead and shoot, old man. Marlene always said you weren’t so good at keeping kids alive, actually surprised you got as far as you did. So go ahead. Not like we’ve got nothing to lose. We just came to return some favors and finish the job.”

It’s only in the moments later, before the dawn, when you’re laying on your back looking up at the stars, one arm laying broken and useless in the snow beside you, the other cradling a weeping Ellie Williams as tight as you can, that you’ll be able to slow the film of your memory and play out the next thirty seconds frame by frame.

The series of snaps and cracks as the support under the Roost gave way and the whole structure tumbled out and away from the scene, pulling several pines down with it, the crashing and burning the only sound you remember now.

Ellie trying to shuffle along the ground toward you and away from the fire.

Owen pulling himself up enough to raise the knife and bring it down into the meat of Ellie’s calf.

Owen’s body flying backward as a bullet ripped through his skull.

A wrench of your neck and the warm splash of blood from above you as another shot rang out, one person holding you falling away and back, gone, but still pulling you down with their dead body.

The roar of an angry Abby and the clank of a club shaft on a rifle barrel.

Another gunshot.

The sound of metal hitting flesh.

Thirty seconds. And now you can see the stars. Orion. The Milky Way.

Somehow you’re lying yards from the little patch of burning trees with Ellie cradled in your good arm. Someone dragged you here.

There are voices and flashlights. The patrol. Bear and Tommy. Goldie and Willa and Chickadee.

And Maria. Laying on the ground beside you, exhausted from the effort of dragging two humans out of the burning thatch of trees.

“Joel. Where’s Joel.” It hurts to speak. Breath comes fast and shallow.

Then he’s there with the others, a bruise blooming purple beneath his eye, saying only what scant words he needs to move past them and get to you. To Ellie. 

His hands are gentle, but his eyes are cold.

Two still, black pools reflecting fire.

_______

Perhaps unsurprisingly, you dream of Troy, his mangled face open and bleeding, laying in the hole next to Ash, mutilated, stopped at the moment of transformation into something more sinister, your ex-husband and his sister lost to you because they were headstrong, foolish, too devoted to each other….

Ash’s eyes open, what’s left of them anyway. “Abby’s afraid of heights. Didn’t even have time to tell her about the Roost being up on stilts. What’s a caboose?”

They didn’t know the Roost was elevated. They followed us out here and didn’t have a good plan. Is that it?

They don’t answer. They get up and climb out of the hole, turn their backs on your and walk into the forest. You call after them, desperate to have them back after all this time, begging them not to leave you.

But you’re calling after them wrong. You can’t seem to say Troy. You can’t say Ash.

You’re only calling out for Joel and Ellie.

_____

The next thing you know, you’re sitting up in the snow, leaning against Goldie, the girl patting at your cheek as you’re coming around. “Come on, come on back, baby.”

The sun’s up, but not high enough to breach the mountains circling the meadow. Everything’s still lit by the slowly dying flames.

The one two punch of Willa setting the bone and popping your shoulder back in must have sent you off. Looking down, you see you must have thrown up as well. 

“Holy shit,” you groan, “I’m sorry. Oh my god, holy shit that hurts.”

“I know, I know,” says Goldie, smoothing your hair and kissing your forehead. 

“Here,” says Willa, handing you some dark root. You forget what it’s called, you just know you gotta chew. “Don’t swallow,” she reminds you. “You ride with Goldie. She’ll keep you upright once that sets in.”

“I gotta get up,” you mumble, struggling to stand and inhaling sharply at the twinge of pain the movement brings to your bandaged and immobilized arm. Goldie’s able to help get you up, but seems hesitant to let you go. “Ain’t nothing wrong with my feet, lemme go. Where’s Ellie?”

But you don’t need to ask, she’s just behind you, laying on her back in the snow, one arm flung over her eyes, breathing heavy to manage the pain, leg bandaged and tourniqueted.

Good. Next priority. “Where’s Joel?”

Goldie points to the fire. It’s starting to die down, enough to make out the bodies of three teenagers consigned to the flames. Past them, the group of the regular patrol. Joel shaking his head at them, speaking. Jacket zipped up to the top, no scarf, no hat; probably got left behind in the Roost. Rifle over one shoulder. A backpack over the other.

But not his backpack. Why would he have someone else’s backpack? Why would he have one at all…

He’s…. No.

Pushing off Goldie, you immediately find out that walking is hard. Even if the pain’s just in one arm, everything’s connected, everything hurts; it’s disorienting. Your knees are bruised and even your soft sleep pants feel like sandpaper on them. Feet cold and wet, no boots…

Joel sees you struggling to get to him and walks away from the group and the fire, meeting you partway, catching your good arm as your fist falls hard on his shoulder and yanks, fingers digging in hard to his coat, doing your best to hold on tight, to keep him here, to convince him not to go.

“Don’t you dare, Joel Miller. What do you think you’re fucking doing???”

He says nothing, only lets you collapse onto his chest, to sob. There’s not even an arm to comfort you, he gives you nothing but the bare necessity, a wall to keep you standing, and you know nothing you say will make a difference. In essence, he’s already gone.

“Please. Joel. Don’t. Please don’t go.”

“Trail’s fresh. Best to get on before it snows and covers the tracks. One of them’s the pregnant girl. One of them’s bleedin’. They can’t get that far.”

“You don’t have to. Just come home.”

“They’ll just come back. Maybe not soon, but someday.”

He’s right. You know he’s right. Stepping back, it hurts to look at him. The Joel you love has been asked to step aside, the care and fondness he’s come to show you locked up somewhere secure, somewhere where it won’t get in the way. 

I warned you, this Joel seems to say, void of emotion, jaw set, brow even and low, hand on the strap of his rifle. You took me in knowing exactly what I am.

He’s right.

“I need you here, Joel. Ellie needs you here. Don’t you dare go…unless you can come back.”

“I need you here too. ‘S why I’m going.”

Nothing. No kiss goodbye, no waiting for approval, he just turns and walks. 

Maybe this is the last of it, just one last loose thread, then he can finally leave off wandering, finally shake off the killer and just come home, just be your Joel.

Convincing yourself of this is the only choice you’ve got.

________

You find yourself out on Maria’s back porch that night. Unable to sleep from the ache of the mending bone and the swell of your assaulted shoulder, it seemed like the best remedy was to find the toughest jerky in the kitchen, to sit on the porch in the cold and chew through the pain, and to lean back in one of the porch chairs with a soothing snowpack between it and your back.

The moonlight plays illusions like the canteen filmstrips–a summer image of Tommy and Joel teaching Ellie the mechanics of tackle football. The twinkle of the fireflies lending veritas to the picture…which in reality is only the twinkle of a dusting of new snow.

Not enough snow to make tracking impossible, but enough to make it difficult.

The back door opens and a blanket lands over your lap.

“Was gonna ask you if you wanted company, but then I decided, it’s my house and you don’t get a choice.”

Maria plops her own blanket in a nearby chair before disappearing and returning with two steaming mugs of tea as offering for the table between you. She takes her time covering you just so before wrapping herself up and joining you on the porch. “Suppose I should have asked if you want that cold pack changed before I get too comfortable,” she says, not really offering, but leaving the suggestion there between you if you need it.

It’s not necessary to talk for a while. She knows exactly what you’re thinking. Sees what you see.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. Riley did,” she lies. You’d heard her shift when you got up from the bed–her bed, well, hers and Tommy’s. But hers and yours for now.

“Thanks for taking care of us.”

“You say that like you’re not my family.”

“Well then, thanks for staying behind as if you are.” 

It’s hard to see her out of the corner of your eye, backed by dark shadows. But the moon plays little crescents on her face, the curve of her nose, her cheek, her chin. Her voice comes out velvet from the dark.

“I know you’re pissed at Joel for going, but he’s doing the right thing.”

Now you make the effort to turn, rotating more from the waist than the neck to save the injury from twinging, but it does anyway, mirroring your spike in irritation. “Really? You think so? Is that why you sent Tommy with him? After all that time you spent bemoaning the things Joel made Tommy do all those years ago–”

“This is different. This is about the greater good.”

“You know that’s what the villain always says, right?”

She presses her lips together, hating that you’re right. “Okay, so maybe not the greatest good for the morality of the remainder of the human race, but. For the good of Jackson.”

“Two grown men hunting down two teenage girls is the greater good.”

“They won’t be teens forever. They’ve both got reasons to come back for their revenge. And now they know where Jackson is. They get taken in by the wrong people, and then the wrong people will know where Jackson is too and when they come back they won’t be alone. They’ll know exactly how many and what kind of folk to bring.” She holds your gaze for a few seconds, steady and wise but also warning, her warmth only thinly veiling the matronly protectress behind it, like a Durga on her throne. “You know why we have patrols. You know what happens to people that get too close. Two more drops in the bucket is all.”

“Three. One of those little girls is pregnant.”

She has no answer to this. Rather, your dig brings no new argument to the table. It’s just words, just a fact on the wind. It doesn’t sway the needle one way or the other.

It’s exactly what you’d been thinking about, staring up at her bedroom ceiling. Then out here on the porch. It’s like she knew you needed to hear the justification out loud.

“They would have killed him, lady. And Ellie. And you. I’m surprised you don’t want them hunted down like dogs.”

You turn your attention to the back yard, the smallest hump of leaves under the big tree there not quite scattered to the wind, sparkling with snow cover. You can almost still hear Ellie’s high laughter as it sounded the day she experienced her first leaf pile.

“Oh, I want them run down,” you say. “I’m all for that, let ‘em eat lead. I just didn’t want…” It’s not really necessary to continue. Maria knows exactly what you want. She always does. That’s why she sent Tommy with him. To keep him tethered to humanity.

To the way Joel watched Ellie jump and disappear into a poof of leaves. The sun in his smile. At peace. At home. Free from the old violence. Reborn.

I just didn’t want Joel to be the one to do it.

______

Maria’s dinner table feels empty. Funny, you think, it was always the two of you. For a while there was four, what with Troy and Ash, but most of the time just the two. Then Tommy. Then Joel and Ellie. Now Riley…well, that is, if he’s still up during family dinner.

You’ve slept through most of the light of day and was hoping to talk to Ellie at dinner, but Maria’s been taking all her meals to the guest room for her. Mostly so she doesn’t have to walk down the stairs on her healing leg, but also because Ellie’s not been talking since that night.

And you can guess why. It has less to do with the injury and assault or the fire, and more about the truths she learned during them. 

Not much to do. The arm has to stay stable, strapped to your body. At least they fucked up the non-dominant one so you can still hold a fork, still brush your teeth. But knitting? Spinning? Helping Maria clear the dishes? Fat chance.

Not much to do but chew root, smoke wild weed, and sleep it off.

Maria reappears with a plate needs washing. “There’s a break in the clouds. I got three whole words out of her. This might be your chance.”

“Oh. Joy.” It’s getting to be less of an effort to stand now that you’ve got rest and food in you. The stairs are daunting only because of the conversation that waits at the top.

A knock on her door only grants you silence.

“I’m coming in, Starling girl. Best not be naked.”

No answer. You take that as the opposite of opposition. Tolerance.

She’s sitting on the bed, propped up by pillows behind her back and under her knee, her bandages freshly changed, no more blood pooling or free bleeding. She plays with the cuffs of her sweater, tugging at a loop in the knit, a book abandoned by her side as if she’d put it down when you knocked. A good sign. She doesn’t want to hide.

You crawl in beside her, awkwardly, one-handedly, a big showy sigh of relief when you finally land. “You know, if I was your mom, I’d probably start off with ‘what’cha reading there, kiddo?’ just to get you to say something, but I’m not your mom and I’m not here to make you talk if you don’t wanna–”

“Well I don’t.”

“Good. I didn’t come up here to hear you yap anyway.” You detect the tiniest twitch of her cheek, not quite a smile, perhaps a sneer…to scare away a smile. “Don’t talk, just listen.”

“I don’t wanna do that either.”

“Tough titties. I’m cashing in exchange for all the time I had to listen to you go on about Sally Fucking Ride.”

Now she does smile. Barely. Gives you the teenager face you wanna slap sometimes. “Tough titties? Really?”

“They didn’t have tough titties in the orphanage? Seems off-brand.” The smile fades. “Tell me how you’re healing. I’m not asking, I’m demanding.”

A big breath in. But the air doesn’t come rushing back with a dramatic sigh, just melts out of her with a single tear she doesn’t move to brush away.

So you do. “That bad, huh.”

“It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks so bad.”

“Heh, tell me about it. I miss the good old days of ibuprofen. Shit. I miss morphine. You’re young though, you’ll be up and running in a week or two. Me? I’m gonna be aching for–”

“He fucking lied through his teeth.”

Ah. There it is.

Now the colony of tears follows the first scout, pouring out over the plains of her cheeks until she covers her face with those cuffs she’s been picking at, relieved at being able to let it all out in front of someone who might understand, but probably scared as hell to let herself be this messed up in front of someone who might not. A gamble.

And a win. You’ve still got one good arm and you put it to good use, pulling her into your side. “Yeah, you’re right. He totally did. He’s a fucking asshole. Why the hell would he do that.”

“It wasn't time that did it,” she hiccups from under her woolen cuffs.

“I don’t know what that means, Starling” you say, unable to stop yourself from kissing the crown of her head.

She wipes her nose and comes up for air. “I mean I know why. But he fucking lied about everything. Straight to my face.”

“Well, you’ve got every right to demand an explanation and an apology when he comes back. Straight to his face.”

“If he comes back.”

You let that sit a moment between you. It’s her way of saying that she knows you’re mad at him too, that she heard the conversation you had with him when he left. It’s her way of poking at your own fears and getting you on her side.

“Those girls aren’t armed and the Miller boys have a lot more experience with being hunters than those kids do being prey. He’ll be back.”

“I hate him.”

“I know. But also. You don’t.”

“I had a… a purpose. A fucking purpose.”

“Well….I know you did, but…probably not so much as you think.” She looks up at you but you can’t meet her eye, she’s right to mourn, and you can’t deny her that. “Remember what I told you about my sister and her treatments?”

“The research hospital.”

“Yeah. Cancer’s been killing people on this earth far longer than cordyceps and they’d had millions of patients to test on. Still couldn’t crack it. How many people are immune like you? Because if it ain’t millions, you just become one part sample in a petri dish and another part dead body that maybe give some vague clues and then you’re all parts in the bin, end of story. I mean, I’ll be honest. I don’t blame him. You’re quite a keeper.”

Now her sigh is dramatic. “And then he fucking lied about it.”

“So you would feel good about it. Accomplished in your goal. Also so you wouldn’t hate him for caring about you more than you do.”

“Why didn’t he just say–?”

“Do you know that man to be good with words?”

This quiets her. Both of you. For a few minutes. She goes back to picking at her sleeves.

The sun’s set completely now and her little bedside lamp can’t even drown out the stars so bright on the other side of the window. Clear night. Cold out there.

After a moment you take your arm back, jostle her with your shoulder. “Hey. I’m going out to the Meadow tomorrow, check in with Willa, look over the damage. If I bring you back a piece of the Roost, you wanna do some carving or whittling or something? We’ll build a platform like the old one and it’s probably just gonna be a tent up there for a while like it used to be, but hopefully this spring or summer we’ll get a structure up there and we’ll need a cornerstone or a plaque or something signifying its importance. Since you’re on your ass all day with nothing better to do, and you’re the star recruit, I’d love for you to do it.”

Her lips twist, half smiling at the request, but then in regret. “I lost my knife.”

“The one from your mom?” She nods. “Well if you’ll do some carding for me while I’m out there, I promise to look for it, ask around, maybe one of the patrol picked it up, okay?”

“Okay. Oh. By the way…How are you healing?”

“I’ve been worse. But mostly I’ve been better. Thanks for asking. ‘S kind of you. But don’t you worry about me.”

“Okay. Um…I’m…sorry about telling them about the meadow and all.”

“Why? You’re a Roostling. It’s your story to tell.” Sliding off the bed you head for the door. “Oh hey. I meant to ask–” you nod at the book by her side. “What’cha reading?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh…just porn.”

“Cool. G’night.”

“‘Night. Hey Meadowlark?”

You poke your head back in before the door closes completely. “Hm?”

“Thanks. For all that. But mostly for not calling me kiddo.”

You smile. Nod. Give her a warm wink. “Sure. I gotchu, kiddo.”

It’s worth the eyeroll you catch as you close the door.

________

The most sickening part of coming in through the north passage isn’t seeing the burn scar on the pine grove in the middle of the Meadow, isn’t missing the outline of the Roost through the trees, but rather the feeling that your home has been breached, that for a moment it wasn’t safe and now you’ll always wonder if it will be.

Riding across the north plain, you close your eyes and breathe, let the horse plod on without your guidance, he knows the way. Once spring comes and the valley fills with flowers and the music of the lambs calling for their ewes takes over from this cold silence that comfort will be renewed. 

But for now, there is no comfort on the Meadow in winter, not without a pretty little fireplace and a warm spot to watch the snow build up on the mountains.

You know what’s coming, but it turns your heart inside out all the same when you open your eyes.

Where once there was a cabin in the treetops is now a void leading downward to a pile of blackened rubble and debris. Off to the side under some lower trees is the old canvas tent with the vent hole and a friendly little trail of smoke rising from it. Willa always knew her way around a fire and didn’t mind keeping a low one going on the inside. You never were that confident, even with a fire-treated tarp.

She’s been at work out here, pulling useful things out of the rubble. The woodstove. The pulley jacks. A few timbers that are mostly unburned. 

But there’s a pile of other things too, useless items that shouldn’t be mixed back in with the earth: a burned walkie. Twisted silverware and blackened plates. The iron tools from the rafters. Shattered tile. Your charred and mangled boots.

All that’s left in the major wreckage is wood. And glass. And bones.

Three blackened skulls, three sets of eye sockets and three jaws gaping up at the sky as if they were caught in the moment of realizing their plans were going terribly awry. 

Stupid fucking kids. ….Just kids.

If someone asked you how you knew which one was Owen’s, you wouldn’t be able to say. You just know. The memory of him sinking that knife into Ellie’s leg…of hurting her…intent to kill… His skull breaks like a cracker when you put your weight on it.

Willa doesn’t say anything when she comes up along side to stare down at the bones with you. It's not the first time you've stood with her at the edge of a burned down home.

"I hate that it’s gonna take me a while to sift though all this,” you say.

“We’ve decided to skip your turn for a while. At least until there’s a new platform.”

You nod, resigned. You don’t love it, but it’s best. Trauma lingers longest of all hurt. 

“How’s the flock?”

“They’re over it.”

“Figures. Fluffy shits. Any chance you found a pocket knife out here?” You ask her.

She nods, reaches into a jacket pocket and there it is, like it’s been waiting to come back to its keeper, made itself shiny and easily found. It’s passed between you like a sacred object, holy, a relic saved and cared for, a thing infused with deep love and meaning. There’s an instant relief as your fingers curl around it, your shoulders relaxing and releasing a little of the pain.

“Thank you.”

“There was this too.” From the same pocket Willa pulls a disk of silver and glass, turning it over and placing it in your hand with the knife.

The watchband is burned away. But it’s otherwise unharmed.

Willa may be a stoic, but she knows enough to recognize a release through tears and to hold you while you cry.

Later that afternoon when you knock on Ellie’s door, you’ll hand her the knife and a piece of the old Roost to carve to consecrate the new one. And then you’ll give her the watch and ask her to be your hands, to help you with one more thing.

________

Two days later, you’re standing in Joel’s living room, never having been here when it’s so quiet, dark, and cold. With you and Ellie staying with Maria, there’s been nobody here to light a fire, to make the place live. You wouldn’t be here if Maria hadn’t made a side comment about maybe you and Ellie’d been in the same clothes for a day too many. Not that you thought you’d be with her that long.

She was right. It was nice to change into something clean–a soft fleece and some sleep pants. While the sword of Damocles kept things in check at Maria’s house, it did feel just this side of an extended girl’s night sleepover, might as well dress for it. Ellie had asked for something soft and comfy so you decided to go for it, an assortment of sweats and sweaters in the duffel at your feet.

What you’re eyeing at the moment is an empty hook on the wall by the fireplace.

You put your hand in your jacket pocket and pull out the watch.

Ellie did a beautiful job with it, took directions like a champ. Sitting together on her bed, listening to Joan Jett and Pat Benetar, you’d instructed her how to design the plaid stripes into the strap, how to knot and plait in patterns.

“Macrame. MACrame. Mac. Ra. Mayyyyyy,” Ellie’d chanted. “It’s a fun word to say. What’s it mean?”

“Fringe. Knotting. It’s just the name of the technique. I dunno. Probably something prettier in French.”

The strap clasps had been lost in the fire, so you’d had Ellie work him a new strap out of dyed and tightly-spun wool, something a little longer so he could tie it on. Most likely he’d come back here first, so you want to put it somewhere he’d see it, that way he could have it again without a lot of fuss but knowing at the same time you were thinking of him. So you slip the end loop over the hook, gently let it slip through your fingers and rest against the wall.

If he comes back…

The front door opens. Boots on the wood. The thump of a backpack.

By the time you’ve turned, he’s coming in through the front hall.

When he sees you standing here, he stops.

You never imagined this moment. You should have. It might have prepared you for the yellowing bruise on his face, the majority of his left pant leg browned with dried blood, his knuckles raw and just beginning to heal over.

You struggle with finding the right question. Find ‘em? They dead? Finish the job? No survivors?

I’d ask you what the hell you did, but I know and I don’t wanna hear you say it.

Instead all you can muster is a nod at the blood on his jeans.

His eyes slide to the staircase, already looking to move on, and he only answers with a short and shallow nod of his own before doing just that.

You find yourself sitting on the couch, staring at your hands, the duffel, the watch, back at your hands. Listening as he moves around upstairs, dropping boots, his belt buckle clapping to the floor. The shower running for a long, long time.

Sun’s going down. Getting colder.

The squeaks from the staircase are slow, softer than usual. He’s taking his time coming down. Doesn’t want to force himself back into a space so safe and quiet after pushing through one so big and mean.

He barely shifts the couch as he sits on the far side. Clean shirt. Clean jeans. A pair of socks you knit him.

“Where’s Ellie?” He sounds like he hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. You’d wager he hasn’t.

“With Maria. We’ve been staying there. I was just getting us some clothes. Didn’t think you’d be gone this long.”

“Neither did I. They had a head start. Younger. Faster. But you’re safe now. You’re both safe now.” He’s quiet long enough for the house to give a settling creak as the wind picks up outside. “How’s that arm?”

“Joel, you can’t keep us safe from the world. The world is what it is.”

“The fuck I can’t,” he whispers back, defiant, stubborn, with enough venom that he seems to scare himself and he breathes in deep, keeps it, holding back.

All you want is your Joel back. Even in all this mess. All you want is for him to lay down his fear and love you the right way. 

So instead of arguing, you get up and stand before him, give him the time it takes to understand you’re going to straddle his lap whether he helps you or not. He reaches for you on your way down, guides and supports you, allows you to rake through his wet curls before leaning in to take possession of his lips, to will him–by kissing through to his very soul–to come back to you.

He can’t help but respond, his whole body coming to life, and in the cold, twilit living room, you become a tangle of silhouettes as his hand pushes up under your sweater–somehow still keeping an aura of care around your ruined and wrapped arm–to squeeze almost painfully at your curves, rough and wanting, panting between devouring kisses as he paws beyond the waistband of your sleep pants, sucking at your neck when you throw your head back as he reaches what he was searching for….what you hoped he’d find…

There’s a tousle of repositioning and a clatter of belt and zipper. You’re both raw and rough and needy, and you both take advantage of the emptiness of the house to fill it with the sounds of desperation, of effort, the song of casting off of all inhibition, a duet of total and grateful release. 

But through it all, it’s the way he holds onto you that tells you how much he wanted to get back to you, how close he intends to hold you and never let you go, a desperation that tells you exactly where his faults lay…

…that it was necessary–and always will be–to eliminate any chance of someone taking you from his world by force.

It’s not so much possession as a fierce and burning need to be possessed. A need to belong, concentrated down to its basest form.

“I’m sorry,” he says as he softly kisses your temple, spooning you in the afterglow that burns bright in the darkening room.

“For what? You didn’t hurt me.”

“Rushed it a little. Tend to act before thinkin’ sometimes.”

You’re not completely sure what he means by that. At first you think he’s talking about the rough sex, but you get his meaning. Stalking off after Abby and Mel so impulsively. For being impulsive in general.

For acting out of trauma.

Or love.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to for that, Joel.”

You can tell the moment he understands when his forehead gently meets your shoulder. “Shit.”

It’s probably the best time to break it to him, while he’s still a little softheaded and euphoric. “She’s ready to listen. But I won’t promise it’ll be easy. It might just be you and me here for a while.”

Once his breathing evens out, he shifts, still holding onto you, but just coming back down, settling back in.

“What’s that?” He mutters, just on this side of falling asleep, lazily pointing at the watch on the hook by the fireplace.

“Your Valentine’s Day present. From both of us. Sorry it’s late.”

________

Taking some shifts off from the Meadow rotation affords you time to start slowly moving things over to the new A-frame, Maria helping you to load up a skid now and then and unload it, walking beside you as you lead the horse that tows it.

After a week or two, Ellie’s up and walking–well, limping, but healing–and starting to talk to Joel at dinner again. She’s on the verge of actually gracing his bad jokes with a smile or even a laugh, but she’s making him work hard for it. Good for her.

You haven’t asked either of them how the talk went. Don’t know if you ever will. That’s between them, the less you interfere, the better.

But you know that things are on the mend when you find Ellie playing Joel’s guitar–learning some Johnny Cash song you know he loves.

And you have a feeling that spring is on the way when you drop off another load at the new house and find a new frame on the wall–a handmade, custom carpentry display shadowbox.

With a watch hanging inside.

_______

PREVIOUS: AUTUMN

NEXT: SPRING AGAIN (coming soon)

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Twenty Two)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful and all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Twenty Two: Aran has his say, and Y/N and Cillian listen. But Cillian is able to ensure he hears his views too. Y/N struggles with the subject, knowing the young man is struggling too. Resolution may come, but why does she feel like she's standing in the depths of the secrets and lies alone? [Anxiety and deep family issues - mentions of abortion and domestic violence?]

@remembering-angels @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme @meadowshelby @lavender-haze-01 @strangeions @watermeezer

I have referenced the bracket with domestic violence. I consider it domestic violence, but some of you may not. But just in case you share my view, I've put that little indicator there.

-------

“Right,” Cillian holds his hands out before him. You're all perched on stools at the island and looking at one another awkwardly. “How are we doing this, Aran?” You can hear his anxiety, and see it in the frequency of his tongue swiping over his lips.You look at the young man and wonder what he's thinking. He's not so readable as his dad is.

“I dunno.” Aran says quietly.

“Well, will I tell you anything or do you want to get your questions asked?” Cillian offers a choice.

Aran takes a deep breath. “I can ask what I want?”

“Anything you need to, son. I'm not going to hide anything.” Cillian insists.

Aran looks a little relieved for a moment, and then you wonder if he realises he now has a free pass. “When did you start seeing her?” Aran asks, and he doesn't look at you for a moment.

“Nearly a year before your Mum and me split up.” Cillian answers calmly. “But Aran, your Mum and me, we were going that way anyway. We did not split because I was seeing Y/N. I'd nearly made that decision by that point already, and it only got worse.”

“And the baby?” Aran asks, but he looks at you this time. “If he wasn't with Mum, would you have kept it?”

You shake your head, “I don't know. I can't give you an answer for that, because I don't know what would have happened if things were different.”

“Does Mum know any of it?” He asked, and you look to Cillian as Aran does.

Cillian shakes his head. “I don't think so: like I said, we were in bad shape, Aran. We would have snapped sooner or later. Things were not good. But when we broke it all off and decided to separate, I didn't mention Y/N. Mostly, I didn't mention her because there was enough shit under the bridge for your Mum and for me to end it. No new reasons were needed. I suppose I didn't see the point in fueling the fire.”

Aran looks at his hands, wringing together as his arms rest on the island, and he takes a few steady breaths. “Why, Dad?” he looks up at Cillian and you can see he's grappling. “If you wanted to split up with Mum, you should have. You should have left her before, not after.”

“I know,” Cillian nods, and you don't like the guilty look on his face.

“And did you know he was married, and that me and Mal existed?” Aran asks, turning to you again, and there's an edge to his voice.

Swallowing nervously, you nod your head. “I did.” You say quietly.

“You're an idiot,” he turns back on his father. “You got her fucking pregnant, Dad! Cheated on Mum and got her pregnant, that the biggest cliché there is, you know?” Cillian closes his eyes but let's Aran get out what he has to. “It's disgusting. It was disgusting enough when you were seeing her before the divorce was even sorted, it's ten times as bad knowing the truth of it.” He sniffs. “It's not just that, either, it's like…like you don't respect Mal and me, that you'd go shagging around making new kids and didn't even have the balls to be honest about it. And you left, Dad! Us, and Mum, for Y/N. You think dinners and lifts from school make it okay?”

“Aran,” you say gently.

“No, he said I can say what I need to. And it needs to be said. You're both disgusting. Sneaking and lying. You're liars.” Aran snaps back. “I thought I was okay and just needed to know, but it isn't okay. It's not okay because it feels like you lied to me.”

“You were thirteen when Mum and me split up, Aran. I wasn't going to sit you down and go over the specifics. But I did sit with you and Malachy, though, and I told you the truth - I did tell you the truth, Aran. We couldn't be together any longer, the rowing and the fucking silent treatment. Sure half the time I was away and would ring to talk to you boys, I'd be ignored entirely or she'd say youse were out or something. She started keeping you from me when I was right there, and the fights got worse when I'd be home.” Cillian explains himself as calmly as he can..”If I thought at the time I'd be helping you or Malachy by telling youse about Y/N, I would have. But it was enough pain for the two of ye that Mum and me couldn't be together anymore. I didn't want to make it any harder.”

“Would you ever have said anything, if I didn't find those?” Aran asks quietly.

Cillian shrugs one shoulder. “I don't know. Maybe when you were older. But I don't know, Aran. Maybe not. Sure what good is it doing for you now knowing? You're angry, and it's causing more trouble it need not have caused.”

“You said you didn't leave because of Y/N, so why did you only leave after you were seeing one another?” Aran asks, and he's calmer, and he looks at his Dad, then at you.

Cillian looks at you with a small smile, though his eyes are still sad and anxious, and then he looks back at Aran as he considers his sons question. “She helped me make the choice. Nothing she did, she didn't say leave her, she didn't tell me to get divorced - I don't mean it that way. But away from your Mum, and with Y/N, apart from missing you two or worrying about you two, I felt happier. There were no arguments, or being ignored, or threatened with the chance I'd lose the two of ye.*

“We heard it, you know?” Aran says and you frown.

“The arguments?” Cillian asks.

Aran nods his head, “Yeah. Sometimes.” you feel sad for him and for Cillian.

Cillian sighs sadly, “I'm sorry.”

“One time, we heard you telling her to stop something, that you didn't like it and then there was a noise and Malachy was gonna go out and I said no. And then Mum was crying and she was saying she was sorry. Did she hit you?” Aran asks.

Cillian shakes his head quickly, “No, Aran, nobody hit anybody. But there were a few nights she'd throw things, when she was angry. Sometimes I understood I'd made her angry, even if I hadn't meant to. Other times, she was just angry and I couldn't work it out. She wasn't happy either, Aran. It wasn't working, the two of us, but we were trying to get back to where we used to be, to keep things going well for the two of ye.”

“She slapped that Easter.” Aran says and you turn your face to Cillian slowly. “Uncle Páidi was there, Dad, you both were, like, bickering and he kept saying it wasn't right. Mal and I weren't stupid, Dad, we could see it and hear it. And we were outside and Páidi was going in and we looked up and the kitchen window and you shouted something and Mum slapped your face. So don't say she didn’t do it, Dad.”

Cillian takes a deep breath and he sort of rolls his eyes, almost like a shrug action but with his face, and you want to reach out and touch him but you don't want to upset Aran. “I don't…” Cillian sighs.

“I never saw you do it, and we didn't see her to it again either. But we always thought we knew when she did.” Aran says. “And that time you two had the fight after you got back from filing away somewhere. It was like days of doors slammed and,” he shakes his head and laughs sarcastically. He's seeing it all, in his mind, you know, and you feel for him. “And she put your case at the top of the stairs, and you went to Síle's for a week. You'd been gone ages, and you went again.”

“Jesus . Aran, I'm sorry.” Cillian says so gently, so quietly, he sounds lost and small. “We never wanted to hurt you or your brother, and I know I'm not painting your Mum out well here, but she didn't want you two hurting either. But I see that it has, beyond us just splitting up. And I wish we'd done it sooner because then you'd have been saved from that. Especially those last couple of years when I was barely there, working, staying elsewhere, fighting when I was there or the fucking silences, and then just being around until bedtime. I know you knew I would leave at night.”

Aran nods his head. “You used to come back about five in the morning.” He smirks.

Cillian smiles sadly, “Yeah,” he sighs.

“He'd stay with you, before he left at the end, when he wasn't at home?” Aran asks you.

You nod, “Yeah, right before the split he did. Yeah.” You offer him a small smile. “He talked about you and Malachy all the time, still does. He never wanted to be gone, be away from you. He just couldn't stay with your Mum any longer.” It's quiet for a minute. Nobody shifts, nobody speaks, and you wonder what the two of them are thinking. Then Aran speaks up again.

“Dinner, and driving us, Dad… it is good. It means we see you all the time.” He says, quietly. It's a sorry, you realise, and you see the small look of acceptance that crossed Cillian's face. “But I just, I wish you didn't lie. I wish you didn't…” he takes a deep breath. “...I wish you didn't have a fucking affair, Dad. That's just as bad as Mum slapping your face, you know? Youse could have just left each other, but you both hurt each other and you lied. And that's worse. And worse again is that you two were…and then you'd come home and be with Mum….”

Cillian shifts awkwardly and you cringe, knowing instantly what Aran is so agonisingly trying to say. “No, Aran…” Cillian holds out his hands. “No. Your Mum and me were not in the same room for over a year. I wasn't …bed hopping.” He almost laughs but neither of you find it funny.

Aran looks at you for a moment, and you feel exposed. You're glad he's asking what he wants, you think, and you're proud of Cillian for answering him honestly. But it still feels a lot, like removing a scab, and you're not sure the wound is ready. “I won't say anything.” He says. “But I think you should, to Malachy at least. Maybe you don't owe Mum that, I dunno, but Mal should know.”

Quiet falls again and you breathe through a wave of nausea once again. You get up from the stool and take a glass from the dish drainer, then fill it from the tap. With your back to Cillian and Aran, you sip the water slowly, fighting the feeling of a rising gag. You want to sit closer and hold Cillian, you want to rest your head on his shoulder and lace your fingers with his - and yet you don't, because you don't want to hurt his son.

“About the baby though,” Aran says suddenly. You freeze at the sink, then slowly turn around. “If you were going to leave Mum anyway, why didn't you just keep it?”

Cillian considered the question and licks his lips slowly, “It wasn't the right time. It wasn't fair to Y/N because I couldn't be with her right then, and it wasn't fair to you two or your Mum - because then I would have had to have told you all everything, and hurt you all. And it wasn't fair to me, either. I was in no place to be seeing to a wee one when you two were going to need me more with everything I knew was coming. It just wasn't the right time, for anyone.”

Aran frowns, “I don't know all about it, Dad, but you let her go on her own? Don't they like, kill the baby? I mean…”

“Aran,” Cillian shakes his head and then looks at you. Your chin quivers. “I wanted to be there, and I couldn't be. I'm not proud of myself, son, and I'm not going to excuse it. I wasn't there when she needed me and I'm going to regret that for as long as I live. But at the time I thought between working and protecting you and Mal from what was going on, hiding it, that I was doing the right thing. It wasn't.*

You feel your heart beating quicker at Cillian's admissions. Sure, he's said he's sorry so many times, but he's never been so willing to hold up his deficiencies like that before. You swallow hard, nausea and emotions swimming around your entire insides, and you keep your eyes on him.

Aran nods his head slowly. “Sorry you had to…do that.” He says, quietly, and you're not sure if he's saying it to you or to his Dad but you take it into your heart.

“How do you feel, now?” Cillian asks, his eyes fixed on his son.

Aran shrugs, “Think I understand it better. It doesn't make it better, or make what you did okay,” he shrugs again. “I mean you stayed together, yeah? You and Y/N. So it wasn't like a stupid thing that got in the way.”

“No, not at all.” Cillian says quickly. “And Aran I don't hate your Mum or anything; I could never have stayed but it was both of us that were causing the problem, it wasn't one sided. And we have you two - she's always going to be important. I just couldn't stay.”

Aran nods his head and you watch his expression. “I get that.” He says and you're surprised at the maturity, especially against his earlier clear anger. “Sometimes things just change.”

“Exactly.” Cillian nods slowly. “What doesn't change is how important you and Malachy are, you know that, yeah?”

Aran nods, “Yeah,” he whispers.

Cillian takes a deep breath. “And no matter what happens in this house, in this relationship, you and Mal are always going to be important. I might make more choices you're not entirely happy with, but it doesn't mean I'm doing it against you. You two aren't babies now, and you'll be away in your own homes with your own lives soon enough.”

“You say that like you're planning something,” Aran jokes nervously.

“I just mean that choices we might make in the future aren't meant to hurt you, but that it'd be choices for us and our life,” he gestures towards you. “Not for you and Malachy.”

Aran nods his head again, “I get it, Dad.”

“I love you two so much, and I'll be here whenever you need me.” He says with a catch in his voice. You study his face, wondering if this is the moment he cries. But he doesn't. “But I also love Y/N, and our life here matters too.”

“I know.” Aran says, and again he's quiet.

Cillian shifts on the stool. “Do you have anything else you need to ask, or anything you need to say?”

Aran looks at him for a moment, then at you, then back to his Dad. “No.” He says quietly.

“If you choose to tell your Mum and your brother, I can't stop you. But I'd prefer it if you didn't. And maybe soon, I'll do it.” Cillian says, and he sounds so diplomatic, so fair and even, and you're not sure why he isn't trembling you are.

“I won't,” Aran sighs. “What good would it do?”

You feel it to be a rhetorical question, and it throws you off when Cillian answers it. “None at all, Aran.” He swipes his tongue over his lips. He gets to his feet. “C'mere,” he says to him, opening his arms. “Give me a fucking hug.”

Aran scoffs but he gets off the stool and walks around to meet his father. You watch as they lock their arms around one another and you feel relieved for Cillian. His eyes are closed as he holds his son tightly. He's lightened by the talk, and you're glad. But you wonder where your arms of support are?

[michanvalentine]

This post is going to be a bit heavy and boring. I'll talk about Astarion, but also about real life, so if you're not interested, scroll away without hesitation!

So, lately, I've been pretty pissed off. I feel like I'm being made fun of by certain comments I see around regarding Astarion's redemption arc—how I supposedly have some kind of "Florence Nightingale syndrome" that makes me want to "fix" him with the power of my love (a syndrome that, in real life, would obviously put my own life at risk) and how I’m supposedly willing to justify anything he does just because he's traumatized. Seriously? So I must be some kind of idiot, a lovestruck teenager who knows nothing about how the world works, who's never stepped outside her house, who's never had a healthy relationship, and so on. And that pisses me off. Because maybe, just maybe, I know something more, not less.

And that’s exactly why I read between the lines, why I don’t judge instantly, and why I don’t delude myself into believing in the power of love as some kind of absolute force that magically fixes everything just because. Maybe the love we're talking about here has nothing to do with romanticizing (butterflies in the stomach, kisses and cuddles, "I’m the only one for him, and for me he’ll do this or that") a horrific situation—one where a man has been mentally and physically broken, one that comes with a whole range of possible unhealthy behaviors that could be dangerous to himself and others.

Maybe we’re talking about something more real, about lived experiences, about how people can support and help each other crawl out of the darkness. About how love simply means being there, without necessarily doing anything. In both good times and bad, because healing isn’t a straight line. There are ups and downs. Love means being aware of the struggles and working hard on them, it means listening, accepting, waiting, being patient. It means pushing back when necessary, confronting the person you love, and stopping them from hurting themselves. It also means giving up, running away, screaming at the sky, and then coming back more determined than before—even knowing you might have to start the process all over again.

Are the people who love this hard just idiots who think they can "fix" their loved ones with the power of love? And what if it were your child? Fuck no, I won’t accept that! That’s a message that cannot and must not spread, not when there are people out there fighting this battle every single day.

Sure, there are plenty of lost causes in this world, and yes, real danger exists. But the key is being able to recognize them. No one wants to be a martyr, but there will always be someone worth fighting for. Because yes, loving someone who struggles—with depression, personality disorders, eating disorders, anxiety, PTSD, etc.—is a fight. But that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve love.

And Spawn Astarion is not a lost cause. He comes from a background of every kind of abuse imaginable. He’s an asshole because he has to be (and he’s also a fucking vampire!), but then—something changes. Possibilities open up before him. And immediately, he shows he can adapt, that he can learn, that he wants to change.

And when that internal drive is there (that inner force of the individual himself, which makes all the difference in the world), you can’t and shouldn’t ignore it—even in real life.

It’s not about "fixing" someone. It’s about helping them feel better, about helping them achieve their goals (yes, their goals—even when they can’t quite articulate them), about changing in a healthier way, about healing. Because Spawn Astarion wants to live more than anything else. And he wants to do so fully, not as a broken man.

That’s why he approves when Tav/Durge tells him he just needs to find a place for himself, that he can find so many people willing to care for him if only he is willing to care for them. That’s why he approves when Tav/Durge reminds him—despite his fear, despite the intoxicating scent of blood—that maybe, just maybe, ascension isn’t what he truly wants. He approves. There’s no room for misinterpretation here—this is as sincere as it gets.

And in both cases, these situations are directly opposed to his obsession with taking Cazador’s place.

But, going back to the point—thinking that the power of love can magically fix everything is stupid. But we also cannot allow the message to spread that, in real life, a person who struggles due to trauma (and hell, it doesn’t even have to be torture in a dark dungeon—it could be something as "simple" as a profound loss) is incapable of healing or being loved, despite the difficulties. It’s not easy, but there are men and women in this world with immense strength and hearts big enough to do this and more.

If this isn't for you, fine. No one is forcing you. But make room for these heroes instead of spouting nonsense.

Now, fortunately, BG3 is a fantasy game where you can do literally anything, freely, even recklessly, without any real risk. And that’s fine—let’s have fun experimenting, living out our fantasies, being heroes (after all, we’re not actually picking up swords and charging into hordes of pissed-off goblins), becoming ultimate villains, bringing the world to its knees, killing anyone who gets in our way.

But when we bring real life into the discussion to make a point or compare it to the game, let’s do so with a little more thought and tact. Kindness is a virtue, not a flaw.

And to end on a lighter note—hell no, I don’t approve of everything Astarion says or does! I try to understand him, to grasp the many whys behind his actions, but if I had him in front of me, I’d straight-up say, "Oi, what the fuck are you doing?! Asshole!" I’d argue with him, I’d get mad at him—just like I did in my playthroughs.

And for the record, I never had to step off my heroic path to gain his approval. I simply disagreed with him when I felt it was right and treated him kindly when he needed it.

Honestly, earning his approval in this game is the easiest thing in the world—let him drink your blood, trust him (defend him from the other companions’ suspicions), let him decide how to handle his diet (which, honestly, is a fair compromise), tell the devil to go to hell (xP), and do something ridiculously stupid like giving him the necromancy book, interrupting the two ogres having sex, licking a goblin’s boots, and getting whipped a little—voilà! Suddenly, you have Astarion in your arms, and you haven’t even had time to save the druid grove yet.

In my very first playthrough, with my super-good Selûne cleric who was always helping the needy, I was actually trying to romance Shadowheart—when I somehow found myself magically in a relationship with Astarion just because I told him, "I care about you" (the same reason I didn’t let him bite the pervy drow). Lol.

Ok, I'll try not to make any more heavy posts like this. I feel a bit like a broken record, singing the same song over and over—sorry about that. And of course, have a great day, everyone! <3

[genderqueerdykes]

To this anon -> https://www.tumblr.com/genderqueerdykes/773897275323858944/i-think-you-might-be-genuinely-stupid-for-thinking?source=share

Not to be that person but...

We LITERALLY HAVE THE YOUNGER GENERATION AFFECTED BY THIS.

I don't know how it's stupid to care about something that IS BECOMING A PROBLEM TO THE POINT THE YOUNGER GENERATION NEEDS HELP AT 11

And TRANS MASCS ARE LACKING RESOURCES.

Sorry, I'm really pissed off.

It's really not "teehee" discourse. It's affecting peoples livelihood.

thank you, i wanted to point that out as well and forgot.

if it's affecting teenagers, that's a problem. teenagers are kids and shouldn't be feeling suicidal over just trying to talk about being queer. people fail to realize that the person on the other end of the computer is a real person and what they're saying is affecting them in real time. it doesn't matter if they're a kid or not it's important

the harm people do online doesn't exist online online. the internet isn't a vacuum. it affects real life. its a part of almost all of our daily lives for one reason or another. people are seeing these things constantly and its affecting them well after they turn away from the device. the people who are assholes are being assholes in person, too. other people on the internet are real you're not playing an interactive video game. whenever you bully someone their feelings are affected irl and that matters

kids emulate what they see. if they see this going on online, they're gonna do it in person. it's seriously an issue. man hating is a genuine, real issue right now, because people have taken it so far that 11 year old children have suicidal thoughts for people being mean as fuck to them for being masc and a boy. like i don't care that people think that boys and men can't be abused, but abusing someone else for fun isn't going to make our problems any easier

abusing men is just going to make the problem worse. it's never going to help to perpetuate the cycle of abuse.

let's be real it's affecting way more than just kids, its affecting everyone of every age group. this is bad. "discourse" my ass. it's killing people, including trans kids.

[f4ggydog]

shauna fucking jackie hard for the first time and jackie squirting

"you've really never done this before?" shauna asks, studying jackie's facial expressions. she's biting her lip with a nervous edge, but also great anticipation.

jackie admits it. she's never had any sexual experience besides sucking jeff's dick. if you can even call that sexual experience. frankly, jackie wouldn't say it's anything bragworthy. jeff was kind of easy. he'd whip out his dick to anyone that sweet talked him well enough.

"y-yeah, I'm good."

"I didn't ask if you were good, jackie. i asked if you've ever done this before. have you ever had sex before?"

"no to be honest," jackie admits. "i-i'm sorry, is that bad? i know it's embarassing to be a virgin while you're a high school senior."

"not everyone needs to have sex before going off to college. it shouldn't be a way of proving your worth. besides, you deserve better than what jeff gave you regardless."

"jeff didn't give me much of anything," jackie states solemnly. “it was always me sucking his cock. he never even ate me out.”

“what a pussy,” shauna grumbles. “it’s alright though. once I’m done with you, you’re gonna forget that man ever existed. he’s gonna become wasted space, a dream that passed.”

shauna kneels before jackie. she’s already undressed the girl, making sure she’s nice and presentable for her new master. jeff had been fired. now jackie had someone else to rely on for her pleasure. she wanted to see how much of jeff’s role shauna could fulfill, and if she could exceed jackie’s expectations.

jackie’s clit is aching, throbbing in desperation for shauna’s hand or tongue. jackie’s so aroused that it fucking hurts and shauna has barely started.

shauna begins with some kisses down jackie’s thighs. she admits she’s never had intercourse either, but she at least attempted to prepare jackie before diving straight in. that’s something jeff never accomplished.

jackie whines as shauna’s lips inch dangerously close to her nub. shauna laughs and blows some hot air over it, but doesn’t suck yet.

“don’t you want me to keep you waiting in anticipation, sweetheart?” shauna blushes, her kisses now crawling up jackie’s tummy and sliding in between her breasts. shauna smothers jackie with smooches, making sure not one part of her body is untouched by her lips.

“now you’re just teasing.” jackie shakes her head. “c’mon shauna. p-please.”

“i know what you need. you don’t gotta beg.” shauna pats jackie’s waist reassuringly.

if jackie was a dog, she’d be wagging her tail right about now. she nudges shauna closer to her needy core, but shauna rejects the offer. she’s nowhere near done yet. if jackie wants pleasure, she needs to learn to earn it. or at least learn to grow some patience. either would suffice.

“you taste so good,” shauna moans, admiring how soft and smooth jackie’s light skin is.

she wishes she was wearing lipstick so she could leave more marks. but she solves her problem by leaving love bites on jackie’s flesh, little indentations here and there to symbolize what she now possesses. jeff wouldn’t be around anymore. shauna didn’t have to worry about him taking her place. jackie was fucking hers, as the way things always should’ve been.

shauna licks a stripe up jackie’s pussy, her tongue coming in brief contact with the pink folds. she traces her tongue along jackie’s outer lips, keeping jackie mewling for more. jackie wants quick satisfaction because she’s used to no satisfaction from her former boyfriend. but shauna’s gonna treat her like a lady.

finally, shauna slurps at jackie’s pussy. she focuses all of her effort on jackie’s clit, sucking and occasionally nibbling on it. the nibbles make jackie’s stomach jump and she grinds her hips deep into shauna’s mouth. she’s embarrassed by her hunger at first. but shauna’s anything but discouraging.

“it’s okay if you feel good,” shauna chuckles, continuing her actions. “don’t fight it. your pussy tastes incredible.”

“you think so?” jackie’s ears perk up, hopeful.

“it’s a shame jeff’s never appreciated you like this. but i do, right princess?”

“mhm!” jackie bites her lip, raking her nails through shauna’s hair. moan after moan erupts from her mouth, her heartbeat speeding up.

jackie repeats shauna’s name like a mantra. her head falls back and sweat builds up heavily on her body. her legs shake and she already feels herself getting close to an orgasm. there was no way. it couldn’t have felt that good, right?

jackie felt impossibly wrapped up in pleasure. she wasn’t used to the ecstasy, so she couldn’t process or react properly. all she could do is loudly moan or shiver.

“getting close, jax?” shauna coos. “getting close for me, baby? about to do something jeff couldn’t make you do?”

“p-please shauna,” jackie pleads. “n-need it so bad. need it, please. I-I’ll do anything, i swear.”

“you’ll do anything?” shauna arches an eyebrow. “anything for an orgasm like a fucking whore?”

“yes, I’m your whore shauna! please, I’m your whore. I swear, only yours. please, please.”

before shauna can even request an orgasm, she’s taken back by jackie’s next reaction. a stream of liquid shoots onto her face. she can’t even open her mouth in time to swallow jackie’s juices before jackie makes a huge mess on her face. she completely spills her pleasure onto shauna and shauna wishes she could lap up every drop.

jackie’s noises of ecstasy are silent. her mouth is stuck in a permanent o shape and won’t close. her eyes shut so tightly it feels like she’s gone blind, like she won’t see colors or people when she opens them back up.

by the time jackie’s ridden out her orgasm, she’s still panting like a dog after fetch. she locks eye contact with shauna, caressing her nipples while her legs still shudder.

“shauna,” she babbles. “s-shauna, holy fuck. holy fuck. i-i-i…”

“i know baby,” shauna comforts, pulling jackie onto her lap and cuddling her close. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. fuck, i know that was a lot. shit, you made such a mess.”

“good mess?” jackie raises her eyebrow.

“amazing mess,” shauna congratulates. “am i better than jeff?”

“oh, fucking totally.”

[spideyson-stuff]

Look, I know you guys are here to see IronDad and SpiderSon happiness but...

This will be PURE HATE for how Tony acted towards Peter from his first appearance until the end of Homecoming

FUCK! TONY ARE YOU CRAZY????

He LITERALLY broke into a 14 year old boy's address and went to his house to recruit him for a mission when things got tough for his team? damn man it's NOT NORMAL

And honestly I don't care about "the whole context of the movie" IT'S FUCKING WEIRD

How DARE he enter someone's house, show a video of the person being a superhero and say something like "I know who you are" and hope that this person agrees to help him???

And after all, he still gets mad when the 15 YEAR OLD BOY HE RECRUITED acts recklessly as A TEENAGER DOES???, who does he think he is? he's really mad at Peter for trying to HELP PEOPLE???

And don't even get me started on how he ignored this kid's existence after he "served his purpose" in Civil War, it's like Peter was just an object he used to complete something and then discarded???, I don't care if he gave him the suit, Spider-Man existed before this shit he can exist without it too!

"If you're nothing without the suit you shouldn't have it" BITCH PLEASE, said the guy who has more than 50 suits and COUNTING, because he does it like he's an addict, and you think you have the MORAL AUTHORITY to say something?

At least Peter didn't expose his identity of one's own free will, at least Peter didn't have a drunken party talking shit and wearing the suit he made to FIGHT CRIME, or expose his own address on national television because he was angry at someone and wanted to take matters into his own hands, like CERTAIN PEOPLE, RIGHT TONY!?

Honestly Peter is much better than me because I would have already cursed even the 10th generation of this man and punched him right in the nose in the first time he screamed at me

With all this, I love IronDad but Tony Stark makes me SICK

[rabble-dabble]

Concept: Johnkat scenario where the God-Tiers become more abstract and divine the more time the spend on Earth C. Somehow their domestic life is still largely normal. John manifests in a towering body made of wind and clouds and tornados to watch a movie with Karkat. Karkat brings an umbrella to any sad movie because whenever John starts crying it starts pouring rain. Karkat letting out a muffled "dammit Egbert" whenever the wind blows a pie into his face. Karkat's hair being constantly windswept and messy because it's John's way of kissing him. Just domestic things that are only possible when your husband is the air that you breathe. When the world warms you up on a cold winter day because it loves you so much.

Sometimes the wind carries you back in time on your anniversary so you can rewatch your wedding day, allowing you to banter with your selves from previous anniversaries as you comment on how cute John looked before he "hatched". Back when he still had a body made of flesh and bone. The air laughs around all of you.

~

Karkat: HEY KANAYA DO YOU THINK OUR DOMESTIC LIVES ARE KINDA WEIRD?

Kanaya: *Quite literally sunkissed* Not At All. Why?

~

John: Man, I need to update my prescriptions....

Karkat: YOU'RE MADE OF WIND AND ARE 100 FEET TALL. THEY DON'T MAKE PERSCRIPTIONS FOR PEOPLE LIKE YOU.

John: Well, how else am I supposed to see you down there?

Karkat: HAHA. YOU'RE JUST JEALOUS THAT I USED TO BE TALLER THAN YOU, SMALL-BERT.

I HAVE HAD THIS EXACT. FUCKING. IDEA POP INTO MY HEAD!!!

space slowly takes over jade's physical form on her body. she becomes made of stars and space and everything that exists, kinda like becoming space itself. she can still maintain her shape, but after a while her skin becomes stars and her hair the dark matter of space, blackholes and white dwarfs forming in the empty space to give her hair more colour.

dave becomes more intertwined with time. now it isn't alternative versions of himself coming and going, fragements of time are now surrounding him and he is always aware of slight changes in the timeline and whatever else is happening on the other timelines. it gets slightly confusing sometimes, but he maintains control over all of them. they're still HIM, they're just visible fragments.

rose bleeds light. well, bleed is the wrong word - but the light just seeps out of her, like liquid gold in a golden river of knowledge. the light just shines from her eyes, ever seeing, and her appearence, shrouded in light. it bathes her like sunrays and it never burns anyone's eyes, but its so BRIGHT to look at her.

and john. john!!! his shape just up and goes whenever he wants. sometimes she changes her pronouns and body and they just fluidly switch between being a boy and a girl and a god being. she whips and whisps around and her form always seems so light, so paper-thin, like she's there but almost not there. the wind bends to his whim but its more like it carries him wherever he wants to go, then becomes a part of it so easily. they phase through walls and isnt ever solidly touched by anyone but their loved ones.

[undertale-fic-librarby]

Any error x nightmare fluff? Preferably cannon personalitys 🩷

Howdy, thanks for asking! Here are some fics that might fit what you're looking for!

I'll hate you as you hold me by Casual_Spectatee (Mature, Incomplete)

Nightmare has always had an interest in Error. From the moment he saw the Destroyer in action, he wanted that kind of power on his side. He imagined the terror he could bring if forced the Destroyer himself into submission and to assist him. Error does not give two fucks about Nightmare's dreams, he isn't fucking going to help that prick until God himself walks down and threatens him with eternal hell, and even then, he'd still prefer hell for the rest of his existence than to spend a single minute with Nightmare. Unfortunately for Error, Nightmare is set on getting the Destroyer to work with him one way or another. If that means helping Error for nothing in return, so be it. Error just wishes that it wasn't all such a common thing to wake up in the beds of his two worst enemies, because they all have shitty fucking blankets and he's getting sick of it.

To Trust A Nightmare by Otletes (Mature, Incomplete)

Error has been alone longer than he cares to think about. He's been insane longer than he likes to think about as well, but now he's come back from that insanity. He knows that he has to continue destroying, for the sake of the multiverse, so he's accepted that he will always be alone, in his cold white space. One day though he finds himself watching Nightmare and his gang, it becomes his new favorite pass time. He can't remember much of the dark skeleton, but watching him now, he can't help, but wonder… could this be a group that he'd be accepted in? A place where he could have a family? … Find love? Or will he fall back into insanity and remain alone?

Working through issues with a shunned diety by Hellian_Eden, Jesus_fox (General Audiences, Incomplete)

The Multiverse is vast and nigh infinite, possibilities, concepts, the very function of a world's reality only limited by sheer creativity. Within this realm, Dreamtale exists as an enigma, plucked from another Multiverse entirely. The tragedy of it's Story forced to continue beyond it's Endings, for it forced the concept of Balance into the Multiverse's rules. Now open-ended, the only two Characters wanders throughout the Multiverse as one of it's Outcodes. Dream broke out of stone to one colorful and curious Inkblot, so much to comprehend for someone so small. But alive nonetheless. Nightmare woke up freshly dead. Au: Get it? Cuzhe died lmao

Your memory has faded [BEING REWRITTEN] by unalivedcow (Not Rated, Incomplete)

Nightmare doesn’t remember anything after his transformation, leaving Error devastated. [BEING REWRITTEN] ! spoilers below ! (By the way this is based off a real life scenario of a man with Alzheimer’s forgetting he was married and falling back in love with his wife but I just tweaked it a bit)

Eclipsed by You by BadOmen (Mature, Incomplete)

A gentle breeze drapes the landscape like a soft blanket, with a lone figure standing atop a grassy hill. Feeling disconnected from the world and neglected by his busy brother, he’s on the brink of losing himself. His hopelessness drives him to the edge of fleeing from his own despair. But a planned encounter in the snowy expanse of a fading universe brings an unexpected twist. There, amidst the winter wonderland, he meets a warm and friendly face who gradually draws him out of his shell. Caught between the desire to retreat from this newfound kindness and the urge to let his walls crumble, he faces a profound choice. The story follows Geno and Night, two monsters from separate AUs—Who eventually turn to Error and Nightmare. Geno, struggling with his own emotional barriers, meets Nightmare in his gentler form. Together, they recognize their shared scars—both physical and emotional. Nightmare, self-conscious about his shattered eye socket, finds solace in Geno, whose own eye is also damaged. Through companionship, they agree to keep each other at arms length, perhaps sharing more than just laughter.

Here's a few more fics that are similar to what you're asking for!

[dreamwreaver]

Despite all odds, even with the hate towards Charlastor... we still managed to get just enough crumbs in the show to make ourselves a cute little cake we hoard to ourselves.

They can cry "father figure," "toxic manipulative relationship," all they want, we still get the scenes of them in a bedroom, air charged with a not-so-platonic tension. Their insults won't change the fact that Charlie and Alastor have chemistry.

I think they also forget that charlastor, like most "problematic" ships is filled with people who are in a sense fandom elders. And what I mean by that is they do not subscribe to the more modern view where in order for something to be shippable it HAS to be made canon. Like, no?

For me, shipping has always been a matter of dynamic and characters rather than something falling into a certain platonic relationship type that I then want to corrupt or pervert despite what others might say. Then again, the anti habit of forcing everything to fit into a nuclear familial relationship dynamic is... weird. Way weirder than me saying I want these two characters who have chemistry to bang.

Also, side note, have you ever SEEN some of the dynamics they try and force as familial platonic? My favorite was the musicalbabes for Beetlejuice. They called this man crawling around on hands and knees, moaning for a goth girl teasing his name, her, "fun creepy uncle". Guys, if you actually have an uncle that behaves the way that character does around you that's a red flag.

Same with charlastor; you're telling me it's super normal for your dad to be all up in your business the way Al is with Charlie? Gripping her, groping by some frames? Maybe it's just because I have a good relationship with my father but that's not what a healthy father-daughter dynamic should look like. My dad has never once grabbed me even remotely close to the way Al manhandles Charlie.

As for the crumbs... if those are crumbs I'd love to see what Viv's team would give us as a meal. Again, like even without shipper goggles on Al and Charlie just generally get more screen time together than the actual canon couple! And the fact that we're now getting yet another influx of chaggie merch and promises of content... yeah I think someone realizes they fucked up but it's too late to backpedal now. The damage has been done. A friend of mine got a comment on an art piece of theirs that said "I know it's your AU but... isn't chaggie canon?"

My friend, the fact that you have to ask that is BAD. The fact that there's so little content in show for your ship you get threatened by a drawing? That's just bad writing. This is why you need unhinged fandom girlies on your writing team, they will give you the best content for ships if you give them a chance. Why do you think the "fic author to romance author" pipeline exists haha

[leftovercigarettes]

Anyways ~ imma just rant what I think about this depersonalization disorder.

When I dissociate it's like I'm a copy of me. Now put me in a box, and there's two other boxes and in the last box is the original me and all my memories and in the middle box it's just like - a wall? A force field? Whatever. And I can't get to the last box no matter how hard I try until one day I just wake up and there's no boxes, no copy of me and suddenly I'm back in the game as ME.

And I don't remember shit clearly from being dissociated , it's like looking through thick fog and seeing the memory play behind it. And it's the same way when I'm dissociated. All the memories are behind this frosted glass that I can't see through.

I spend the majority of my life dissociated. And I can't even recall when I haven't because I'm dissociated right now.

AND I CAN'T EVER TELL THAT IM DISSOCIATED THE NEXT DAY. I GUARANTEE I WILL WAKE UP TOMORROW AND BE LIKE EVERYTHINGS FINE AND IN A FEW DAYS/WEEKS/MONTHS ILL COME TO AND BE LIKE "HOW THE FUCK DID WE GET HERE" LIKE I DID WHEN I WAS STILL DISSOCIATED AND GOT PROMOTED TWO YEARS AGO AND WOKE UP IN NOVEMBER LIKE WTF IS HAPPENING AND HOW DO I DO MY JOB

Which was wild asf btw to find out that if you learn something while you're dissociated, you will not know how to do it when you're NOT dissociated. That was an embarrassing phone call to my coworker with me being like "hey I have no idea what I'm doing" and she was confused bc I'd been closing by myself for over a month with no issues, so they had to re teach me and I felt like a complete fucking idiot about it.

Anyways,

I have felt many emotions, dissociated, then felt more emotions, then dissociated even further so imma go take a hydroxyzine and chain smoke til I'm tired and go to bed.

Thanks for coming to my Ted talk.

[inkskinned]

okay is she being actually immature or is it just a woman over 30 expressing a human experience you find to be immature.

like yeah. at certain ages... let shit go. im not defending the real immature shit. im not defending the karen you're picturing. i worked in retail i hate those people too. (once somebody got mad at me because she didn't like how our winter window decor was a snowman smoking a pipe. i wish i was joking).

but men at 57 will write books about how 17 year old girls are soooo sexy. they will invent worlds where women have to be naked for "armor reasons." they will write songs that treat women as objects. people rush to defend them. meanwhile a woman at 35 will be like "heartbreak is hard, actually" or "i feel betrayed by a friend" or "i am struggling with something emotionally." immediately people will say stuff like this woman is 35 by the way. by the way this woman is SO OLD to be experiencing this. BY THE WAY.

im 31, almost 32. the other day a poet was blasted online because at her "big age", she had written a poem about feeling unloved. top comment was "this woman is 29 by the way." this woman is too old to still be useful, by the way. she has to behave better . maybe if she was a good wife and mother she could stop existing loudly, and the story could continue on without her. this woman has served her purpose, by the way. she's so cringe, by the way. at 29 - so old! - she still hasn't figured out that her existence should be one of shame.

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[lupins-hehim-pussy]

I wanna know ur Fontaine msq criticisms 👁️👁️👂I’m all ears

I'm not sure if you wanted me to talk about this secretly or publicly but! Here I go!

The TLDR: Fontaine MSQ aestheticised prison, poverty, child abuse, the justice system/court and didn't properly address any of it.

More:

Focalors/Furina has way too much of a sympathetic angle for a dictator who's lets people drown with her inaction.

Neuvillette feels Bad for sentencing some people to death/prison, but that's it. He's one of the most powerful people in Fontaine. If he felt like there are systemic injustices, I.E sending an abused Child to prison, he should be the first person to DO something about it, not just cry and be sad so the audience can be like aw, that's complex character writing isn't it? No it's not! And guilt doesn't absolve you!!!!!!! (These are stuff we deal with in OTCOJ read my fic now /j)

Meropide has children in it, both Sentenced there (Wriothesley) and BORN THERE (Lanoire), and this is just a quirk of the place. Not only that, Meropide accepts prisoners of all genders and crimes. There are abusers and abuse victims in one place. Do you know how bad that is? How much potential for crimes to happen in a place like that— oh wait, Meropide isn't under Fontaine's jurisdiction. If you are assaulted as an inmate it literally means nothing to the court.

Wriothesley had no qualifications when he took over. Depending on how long he lived on the streets, how old he was when he killed his parents, how old he was when he was first taken in by the orphanage, etc, the man might never have more than 4–5 years of formal education. Sigewinne probably had to teach him how to write reports. And do Meropide's spreadsheets. Edit because I forgot to elaborate on this one: This isn't a point brought up anywhere, which is bad, because when poverty and incarceration robs you of a proper education (and the rights to vote in many places too, too, by the way), it reduces your prospects for jobs, reduces many people's ability to get a home etc etc. Wriothesley was just, narratively, Given his position.

Meropide is an industrialized prison, and they portray this as a good thing. Prisoners are paid in coupons for their labour, and this is also portrayed as a good thing.

The One-Meal-A-Day reform was something Paimon gushed about being so great of a perk, that people might want to go to jail for food (could be interesting and reflective of systemic poverty if MHY had brains, but they don't, so I was just Pissed because essentially all Paimon wanted to say was "Prison isn't so bad, but still don't go to prison guys! Prison labour is really hard!"). By the way, in most real-world prisons they are obligated to feed you three meals a day. Because that's how much food a human needs. MHY went with one meal just so they can say "if you want to eat more, you have to work." And then the welfare meal is a goddamn gacha. So imagine you're a starving child who's too weak to work in the fucking robot assembly line, and you wander up for your first meal in 24 hours, only to luck in with a shit one. I'd kill myself.

They wrote Wriothesley, who's a victim of the system, into a guy who's say shit like "I'm the Duke I can do whatever I want" for a cool moment where he choke-slams an inmate (I know he was a bad guy. But also, in copaganda when cops are violent/disregarding protocols, they are always only portrayed to do that against bad guys, so what does our critical thinking tells us about this one?) They wrote Wriothesley, who was an inmate of a prison so bad, so notorious that it is the literal boogeyman of Fontaine, that has a legal (???) fighting pit, with an administrator who abuses his position to be unreasonable, to willingly stay in the place and become an Administrator who would choke-slam an inmate while saying a cool line about how he has the power to do whatever he wants. They wrote him, the guy who had to be fed on the streets by melusines, to think one-meal-a-day was a good enough reform (while he spends god-knows how much on his boat). This wasn't a victim-turns-into-abuser narrative either, they want all this to be seen as positive character growth.

And then, the final kicker is, they gloss over his entire abuse. You can only read about these shit in his profile, which most people don't because they don't Have Him or doesn't care to unlock it/read it online, and they jammed his entire backstory into a flaccid info-dump at the end of his character story quest. This man isn't Allowed to feel abused and neglected and show any reaction to it within the narrative of Fontaine itself, because if they actually Gave Weight to what happened to him, they'd have to confront THE FUCKING JUSTICE SYSTEM they had NO PLANS on criticising. I don't think they ever explicitly said the fucking Crime-Theatre nonsense was Bad either.

I could go on, but this is already so long. But yeah, I hope this gave you an idea.

[namelessprince]

undersea arc. undersea arc. when. undersea arc when.

[hauntingblue]

Gear 5 luffy's laugh is so contagious I just hear the drums and go insane how does this work. What did he do to me

[varjopeura]

.