#i have had the best bloody Sunday afternoon.

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Pairing: Russell Shaw xf!reader, Reader POV

Summary:  The last thing that you wanted was to be woken up in the middle of the night by Colter Shaw for a favor, but when he shows up toting a ruggedly handsome man with green eyes you decide to forgive him. Reader is the niece of Velma and Teddi!

Word Count: 10.3K

Warnings: I'm gonna label this one 18+ just in case I missed anything. Blood, Cleaning Out A Wound, Mentions of Allergies? Gunshots, Some Cursing, A Bit of Sexual Innuendo, Sexual fantasy/reader has active imagination, Self-deprecating Thoughts/Body Issues (reader), Mentions of Infidelity, Reader Is A Single Mom, Appearance Of Creepy-Jerk Ex Husband, Probably a Poor Description Of What It’s Like To Be A Single Mom (I tried my best, please I do not mean to offend anyone❤️), Russell Shaw might be a little bit OOC. Reader is occasionally described as "curvy."

Song Inspiration: Long As I Can See The Light By Creedence Clearwater Revival

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n if any. I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! This is my first time writing for Russell Shaw, so, please be gentle. 😅

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

A/N: I finally watched Tracker… Could you tell? 😂

Sunday nights, in your opinion, were the worst.

It was like the last few moments of freedom before you were thrust into a busy work week, like the last few rays of light before the coming darkness that you barely survived with copious amounts of coffee and bloodied fingertips. Monday always loomed, but never as much as on Sunday nights.

The dull thud of your phone vibrating against your wooden bedside table grates on your ears and pulls you from the sweet precipice of sleep before you can fall into the void.

It felt as if you’d just collapsed into your bed and one look at the alarm clock on your bedside table as you blinked your bleary eyes confirmed it. It was 3:58 am, which meant you had been in bed for exactly three minutes.

You were still covered in chocolate cupcake batter, pink frosting, and rainbow sprinkles from the last six hours you'd spent in the kitchen making gluten free, sugar free, and peanut free cupcakes for a bake sale at your son’s school.

Even though you hadn't volunteered Stephanie Jacobson, or rather the wicked witch of the PTA, had cornered you in the pick-up line on Friday afternoon to remind you of your "duties as a parent" and the coming bake sale to support the building of the new gym. And then she’d handed you a list of student allergies and asked you to create something that was safe for everyone.

Taste be damned.

Why the school needed a new gym you didn't know, but the guilt that rose when Stephanie mentioned your "duties as a parent" was enough to make you say yes to whatever she asked you.

You had enough guilt already about raising your kids without a stable father figure, and the last thing you needed was guilt from a stuck up bitch in the PTA.

Stephanie reminded you of the girls in high school that used to pick at their food, the ones that knew exactly what to say to make you feel like a freak, the ones who dated the football players and spent their Friday nights wearing cheerleading uniforms and waving pom poms, and the ones who basically made everyone else's life a living hell.

Everything about her screamed superior. The flawless way she curled her perfect platinum blonde hair, the stylish clothes she wore than never seemed to have a wrinkle or a mashed carrot smeared on the pants, the supple breasts that she swore were real, a perfectly toned stomach that never seemed to change despite her having a child two months ago, and the easy way she handled all of her three children with a flourish of her left hand that housed a 6 karat diamond ring from her gorgeous husband that was so attentive, perfect, and rich that it made you feel sick to your stomach.

All of which anyone could read on her mommy blog that she'd dubbed "Little Mistakes Make Perfect Lessons," and the same blog that she'd created an empire from.

Fuck, you hated her.

Mostly because despite everything you tried you never had enough time in the day to look as flawless as she did.

Your hair never seemed to be as bouncy or perfectly styled, you never had time to put makeup on, you always had mashed carrot on your pants or some form of cheerio or baby food, as many times as you tried to carve out time for the gym you never seemed to make it, the small ring you'd once wore on your finger was sitting idle in your jewelry box upstairs where it had been for the past year after your husband of six years told you that he met someone else, and your stomach and your breasts… you didn't want to think about that right now.

You had two kids and you weren't going to pretend that it did nothing to your body, any part of your body. And as many times as you saw all the other mothers around you who were proud of the way they looked, you never had their confidence, especially not after the comments that your ex-husband had made each time the two of you finally had some time to be alone together.

But that wasn't to say you hated being a mom, you loved it, wouldn't change it for the world. It was just sometimes you wished you had a little help, that, and you wished that Mondays didn't exist. 

You groan as you reach for the phone that still vibrates desperately on your bedside table and flip it over to see who's calling before you answer it.

"Colter, why the hell are you calling me at four am?" You half moan, pulling the comforter up over your head as if that'll make Monday go away.

You'd been close to murder several times, first when you found your husband in your bed with his nineteen year-old secretary, second when your local coffee shop was out of espresso and you did your entire shift at the hospital with no coffee, and Colter Shaw waking you up at almost four in the morning was quickly becoming number three.

"Because I didn't want to wake up Emma or Luke. Can you open the door?" He replies, stating the names of your children, sounding slightly out of breath.

"What door?" You groan again, eyes still shut wishing that this was just a bad dream and Colter wasn't calling you because he needed your help… again.

"The front door. Please, I need you to let me in."

"Why are you here? Couldn't it wait until tomorrow? Did you try to call Teddi or Vel-"

"I'll explain when you come open the door."

"By doing that I'd have to get up."

"Please."

You hesitate. Colter didn't usually say please, let alone twice whenever he showed up needing your help.

You'd met him by accident.

Sure your Aunt Teddi had talked about the "rewardist" that she and your Aunt Velma worked with, but you hadn't been expecting to ever meet him. But when Colter got shot on a job and showed up at Teddi and Velma's home you'd helped patch him up. You'd been there picking up your six year old son Luke and your three year old daughter Emma, after work. Teddi and Velma watched them for you when your deadbeat ex Lance couldn't be bothered to give you the support you needed.

Which was all the time despite his continuous arguing that he was in their lives enough and if anything it was your fault that he didn't have more time with them.

Each time he said that it made you want to slam his head in the door of his brand new bright red BMW, the one he'd bought right after you found him in your bedroom plowing his secretary now girlfriend Crystal. Or as you liked to remember her, the girl who still believed that Santa Clause existed and that the U.S government was hiding him from the world.

But Colter had been hurt and it was just fate that you were there at your aunts home to pick up your kids.

Being an ER nurse meant that you knew how to patch Colter up and it wasn't long before he went on his way. That was about four months ago and since then you'd talked to him occasionally when he'd pop by at your aunts home or just to see if you could help him with something.

"Five minutes." You sigh.

This time you crawl out of bed, standing just to the side of it for a second shaking your head to clear the sleep, and grab the long sleeved blue colored duster/robe that was hanging on the back of your bedroom door. Navigating your way down the stairs in the dark as quietly as you can, while half asleep was difficult, but somehow you avoid falling to your death.

Unfortunate, because now you have to go see what Colter wants at freaking 4 am.

The second story home had been you ex-husband's idea, stated that the two of you needed "room to grow" and that the two of you were "investing in your future."

You frown at the thought.

Yeah, room to grow right into your fucking secretary.

As if you needed another blow to your self esteem, but looking at the skinny red-haired goddess that he'd traded you in for that was about as dumb as a rock had been enough to send you so low you might as well be navigating the Marianas Trench in a submarine with a Megalodon chasing after you.

Maybe that means I'd get to be with Jason Stratham.

That thought was welcome. Honestly the thought of any man was a comfort, especially in the dry spell you'd been having since -well- since you'd had Emma three years ago.

Not gonna think about that right now.

The smell of chocolate cupcakes hung heavy in the air as you crossed through the messy living room, wafting out through the open concept kitchen into the space. One look into the kitchen would show enough cupcakes to make anyone salivate, and yes maybe you'd eaten a few before going up to bed, but eating the chocolate didn't count if it was on Sunday night and you could always go to the gym tomorrow…

Yeah. Like that'll happen.

You open the front door. "Alright, somebody better be dying Colter or I swear that I'll-" You stop mid-sentence when you take in the scene on your porch.

Colter is standing there, looking worse for wear. His usual black jacket is gone, he's got a black eye and a scrape along one of his perfect cheekbones, but that's not who you're looking at.

Colter isn't alone.

There's a man leaning heavily on Colter, his muscular right arm is thrown across Colter's shoulders and due to the fact that the man is a little bigger than Colter, he's buckling slightly under his weight. The man is wearing a green army jacket that is soaked around his left shoulder in blood, his dark hair is falling long into his bearded face, and his skin is a few shades paler than it should be. But that doesn't make him any less handsome.

The man still manages to throw you a sly grin, brilliant green eyes shining beneath the strands of his dark hair. "I think you got your wish sweetheart."

"You're not dying Russell." Colter sighs as if he's annoyed. "Hi." He directs at you.

You do feel a little bit bad about saying that now, but you shake it off.

"What the hell happened?" You say as loud as you dare and pull the front door further open so Colter can drag the man, now named "Russell" into your home.

"Shoot out." Colter breathes. "Where do you want him?"

"Kitchen table." You say trying to reach for Russell's left arm to help Colter, but he groans low under his breath and you retract your hand.

"You've got to be a little gentle with me sweetheart." Russell laughs more to himself, but it comes out in a choked sound. "But you can have me wherever you want."

"Colter, he needs to go to the hospital." You say, following behind them, keeping your voice down. "I don't think that I can-"

"Can't, they'll report it. They have to report all gunshots, you know that." Colter grunts, helping Russell lay back on the large kitchen table. "Why are there so many cupcakes in here?"

"Bake sale at Luke’s school." You clip while waving a hand and looking down at Russell who is laying on the kitchen table.

You can't deny that he's attractive, even in this condition. Russell has the perfect ruggedly handsome features that would make the smartest girl stupid and combined with the piercing green eyes that shine beneath the hair that's fallen forward into his face, even you could see yourself being susceptible to his charm.

Fuck.

Deep down you know that Colter is right, that if he did go to the hospital they'd be required to report it and that meant police and an official report. You figured that it was the last thing that Colter wanted.

Then again the guy has so many marks on his record already. You eye the man on your kitchen table. Russell kinda looks like he would have a few marks too.

"Don't want who did this to find him." Colter clarifies.

"So instead you brought him to my house where my children are?" You cross your arms over your chest.

The fear that whatever Colter and Russell had stumbled upon following behind them to your home made a cold trickle of fear race down your spine.

"We weren't followed." Colter soothes. "I promise I'd never do that to you. And I've got Bobby doing a trace to make sure they don't come close."

He actually looks a little hurt that you'd think that of him. Colter was a lot of things, but uncaring was not one of them.

You relax, but don't apologize despite the guilt swimming in your gut. "Fine. Give me a second." You leave the room to find the first aid kit in the hall closet, the same one that you'd made for your aunts to keep at their house if Colter showed up in the middle of the night with this exact problem. You'd even been involved enough to show your aunts how to deal with a gunshot wound if you weren't there.

When you get back in the room, Colter is removing Russell's jacket, and Russell grits his teeth when it jostles his left arm.

You set down the kit and reach for the bottom of Russell's shirt to pull it up off him, and he chuckles.

"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first? Better yet we could have a few bottles of my home brew-"

"She's not going to help you, if you annoy her." Colter interrupts.

"I told you that I didn't need anyone's help, I'm perfectly fine- ow!" Russell exclaims when you accidentally yank the shirt over his left arm. "Your bedside manner is a little lacking." He grunts, but his eyes still twinkle with humor.

"Too bad. I'm tired and I've been making chocolate cupcakes for the past six hours, so you get what you get and you don't throw a fit."

"What?" Russell grins at the rhyme that you often tell your children.

You shake your head, and drop your eyes to his chest. There are two perfect circles on his right upper pectoral muscle, but not high enough to reach the collarbone and one in his left bicep where blood seeps around the bullets, but truthfully you're trying not to notice how perfectly muscular he is. There are dark splashes of tattoos against his skin, swirling around other scars that resemble slashes and bullet wounds that you wish to drag your fingertips across to study each mark, to memorize each one beneath the soft pads of your fingers.

How is he just as beautiful covered in blood?

You clear your throat to focus back at the task at hand, examining the current wounds. "Okay. The good news is that the one on your arm is through and through, but these two," Your hand hovers over the two on his right upper chest. "I've got to extract the bullets. Which means that this is going to hurt."

"Been through worse sweetheart."

Your eyes scan the rest of his scarred muscular chest thoughtfully. "Yeah, you have." You murmur it more to yourself than to Russell, but he still grins.

Colter's phone rings shrilly in the kitchen and he groans. "One second. Try not to make her want to kill you Rus."

"No promises little bro."

Oh, so this is Colter's brother.

You'd heard little bits and pieces about Colter's brother, mostly second hand from your Aunt Velma. One of the best things about going over to Teddi and her home was sitting in the living room and hearing Velma gossip about everything she heard from Teddi while drinking wine and eating fancy cheese that you could never afford.

Russell Shaw was no exception.

"Alone at last." Russell says with a wink. "I didn't think he'd ever leave."

"I'm going to get some water to clean these with." You reply, ignoring him, but when you turn away the end of your mouth quirks up into a smile.

He wasn't what you were expecting based on all the rumors that you'd heard from both of your aunts, in fact, you thought he was kind of charming.

You roll up your sleeves and wash your hands before turning back to Russell. He's sitting up on your kitchen table, hands braced on his sides, with his legs spread wide apart. He doesn’t look like someone with three gunshot wounds, and you wonder if this is a regular day for him. Colter certainly didn't get shot that much.

"So are you a rewardist too?" You ask standing between his legs and trying not to focus on the warmth of his breath against your collar bone.

"Naw. I work for a private security contractor." He breezes.

"Oh." You swallow, looking up into his green eyes for a minute. They're even more beautiful up close, green with flecks of gold around the iris that flicker in the light like stars. "Is it okay if I touch you?"

"You don't gotta ask me that sweetheart, the answer will always be yes."

You flush and brace your hand on his left shoulder, before pouring water into the two wounds on the right side of his chest, trying to clean them the best you can before you extract what's left of the bullets. His skin is warm and smooth beneath the palm of your hand and it's difficult to focus.

Just pretend you're in the hospital and you're treating a patient. You take in a shallow breath. He's just a patient and he's not that good looking.

You know you're lying to yourself, but you were trying your best. It probably didn’t help given the current dry spell you were in or the fact that he even smelled good. Something like gunpowder, leather, and a hint of something spicy that you bet was his shampoo. It prickled under your nose, and activated something in the back of your mind that was having a hard time being quiet. You hadn't been this close to a man you found attractive in a long time.

"Okay. This is going to hurt." You say as you look through the small medical kit that you'd grabbed from the hall closet for the tweezers, trying to calm the thudding of your heart.

"It's okay." Russell replies. "Do what you have to baby. I won't stop you."

You weren't prepared for the warmth that bloomed in the pit of your stomach when he called you baby in the wonderfully rough rumble of his voice.

A voice like that could convince me to jump into a pit filled with alligators with no regrets. Fuck. I'd bet that a voice like that could make me- FOCUS. I will focus. He is Colter's brother and he just got shot. He doesn't need you lusting over him.

Extracting the bullets is as painful for you as it is for him. Watching the way his face scrunches up in pain hurts you more than you thought it would. His hands grip the rim of the wooden kitchen table so hard that they're turning white, and Russell's jaw is clenched so tight that you're afraid that it's going to snap.

You squeeze his left shoulder to give him some comfort. "Almost done." You murmur, searching for the second bullet.

Russell lets out a breath when you finally fish out the other bullet and drop it into an empty cup with a resounding "ping" just as Colter walks back into the room looking worried.

"What?" Russell asks him, looking over your head at his brother.

"That was Bobby. He said that the trace we put on the phone just got a hit a few miles north of here." Colter states. "I'm gonna go check it out."

"Alright, I'll come with." Russell starts to get up, but you push him back with your right hand that you've still got pressed against his left shoulder. Difficult given the fact that he was almost twice the size of you and broader than anyone you'd ever seen. And also difficult because of the way you were trying to ignore how good it felt to feel the pull of his muscles beneath your hand.

"No. You still need stitches and I haven't finished patching you up." You clear your throat, but it still sounds a little hoarse.

"Baby as much as I like you ordering me around-“

"It's alright Russell, I've got this. Just stay here and let her take care of you." Colter interrupts.

Russell frowns at his younger brother. "I'm fine."

"You're not." Colter rolls his eyes. "Stay here. I'll be back in a few hours to pick you up." He turns to look at you. "I'm sorry that we woke you up-"

"It's okay." You shrug. "But you owe me."

"Just add it to my bill." Colter smirks.

Honestly, you weren't as angry as you were when you answered the phone. Something about Russell was different and you didn’t mind helping him at all.

He wasn't like anyone that you had ever met, certainly not in the circles you ran with.

All the dads from your mom friends were blue and white collar workers who worked in the big office buildings downtown, wore suits to work and were more straight-laced, but there was something refreshing about Russell.

He was mysterious, sexy, and his had this aura of self-resilience and survival that you found immensely attractive. Especially when compared to your ex, who couldn't survive without his mocha-caramel double shot latte or wifi.

Russell was the exact opposite of him and you found yourself wanting to know more. More about the almost beautiful scars that curved over his muscular body, more about each tattoo that he’d chosen, and more about him.

He seemed like the kind of guy that hid his trauma under easy smiles and jokes, the kind of person that shrugged off anything that seemed remotely serious with a well placed joke, but you could feel that there was something deeper beneath that he didn’t allow many to see.

And you wanted him to show you.

You weren't sure where any of this was coming from. Russell probably was about as stable and consistent as his brother, and you liked consistency. Spontaneity and surprises tended to make you anxious. But not with Russell.

Though the stability might have been an issue. You were a single working mother, which meant that you didn't want to introduce some random guy into your children's life just to have them get attached and him to bail with no strings attached and-

Calm down. You just met the guy, it's not like he's asking you out on a date.

When Colter leaves and after you’ve cleaned around the wounds the best you can with some alcohol, you realize just how quiet it is in your kitchen.

“You know, I think I’ve seen you before.” Russell says breaking the silence while you search for a needle and thread in the medical kit.

“Really? Where?" You ask looking up.

“In my dreams.”

“Wow." You smile at him. "That line is pretty cheesy."

You shift your right hand over to begin to sew up the wounds on his chest. Russell doesn't even wince when you push the needle through, almost as if he didn't notice it at all.

It made sense, given how many scars and tattoos covered his body. You remember what he said about "being through worse" and it made you feel bad for him, to worry about him. Odd given the fact that the two of you had just met.

"Well I'm a little distracted at the moment sweetheart. It's not often that I get such a beautiful woman to take care of me."

"I thought you didn't need my help?" You smirk.

"Maybe I did." He admits sheepishly.

"Mhmm."

"So how do you know my brother?"

“Why?”

“Trying to see if you’re off limits or not.” Russell tilts his head to the side and flashes a charming smile.

You laugh at his boldness. You’d never met someone so upfront before, it was refreshing. Most of the men you’d meet occasionally at work tended to beat around the bush and made you want to give them a map to get to the point. "We met when he got shot a few months ago."

"Oh so the two of you aren't-" He wiggles his eyebrows and you snort.

"No."

"Huh."

"What?"

"I was just wondering why not?"

"What?"

"Well, you're gorgeous, you're smart, and you're not scared of blood or gunshots. Colter really seems to be dropping the ball."

"Colter doesn't exactly have a stable lifestyle. And I'm kind of complicated."

You were, there wasn't any way around it.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because I've got two kids."

Russell blinks in surprise. "Really?"

"Mhmm." You hum continuing your task, not phased by the blood at all.

His eyes trace your figure for a minute, making a shiver travel down your spine. It was the first time in a long time that you were okay with someone looking at you like that and to be honest, the first time that you wanted someone to look at you like that in a while.

After everything that happened with your ex-husband and his secretary you were more inclined to sit on your couch with a glass of wine and read away your troubles with a steamy romance novel that did more for you than any of your ex-husband's attempts to satisfy you. It also didn't help that you had no interest in going out with your few friends and meeting someone at a club who probably would never call you again and probably wouldn't be as enthusiastic to learn that you were a mom.

You'd only been on one date since you'd broken it off with your husband with your aunts accountant Jerry, and the date stuttered to a halt when he learned you had two children and weren't interested in having an open relationship.

"I wouldn't have guessed that."

“Really? The mountain of chocolate cupcakes wasn’t a clue?” You arch an eyebrow with a smirk, while gently tying off the string to close the first wound before moving on to the second.

“I thought you just really liked baking. And I’m okay with coming home every night to a mountain of chocolate cupcakes if it means you’re there too.” He winks.

“Not sure you want any of those.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they’re gluten free, sugar free, and nut free.”

The horrified look on Russell’s face makes you feel like you’d just told him that hot dogs do in fact contain trace amounts of dog.

“Why on earth would you make them like that?! They're not even cupcakes anymore!" He exclaims.

You found it funny that he seemed more upset over the mutilation of the chocolate cupcakes than over being shot.

Maybe he's always like this?

"I know. I'm a monster." You sigh. "But Stephanie Jacobson said I had to." You let out a frustrated sigh with her name.

Bringing anything other than what she asked for was a suicide mission. The last person who did that was Gale Smith in the great Fourth of July Cook-out calamity of 2021. In Gale's defense, no one though that the bushes would catch fire so fast, but Stephanie had a memory like an elephant so Gale decided to transfer her children to the school one town over. The last thing you wanted was for your name to go down in history for the Cupcake Catastrophe of 2024.

Russell leans forward and lowers his voice like it's a secret. “Is Stephanie your imaginary friend?”

“No!” You laugh. “She’s this other mom at my son’s school who said I wasn’t living up to my ‘duties as a parent’ and that I needed to ‘participate.’”

"She sounds great."

"Oh yeah, we're practically best friends." You continue to work on the other wounds in the silence that follows.

"I bet you're a good mom." Russell says watching you with an unreadable expression. He's leaning a little bit towards you still, making the smell gunmetal, leather, spice, and just a hint of mint come through the space between the two of you.

Damn he smells really good.

"Uh-huh. You've known me for ten minutes and you haven't seen me with my children-"

"I can tell."

"Is that your superpower or something?" You reach for a bandage to lay over the wound in his chest smiling to yourself. "All the other useful superpowers like being bulletproof got taken?"

"I don't think it's useless if it makes you smile like that when I say it, sweetheart."

Your eyes flick upwards to Russell's face. His green eyes are shining in the light of your kitchen, his dark hair still hanging over his forehead, and he is still just as ridiculously handsome as he was the moment Colter dragged him through your front door. You don’t remember why you were so mad at Colter anymore.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're too smooth for your own good?" You raise your eyebrow.

"No ma'am." Russell cracks an even wider smile and it makes you loose all feeling in your legs. He was just so effortlessly handsome that it made you want to do something stupid, like have sex with him on top of the same kitchen table that you serve blueberry pancakes to your children.

"Hmm." You bite the inside of your cheek. "Well, now you know and maybe now that you're aware, it could prevent you from getting shot."

"Are you saying I got shot because I'm too smooth?"

"Maybe."

"Because usually it has a different effect."

"Huh. Well in that case, maybe try using some of that to smooth things over and you'd avoid getting shot." You begin to wrap another fresh bandage around the bullet wound on his arm, bracing your free hand against his chest, trying to ignore the way his skin is warm and chiseled beneath your palm.

He had the kind of body that you'd never imagined actually existed. Russell Shaw looked like he walked out one of the romance novels you loved so much.

Hell, they should use pictures of him to make the book covers.

"I'll remember that next time." Russell pauses. "But then it means I wouldn’t get shot and I wouldn't get to have you patch me up."

"I guess not."

You didn't think that you'd smiled as much as you had in the past twenty minutes with him than you had your entire five year marriage. Not to mention that it was nice to talk to someone who wasn't trying to convince you why they should be allowed to have a cookie before dinner.

A charged silence passes through the air between the two of you, his eyes locked on yours sending goosebumps over your skin. You weren't sure if anyone had ever looked at you like that before. You'd noticed that most gave you the obligatory skate over, but Russell didn't. He looked at you as if he was studying you as if he were genuinely curious to know more. 

Your eyes trace his broad shoulders, toned abdomen, and muscular arms, noting that he's the kind of strong and broad that was made to handle someone a little more curvy like you. And you'd be lying if you said that you hadn't thought about it more than once since Russell came through your front door.

You felt your mind sink into the fantasy of Russell pining you to the kitchen table and feeling the warmth of his rough hands against your body-

Snap out of it. The guy is bleeding, he got shot. He needs to rest.

"I think you'll survive." You smile pulling back from him to clear your head. It was much easier when you couldn't smell him as strongly. "And if Colter isn't going to be back for a few hours you can crash on the couch. It's not the most comfortable but-"

"I'm sure it's fine." Russell shrugs and stands from your kitchen table.

You try and fail to ignore how his muscles pull with the movement as he reaches for his shirt and you step forward to help him put it on, knowing that it might hurt with his injury. "Okay." You clear your throat, that has become thick all of a sudden. "And if you're hungry I've got plenty of cupcakes-"

"Please don't call them that. They're an disgrace to the cupcake name."

"Yeah, but the ones in the microwave are actually cupcakes. I had to make a few that were edible." You gesture with your hand and laugh at how quickly Russell goes to get one.

He doesn’t even bother to pull away the wrapping before he takes a bite and he audibly moans. Russell looks at you awestruck. "Holy shit, you made this? Where have you been all my life?"

"Shut up." You roll your eyes at him.

"I'm serious, this cupcake is my reason to keep living. Here I thought putting sriracha on French fries was the height of cuisine, but damn."

You could feel yourself blush bright red at his compliment. You weren't used to a man going out of his way to compliment you on something other than how you looked, but everything about Russell Shaw was refreshing and nothing like you expected.

"Thank you." You wait another second, watching him eat more of the cupcake and smash icing and flecks of chocolate over his chin. You laugh at him and hand him a paper towel. "You're worse than my three year old."

"Your three year old is a lucky kid, if she’s got a mom like you to make stuff like this for her."

It's like he wants me to fall in love with him. How can someone look so unbelievably cute and sexy while covered in chocolate cupcake?

Don't answer that.

"Sometimes I think I'm the lucky one. I love my kids-" You say before you can stop yourself. You hesitate afraid that it would send Russell for the hills when you brought up the fact that you loved your children.

"Yeah?" Russell's smile brightens as he wipes his face with the napkin.

"Yeah." You blink mildly shocked. Of all the people in the world to talk about your children with, you never expected someone like Russell Shaw. “I do."

Again he was surprising you, and talking to him was just so refreshing and it made you feel like your head had finally cleared, like your chest was lighter and you could actually talk to someone for real without putting out this together image of yourself you thought you had to when inside you were crumbling from the overbearing expectations of the people around you.

The silence is back, filling the kitchen with a palpable energy that you wonder if Russell can feel, but you shake it off.

"I guess I'll see you in the morning. It was nice to meet you Russell, but I'm sorry that you got shot." You smile.

"I'm not." Russell smiles. "I got to meet you."

"Alright Casanova, I need to go to bed, because my kids will wake me up in about two hours." You frown over at the couch. "There's a pillow and a blanket down the hall in the bathroom closet." You gesture with one hand. "I'll see you in the morning." You repeat because you're not too sure what to say.

"Yeah. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You turn and walk up the stairs to your bedroom, feeling the thin blue robe swishing around your ankles as you do.

And as you fall into your bed all you can think about as you start to drift is the ruggedly handsome man downstairs, with the brilliant green eyes that crinkle with his smile, and the large hands rough from hard work, that seems to be more than what meets the eye.

The alarm clock on your bedside table might as well be employed by the devil for waking you up and the idea of smashing it to bits with the heavy metal table lamp that sits beside it crosses your mind. You weren't sure how many hours you'd gotten in, only that they weren't enough, and you were in desperate need of coffee.

You roll over on your back, looking up at your ceiling as you blink your eyes open, following the familiar sweeps of the paint brush that were left behind.

The memory of the night's events come back in full color and you stiffen remembering exactly why you'd gone to bed so late. Images of last night flash through your mind. Colter dragging a bloodied Russell through your front door, Russell sitting on your kitchen table looking much too attractive covered in blood, him flirting with you with a wide smile that made you feel warm from the inside out…

Oh fuck he's still on my couch. How am I going to explain that to my kids?

You dress in a flash and stumble down the stairs as quickly as you can, tripping and falling into the living room, but when you look you realize that Russell isn't on the couch. The pillow and brightly colored quilted blanket he used are neatly folded on one of the plush cushions, but he's nowhere to be found.

I guess Colter came to get him.

You weren't expecting the wave of disappointment that comes with that realization, but as you turn to go back up the stairs to ready yourself for the day, you hear your daughter’s voice.

"Mommy!" She says. "Look! Rus is making pancakes."

What?

You turn to investigate your spacious kitchen. It was still covered in an alarming amount of cupcakes, but that’s not what’s surprising, what’s surprising is Russell, standing at your crowded stove with a spatula in his hand, sliding a perfectly golden brown pancake around in the bottom of a pan.

You blink your eyes to make sure that you’re not imagining it and make sure that you’re not asleep.

"Hey gorgeous." Russell flashes a wide grin. "How'd you sleep?"

"Um-" You glance at where your daughter is sitting with your son, both eating stacks of pancakes at your kitchen table, the same kitchen table that you were fantasizing about Russell and you-

Nope. Not going there.

Honestly, any fantasy you had about him was blown away by the sight of him standing in your kitchen making pancakes for your children. Something so domestically wonderful that turned you on even more than the image of him shirtless sitting on your kitchen table.

This was something even your husband refused to do, cook. Any day that you tried to get him to, he'd said that it was your "job." And here Russell was standing in your kitchen looking even more effortlessly gorgeous cooking for your family without being asked.

"I sleep good. How did you sleep?" You ask taking a hesitant step towards him.

"Good. Better than I have in a bit actually." He turns back to the pan and flicks his wrist, flipping the pancake inside.

Emma claps happily and Luke watches Russell with a look of absolute awe on his face, while you try not to have impure thoughts about Russell in front of your children.

"You didn't have to make breakfast-"

"I did." He plates the pancake and holds it out to you. "I wanted to thank you for patching me up."

"It wasn't a big deal." You shrug, but take the pancake from the plate, rolling it up like a taco before you take a bite.

Russell cocks his head to the side studying you for a moment. "It was to me." His green eyes are just as hypnotic today as they were last night, tracing over your body in a way that makes pins and needles tickle over your skin. "Plus, wanted to make the kids something that wasn't gluten free, nut free, and sugar free. Emma sure can put away some pancakes."

It was odd to see someone so eager to make himself comfortable in your house, especially a man you barely knew and who you owed absolutely nothing to. Not to mention that Russell genuinely seemed happy to be making breakfast for your children as if he belonged there.

It was so different from every other man that you'd ever met, and you wanted to get used to it. You wanted to get used to having a man around again, to having Russell in your home and in your life. You'd never been spontaneous or wanted to jump headfirst without looking at the pros and cons, but watching Russell standing at your stove, with the sunlight coming through the windows behind him and illuminating his broad shoulders and sifting through his dark hair, you saw absolutely no downside.

"Yeah she's always had a good appetite."

"Hope she doesn't lose that. I hate it when women don't eat." Russell shrugs his shoulders and goes back to make a pancake for himself. "Plus Luke needs to bulk up. He said his dad is going to sign him up for baseball."

You stiffen at the mention of your ex, not sure if you should supply the information, or if you should let it slide. Russell's eyes flick down at your left hand for a half-second, so quickly you could have missed it, but you understood what he was doing.

"He's my ex-husband." You murmur low enough so only Russell could hear.

"Good." Russell replies with a knowing smirk. "Means that I don’t have any competition."

You roll your eyes at his reaction and walk over to where your children are eating. Luke is covered in maple syrup as per usual. He had always been a messy eater, but because he insisted on having his hair cropped short, it never seemed to be too much of a problem.

Just as Emma looks like your ex-husband, Lance, Luke looks like you. He has the same eyes and same colored hair, but he'd always been a little short for his age. Lance usually picked at him for that, but you didn't know what Lance was expecting, Luke was six years old, he'd grow!

"Good pancakes?" You ask, trying to wipe at his face with a napkin but he pulls away with an exclaimed "Mom!"

"What? You're covered in syrup." You laugh, raising the napkin again, but Luke dodges your hand.

"Mom!" Luke says again.

"Alright, fine. But go get dressed, your dad will be here to pick you up any minute." You say, urging him with a hand against his shoulder.

Today Lance was taking Luke to school and picking him up after for a baseball game, before staying with him at his apartment. You’d told your Aunt Teddi and your Aunt Velma that you'd help them plant a garden today, and Emma had been looking forward to it as much as you had.

Velma had been talking about it all through last week, and you’d gotten the day off specifically off for it. Emma was also excited about it because Teddi had bought flowers specifically for butterflies and your daughter loved them more than life itself.

You were looking forward to working out in the sun, feeling the healing rays against your skin, listening to the sounds of the world outside your aunts familiar home soothe you, play with the dogs for a little bit, and finally go inside for a few glasses of wine while Velma, Teddi, and you talked about the book of the month. Book club nights were especially special for Emma as well. Velma always poured Emma's apple juice into a plastic pink wine glass that she'd bought for Emma so she could feel included.

This book had been really good and you couldn't wait to share what you'd thought while eating expensive cheese and cupcakes and while the dogs circled below like raptors.

You loved being at their home. It was always such a comfort to be somewhere where you felt that you could be yourself especially after Lance left you. Your mother had died when you were a kid and your dad had never been equipped to handle things like that so your Aunt Teddi had picked up the slack in your early years and now after she'd married Velma, you had another person in your life who supported you and made you feel like you could be yourself. Both of them had been furious when they learned about what Lance had done and sat with you while you cried into a box of tissues.

It had been difficult to talk them both out of killing Lance. Surprising since your Aunt Teddi was usually the voice of reason.

Luke sighs, but listens to you, getting up from the table to make his way upstairs. You can hear his footsteps as he walks down the hallway above and into his room.

Despite his reluctance, he was looking forward to today as well. Sometimes you thought that he felt left out when you all went over to your aunts house. You knew that Luke longed for the attention of his father, and something broke inside of you each time your ex-husband made him feel forgotten.

You turn to look at your daughter. "Good pancakes?"

"Yes!"

"Did you tell Russell thank you?"

"Thank you Rus!" She sing-songs with a wide smile, before moving her plastic fork back into the pile enthusiastically.

"You're welcome sweetheart." Russell says from the stove, picking up the pancake in the skillet bare handed before he puts a generous stripe of maple syrup along the inside and rolls it up just like you did. "Do you want another one?" His gaze turns to you, warm and open.

Fuck, why is he so damn attractive?

"No I'm-"

The knock on the front door interupts your answer signifying the arrival of Lance. When he'd moved out of the house you'd changed all the locks and then refused to give him a key. Something that he'd pouted and stomped about worse than your toddler, but you'd held firm. You didn't want him in your house and you definitely didn't want her in your house either.

"Daddy!" Emma squeals and before you can stop her, she leaps from her chair like she'd been shot from a cannon and runs down the front hallway to open the door for your ex.

You sigh out a breath to prepare yourself for what comes next. Talking to Lance was always tense and as much as you tried to be civil, Lance didn't. He didn't pull punches, and often lacked the common decency that everyone else had.

Russell's studying you again, his easy smile slipping into a frown when he notes the change in your attitude.

"Stay here. This shouldn't take long." You force a smile, but it lacks the enthusiasm you’d had whenever you talked to Russell before.

Sometimes just the thought of your ex took the energy out of you, as if you were on a space ship and all the air got sucked out into the cold silent vacuum.

Lance is standing on the front step hugging your daughter with one hand while the other holds his phone behind her head, his gaze intently on the screen while Emma chatters in his ear. He's not paying attention though. He never was and never did.

His black hair is slicked back over his head and cropped shorter than the last time you saw him. Now it barely touches his collar but hangs long over the top of his head. His brown eyes glint an amber in the light of the sun, and he’s wearing a tailored blue suit with a dark patterned tie.

“Hey.” Lance clips to you as he stands, releasing Emma who is still trying to talk to him, but he ignores her.

You grind your teeth together. “Hi.”

He sighs audibly sensing the tension, as if it’s you that’s done something wrong.

“Emma, why don’t you go finish your pancakes?” You smile down at your daughter and pat her on the head. “We’ve got to go soon.”

“Okay! Bye daddy!”

“That’s nice honey.” He says absentmindedly, still typing furiously on his phone, while Emma rushes back down the hallway and into the kitchen, that is hidden from view of the front door.

“You know you could put the phone down for once. The world won’t implode if you wait a few seconds to answer a text.” You say.

“Don’t start.” Lance rolls his eyes.

The BMW idling at the curb catches in the early morning sunlight and you see a flash of red-hair. Crystal is in the passenger seat, her auburn hair piled on top of her head effortlessly, her lips painted a dark colored red, there’s a pair of heart shaped sunglasses over her eyes, and she’s wearing black dress low cut enough that her ample breasts spill out through the wide V.

She peers at you from where she sits in the car, her phone perched in her lap, and you watch her dark colored lips twitch into a knowing smirk when she catches you looking at her.

Each time you saw her was like taking a punch to the gut.  It made you pull your oversized sweater a little tighter over your chest self-consciously.

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying that you should pay more attention to-“ You begin, but Lance interrupts.

“I don’t want to do this with you. I have a deposition due today and I have to finish sending this email.” He snaps.

“Fine.” You sigh, trying to remain calm. You hated when he did this, when he made it seem like no one and nothing else was important except his job. “Luke is getting ready. I have to box up these cupcakes for a bake sale at the school. All you have to do is drop them off and tell-“

“Oh sorry babe. Can’t do the thing today.”

You bristled when he called you babe. You weren't his, not after everything the two of you had been through.

“What do you mean you can’t do the ‘thing’ today?” You plant your hands on your hips trying to comprehend what he's saying.

“With the kid. Sorry. Crystal made plans for us at some fancy restaurant or whatever. Supposed to be the best in the city-“

“What?”

“I can’t take the kid today.” He repeats slowly, this time looking up, but he doesn’t bother to apologize, and his gaze barely meets yours before he drops his eyes back to the hand clutched in his perfectly manicured fingers.

“But you promised Luke that you were going to take him to a baseball game today after school. That he was going to get to spend the night with you and-“

“Sorry.” The apology isn’t sincere and you know it, despite Lance’s attempts to drop his smile into a sympathetic frown. It comes across as more condescending.

Crystal honks the horn of the car as if to tell Lance to hurry up, and it takes a very large amount of effort for you not to flip her the bird.

“No. Luke has been looking forward to this all week! Not to mention I had to ask off for today specifically-“

“And I’ll apologize to him too.” Lance goes back to typing something on his phone. “This dinner means a lot to Crystal-“

“I don’t give two shits what means a lot to that red-haired bimbo!” You snap, the rage and frustration building in your chest. “You made a promise to your son to take him to a baseball game and actually spend time with him and that’s exactly what you’re going to do!”

Lance looks up from his phone, his eyes narrowing. “You always fucking do this.”

“Do what?”

“Pick a fight.”

“I am not picking a fight Lance. All you’ve done since you’ve shown up here is ignore your daughter and tell me that you’re backing out of the one thing I’ve asked you to do in months!”

“I told you that I have a meeting and a deposition due today! Damn it, what do you want from me? To quit my big job that pays for this house?” He steps forward towering over you. Lance was taller than you, but he had always been lanky and thin, unable to gain too much weight or muscle at a time. “Why do you find the need to make me feel like my life isn’t important?”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t say anything about your life! I’m talking about our son’s life-“ You shout incredulous.

“This is exactly why I got out when I did. Because you always try to control every little thing. You’re so damn OCD that if I did one microscopic thing that wasn’t apart of your ‘special plans’ you’d spontaneously combust! You never just shut your big mouth and let me just fucking live my life! You never let me feel like a man! And Crystal understands-“

“Crystal can’t even understand that pickles were once cucumbers! I doubt she can understand whatever warped reality you’re living in Lance.” You spit. “But I’m sorry that me asking you to be a part of our children’s lives is too much for you. That it’s such a chore for you to make them happy.” The frustrated tears had begun to burn against your eyes.

You didn’t know why you expected anything different. Lance had been doing this since your son was born, putting his career above everything else, working late, schmoozing whoever he could, being so damn selfish that he was willing to throw everything the two of you built together for the woman sitting in the car on the curb watching the two of you go at it with a sick satisfaction.

“Don’t fucking do that!” Lance roars and this time he slams his hand against the door frame so roughly that the glass inside shakes and you flinch. “I don’t know why I even try to talk to you. So why don’t you get your big ass up those stairs and-“

“Is there a problem?” Russell’s voice interrupts whatever Lance was going to say, his body sliding into the space behind you so suddenly that you didn’t hear him walk up.

But it felt good for him to be there, to feel the warmth of his body through the air at your back.

He places his hand on the door to open it up a little wider and to seem a bit more intimidating. Russell is easily taller and broader than Lance.

Lance looks up at him confused, puffing out his chest to look more intimidating. “Who the fuck are you?”

 “Maybe you shouldn’t use that kind of language around the kids-“ Russell says with a tight lipped smile.

“They’re my fucking kids. Don’t tell me how to talk.” Lance’s gaze flicks to you. “Who the fuck is this?”

“I’m Russell.” He replies before you can. “And if you know what’s good for you I’d take a few steps back from her.” Russell’s large hand gently presses against your waist, a comforting weight that you weren’t expecting, but welcome, nonetheless.

It made you feel a little bit bolder.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Lance snarls. “Is this your boyfriend? Really? You finally decided to go out with someone and that’s who you pick?”

“Look buddy, if you keep talking to her that way, we’re going to have a problem.” Russell sighs. “And I don’t want to get any blood on your fancy suit.”

“I’m not your buddy. And trust me she’s not worth the fight.” Lance sneers at you, giving you a once over that makes you want to crawl into a hole and die.

Russell’s jaw clenches tight and he takes a step forward, but you hold out your arm to stop him.

“He’s not my boyfriend and even if he was, it’s none of your business who I date!” You snap back.

Lance only shakes his head, ignoring what you’ve said. “I’m serious pal you don’t want to get involved with her. She’s fucking crazy, not to mention nothing special when it comes to se-“

The next words are lost in the sound of Russell’s fist landing against Lance’s face, the sharp crack followed by the inhuman scream of Crystal at the car. Lance stumbles back off the front step clutching a hand to his face while blood streams through his pinched fingers and over his chin.

“I warned you. Now if you keep talking, I'll make your eyes match.” Russell growls, flexing his hand.

I hope he didn’t rip his stitches.

“You son of a bitch.” Lance sputters, his hand still holding his broken nose. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!”

“It’s worth it, if it shuts you up.” He replies unfazed.

Lance’s eyes narrow with hate as he looks at you one more time, before stumbling back to his car where Crystal has begun to wail over the amount of blood coming from his nose. The car squeals down the street and out of sight, leaving Russell and you standing on your front porch. Thankfully Emma was still in the kitchen eating her pancakes and Luke was upstairs, you didn't want either of them to see Russell punch their dad.

But that didn't mean that you wouldn't mind seeing it again.

You groaned when you thought about your son. You didn’t know how on earth you were going to explain to him why his dad wasn’t going to pick him up or take him to the game.

But at the same time there was a sickening amount of pleasure that bubbled beneath the surface at the thought of Russell breaking Lance’s nose.

“Are you okay?” Russell asks turning to look at you. There’s anger still simmering beneath the surface. You’d never seen him angry in all the time he’d stayed with you. All you’d seen was the funny, easy going, guy with the gorgeous smile, but to see him like this and especially to see him angry over what had just happened…

Just when I thought he couldn’t get any more attractive.

“Yeah. I’m sorry-“

“Don’t apologize for that asshole. He shouldn’t have talked to you like that.” Russell hesitates. “Does he always talk to you like that?”

“Pretty much.”

“Damn, should have knocked a few teeth out too. He’s got to learn how to speak to a lady, especially one as beautiful as you.”

You felt your cheeks flush. You couldn’t remember the last time that someone called you beautiful and before you can stop yourself you say:

“I don’t think you’re too bad looking yourself.”

“Oh I know. You couldn’t keep your hands off me last night.” Russell’s grin makes you smile and roll your eyes at him.

Again you’re struck by how charming he is and how kind. He didn’t have to do any of the things he’d done today, but he did anyway. He didn’t have to make breakfast for your children, he didn’t have to step in when your ex-husband got mouthy, and he didn’t have to punch Lance in the face, but Russell had.

He'd done more for you in the past few hours than your husband had done in the six years you'd been married to him.

Behind where Russell's standing, Colter’s truck pulls up to idle on the curb in the same place that the BMW had been sitting moments ago, and you raise a hand in a half-wave to greet him. Colter shoots you a grin and waves back.

“Guess my ride’s here.” Russell says glancing back at his brother over his shoulder before he looks back at you.

“Seems so.” You nod. “Are you sure you don’t want me to check your stitches for you one more time before you go? I mean you probably ripped them when you punched Lance."

“Sounds like you just want to catch another peak of me without my shirt on.” Russell laughs, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes and hit him on the arm.

“Ow.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Maybe.” He’s studying you again, the sunlight turning his hair a honeyed brown and his eyes into a sharp jade. The light catches his broad shoulders and traces along his strong jaw that is covered in a healthy amount of stubble that makes him look rugged and more handsome than any man you’d ever met.

You bite the inside of your cheek. “It was nice to meet you Russell. And again, I'm sorry that you got shot."

Russell shrugs. “It was worth it. I got to meet you and I got to punch that asshole in the face so win-win.”

“You didn’t have to-“

“Yes, I did.” Russell’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t deserve any of the things he was saying about you or about the kids.”

“True.” You hesitate.

Should I ask him for his number or is that too forward?

“I’ll see you around.” Russell smiles at you one more time before making his way to his brother’s car, just as Emma joins you on the front step.

“Did daddy leave?” She sounds sad.

“Yeah. He did.” You take her small hand in yours.

“But why does Russell have to go too?” She whines.

“Because he’s going home.”

You felt a twinge in your chest watching him get into the car, knowing that you probably would never see him ever again. It made you sad to know that. You'd been interested in him and you thought he was interested in you, but he hadn't asked for your number.

Maybe he's flirty and charming with everyone.

You hide the frown that comes with that thought. Emma waves goodbye with her freehand, and Russell smiles from the passenger seat, waving back at your daughter, before he raises his gaze to yours again and winks.

Or maybe not.

When you go back inside the house, Luke is still upstairs, and instead of going up to tell him about his father, you turn to go back into your kitchen to clean up. As you near the stove, you notice a bright green piece of paper under one of the magnets on your refrigerator, fluttering slightly in the air-conditioning.

You pull it down to look.

In case you want some more pancakes or if you bake any more of those life changing cupcakes. Give me a call. -Russell.

His phone number was written under his name, next to a smiley face that made you laugh aloud to yourself.

Sunday nights were the worst, but not this time.

A/N: Alright, I had so much fun with this one! I just had this urge to write Russell with a reader who had children and a trash man ex because why not? And I know I said it would be a one-shot… but my mind is already thinking of all the possibilities lol. Mostly because we all know I can’t really write just a one-shot 😅😂

As always thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, Likes, and Comments are not required but are always appreciated. I love hearing what y’all think!

Taglist:

@roseblue373 @livya99 @mrsjenniferwinchester

[oonajaeadira]

Leave Off Your Wandering pt. 1: Spring

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

Pairing: eventually 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: T for now

Warnings: Mostly just Ellie being a swear mouth. There’s a lamb birthing. Fluff…this fic is sloooooow.

Summary: Joel and Ellie return to Jackson and you introduce them to the sheep.

A/N: Set after season 1 and then diverges. Does not acknowledge the existence of further plot/seasons, although I claim the right to steal ideas and bits of cannon from the second game if I want to for plot reasons later.

Here it is, y’all. Not much happens. It’s just life in Jackson. There’s more Ellie here than Joel, but that’s because I figure Joel wouldn’t even turn his head toward someone if Ellie didn’t love her first. I’m just setting the stage for healing, for giving Ellie and Joel a nice home and good things. Nothing happens. Life is slower and softer here. Welcome to the Roost.

You were there when Tommy Miller was ushered–bloodied and busted–by the patrol through the gates of Jackson. The hard steel of Maria’s eyes through the slit between her hat and kerchief found you in the crowd and told you with a glance, I know what I’m doing. Meet me at home.

“Yeah, he’s one of them,” you’d confirmed to her later that afternoon as one of the Roostlings tended to his split lip and eyebrow in her living room. “I say we leave him to the coyotes.”

You’d trusted them once upon a time, the Fireflies. But your experiences with them were a deep education in morals and humanity. What you’ve come to believe is that everyone has an equal right to life and compassion and protection. And you might not have found that in yourself if the Fireflies hadn’t come through your papa’s ranch touting that sentiment but living up to a totally different set of rules, one where everyone had an equal expendability for the greater good of the survival of the species.

Fuck the species. If humans were meant to die out, then they would. Nothing is permanent. Not civilization or any one species, not even the mountains that surround your town–even the wind and rain would take them someday. All you can do is be good to those here and now, nurture what you have, and mourn what you lose with a little humility and gratefulness that you got to enjoy it in the first place. There’s already enough suffering. Why add to it? Or prolong it? Just let us all wane with kindness and compassion. Spend our days eating good food and caring for sheep, wildflowers swaying in the sunshiney breeze and stars twinkling at night–

“You go somewhere, Meadowlark?” Tommy teases as he passes you a plate of honey-glazed carrots, bean salad, and egg souffle, breaking you out of your reverie. You’ve come to prefer his tamales, but Maria wanted to use up some of last year’s supplies, so this Sunday’s family meal is harvest plate.

“I was just thinking about the day you came to Jackson.”

Leaning back in the wooden dining room chair, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight, his smug little smile is insufferable. “You wanted my hide on a fence.”

“Stretched and tanned. Could have been useful for patching boots at least.”

“What was it changed your mind again? Oh yeah. Weatherproofing the storehouse, building out your Roost, constructing a working loom–”

“It was the cornbread. And maybe the tamales.” Keeping a deadpan glare between you while stabbing a carrot and taking a bite, you point your fork at your best friend. “And you’re good to my girl here.”

Maria chuckles through a mouthful, shaking her head down at her plate like a mother trying not to let two warring siblings know how amusing they are. “I regret everything. And nothing.” The same dark eyes that glinted with reservation on Tommy’s first day hold back none of her big, tough heart as they seek him out now. “But speaking of mending shoes…you reminded me. Tommy’s brother came by while you were at the Roost.”

Your fork, halfway to your mouth, drifts back down to the plate. “Joel? Here? How’d he find you?”

Tommy answers carefully, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “He didn’t, really. Patrol found him. Him and a teenager. They were looking for the Fireflies because…the girl belongs to them or something. Used my last known location and headed out west.”

“From Boston? On foot? And he survived?”

“All the stories I’ve told you about him and that’s what surprises you?”

Tommy’d been an open book from day one, answering Maria’s questions about his background, the QZs he’d lived in, why he felt the need to leave the Fireflies. As they’d grown closer and he joined in your family dinners, there were stories traded from the beforetimes, about his construction business with his brother, how his niece’s death changed them both, the things they’d done to good people just to survive. He held nothing back and owned up to his mistakes. Although he often blamed Joel for actions he willingly took part in. Still, admitted that he used his army training to teach Joel to shoot and unwittingly turned him into a killing machine.

But even so, he missed him. You could see that. Tommy missed his big brother. Wished it could be different, that he could have changed him, brought Joel back from his numbness before it was too late. Best he could do was run away from his regret, swing the other way and try to even out all his wrongs…but then found out that the Fireflies weren’t the answer to any of it. And despite all Tommy had admitted to doing, it was this ability to forgive, to take some fraction of responsibility, and to shelter his light through the darkness that Maria took a shine to.

You involuntarily glance toward the living room, toward the mantle where there’s a polaroid of a ruggedly handsome thirty-five year old man and a girl in fluffy brown pigtails. “Shit, Tommy. You think he’ll head back here?”

“Said he was counting on it.”

There’s a somber silence at the table as everything comes to a halt. Maria’s not exactly chilly, just… reserved. Ah. They’ve already been talking about it.

“Should I be congratulating you on a family reunion or….?”

The sudden winter of their discontent warms to a spring as your old friend goes back to her plate. “Well, it’s yet to be determined. Of course he’s welcome here, but not if he brings trouble.”

“He’s not going to bring trouble, sweetheart. You should have seen him that night we talked. He’s got demons chasing him, but he’s tired of running. He needs good people. We’re good people.”

“Unless he finds those Fireflies and they take him in first,” you interject. “Seems to me they’re just like everyone else, and a man who’s that good at mindless, morally-gray protection is a valuable asset.”

That sets him laughing, breaking the tension, throwing you unexpectedly off-guard after you’d just darkly insulted his kin. “Joel? Join the Fireflies? Not a chance in heaven, hell, or all the shit between! He’ll be back. He’s an asshole, but he’s my brother and I know him. He’ll be back. You’ll see.”

________

The day after coming back from your next shift at the Roost, you find yourself ass to the mud on the street outside the Jackson stables. Two bodies–yours, and that of a larger child–rounding a corner in colliding trajectories. You’d been fiddling with the buttons on your walkie, not watching where you were going, your boots taking you home the way they’ve done for years.

But she’d been moving fast–not running, but walking with that speed that teenagers are only capable of when they’re stomping off in a probable fit of angry hormones.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she curses, diving for your wayward walkie and the batteries that spit out all over the ground as you get yourself up and your ass dusted off. “Here,” she says, clumsily dumping a cluster of plastic and tech into your hands. “I hope I didn’t break it. Are you like one of the marshals here or something?”

A quick rummage through the jumble in your hands shows no damage and you start pumping the batteries back in, casting a glance around for the compartment cover. “Not quite.” Seeing what you need a few feet away on the ground, you nod at it. “Would you mind getting that cover, miss…er… You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here.”

“Ellie.” She watches with interest as you clip the walkie back together and push the activation switch. “I’ve never seen one that small.”

“It’s actually an old kid’s toy. Meadowlark to Whippoorwill,” you mumble into the walkie, your lips nearly touching the plastic speaker, “just had a butterfingers. Testing the walkie.”

“What’s a butterfingers? Are those like code names?” Ellie asks.

Her eyes–black and sparkling–hold your own, a tense moment for both of you as you both hope for different reasons that the machine still works. “Something like that.”

“Whippoorwill here,” comes the voice through the can. “I hear you. Actually need a favor. Send a change of clothes through patrol tomorrow. The big one finally popped and she was a gusher.”

“Damn! I missed it by one damn day? Shit. One or two?”

“Three!”

“Uuuugh. Well that’s just fuckin’ fantastic. Glad you were there to catch ‘em, Whip. This is gonna be a good year. I think Hank’s on the round over there tomorrow. I’ll go pawing through your closet and send some things along.” Starting off in the direction of your friend’s house, you wave back at your new acquaintance. “See ya, Ellie. Nice to meet you. Take it slow around those corners, ‘hear?”

_____

The run-in wouldn’t have been memorable but for the next night when you show up at Maria and Tommy’s place for family dinner, carrying a warm basket of muffins, happy and singing to yourself as you dance in through the door…and come to a stop when four pairs of dark eyes turn to you from the dining room.

Guests? At family dinner? A man and–“Hey there…Ellie, right? Fancy meeting you here…”

The girl smiles from her seat at the table, waving with a hand covered by the sleeve of her raglan top. “Hi.”

“Oh. You know each other,” Maria says, lifting the basket out of your hands. “Then you must have met–”

No. You haven’t met him. But he stands up from the table, wiping a hand on his jeans and extending it to receive yours. Manners. Polite. That’s unexpected knowing the little that you know. His hair is gray now and he’s a bit softer around the middle, more gravity in the cheeks. His ample shoulders have taken weight over the years–literal and emotional.

No, you haven’t met him. But you know him. You’d know those eyes anywhere; studied them in an old polaroid on the mantle just over there. Soft but strong. A good person from another lifetime who was scarred deeply by this one. Someone who cut his soul right down to the quick in order to keep others alive. Those eyes may be a bit more haunted now, but they’re still just as keen.

You never stopped to think that you might someday meet them in person.

“Hi. You must be Joel.” _____

It’s the girls at the table that notice your interest. If left unchecked, your eyes wander across and start to examine the gorilla grip on the fork, the protective hunch over the plate, the beard that’s been newly trimmed and hair recently shaped up (by Maria, no doubt), the scars across the knuckles…temple…nose…

The man’s been through hell and back since the polaroid.

Ellie though…is unscathed, unmarred.

Protected.

And observant. She finally smirks the third time she catches you staring.

Maria’s knee bumps yours to reign you in. He’s not a threat, her eyes say.

This isn’t the time to correct her assumptions, so you put all your focus on your plate or whomever is speaking, whatever isn’t Joel Miller.

“Tomorrow’s work is barrier wall on zone two,” Tommy chews both his words and his venison at the same time. “Once we’ve got that fortified, internal barrier can come down and we can incorporate it as a new section, start safely upgrading the housing there. It’s got a school facility. Be nice to restore that for its intended use instead of using the old record store.”

“Sounds good, count me in,” Joel grunts once he’s politely swallowed his mouthful. “Just put a hammer in my hand and point me at a wall.”

“Just like the good days, eh, brother?”

“Sure.”

“I could swing a hammer” Ellie pipes up.

“You can go to school.”

She scowls darkly at Joel. “Your face can go to school.”

“Ellie–”

“Whippoorwill to Meadowlark.” The walkie on your hip crackles to life and you swallow quickly as all forks stop and all eyes swing to you.

“Meadowlark here. I hear you.”

“Wanted to let you know that all three lambs are hale and made it through the night. Mom’s a little restless, but they’re all safe in the enclosure and I’m doing a sit-in.”

“Thanks for the update. Good to know. You’re in the lead.”

“I know, but Chickadee comes in next week and I bet she takes it. Anyway. Thanks for the clothes and the book, I knew I forgot something. I’ll leave you be unless there’s any change.”

“I’m giving the walkie to Chickadee tomorrow, so you’ll have to egg her on.”

“You know I will. Whippoorwill out.”

Once the radio goes silent, there’s a mix of reactions around the table; pleasant surprise from Maria and Tommy, Joel on guard, his eyes flicking between you and the others waiting to know what it all means, and Ellie’s head twisting around, trying to catch up.

“Three?” Maria trills. “You didn’t tell me there were three new lambs!”

“Yeah. Just missed them. Whip got to do the honors–”

“The big one popped! She was a gusher!” Ellie smiles as the table turns to her. “You were talking about sheep pooping out babies?”

“Ellie, manners. People are eating.” Her guardian glares at her before checking in sheepishly with Maria.

“It’s fine,” you make her excuse. “Ellie head us over the walkies yesterday and–”

“So what’s with the code names?”

The girl is practically vibrating out of her chair with curiosity.

This time it’s your turn to be scrutinized by the newcomers; two pairs of brown eyes hungry for answers.

So you explain while you pick at your dinner.

“There’s a wide acreage outside the settlement walls, on the west patrol loop. We have a good herd of sheep out there. Can’t raise ‘em all in town, there’s not enough room or grazing, although if the winter’s bad, we’ll bring ‘em in to some barns over at the old ranch house.

“But there’s four of us shepherds, each one taking a week at a time out there. Doesn’t require much. Sheep do the hard work of eating and sleeping and rearing their lambs. We do the shearing and milking, send back daily gallons with the patrols–that’ll be the cheese on your salad there. But mostly just make sure they’re healthy and taken care of. Scare off wolves and coyotes if they come sniffing.”

“You go out there alone?” She asks, wide-eyed.

“Sure. It’s pretty secure and the patrols check the fences every day. The Roost is added security for us, since it’s elevated.”

“What’s the Roost?”

“Ah, it’s kind of a fancy treehouse?”

“Thanks to me, I’ll add,” Tommy pipes up. “When I got here, it was nothing more than a shack on a platform. This one here had a target on my back until the day she had four stout walls and a pretty little porch. Won her over pretty quick.”

“Stick built?” Joel asks, shoving a fingerling potato in his mouth.

“Yeah. Reinforced. A-frame. Even pulled windows out of a lodge.”

“Smart.”

Ellie obviously has no time for Construction Corner with the Millers. “You don’t get scared?”

There’s something about her eager wonder that grabs your attention, pulls you in tight, makes you want to answer whatever question she’s got. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I mean, not for us anyway. All of us Roostlings grew up around here. We know the sounds of the animals at night, know they’re more scared of us than we are of them. We’ve seen infected out in the wilds, sure, know what to listen for, but we also know how to defend ourselves if the barriers don’t hold…and they always hold.

“But mostly, it’s relaxing. Quiet. Slow. Time to think. There’s nothing better than a night suspended in the treetops, with the sheep below and the moon and the stars above….”

Joel has stopped chewing, a wistfulness showing from underneath his gruff mask. There’s something thrilling about catching his attention.

A goofy smile cracks Ellie’s face and she giggles, reaches out to punch him on the arm. “Did you hear that? Sheep and stars. It’s everything you dreamed of, buddy!”

“I didn’t mean…” he winces at her brute force and shoots a guarded look at you. “I think I’ll leave the sheep to the shepherds. You said you grew up here?”

It’s the first thing he’s really said to you unprompted and now that you have an excuse to look him in the eye, it’s actually hard to do. “Ah, yeah. Family sheep ranch down in…well, down-river. Not far. Maria too.”

“Spent a lot of time at that ranch growing up,” she smiles. “You and your sister were bad influences.”

“Is that why you up and left us for the big city?”

Maria laughs. “Had to get out before I spent my whole life here. Whoops.”

Joel reins the conversation back. “So you haven’t spent any time in the QZs?”

“No. Holed up at the ranch with…with some folks,” you say as Maria looks away. “Then Jackson was starting up and it was safer here, so I brought in my flock.”

“Hmm,” he grunts, reading your expression, catching the slight omission in your speech. Recognizing survivor’s talk.

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, wondering what your answer is worth to him. You’ve heard of the quarantine zones, knew how rough and miserable they could be. Tommy and Maria both had their stories and you count yourself lucky for never having been unfortunate enough to have to scrabble for existence in one of them. Would have languished and suffocated. Wouldn’t have been able to breathe without the big sky, or sleep without the mountains keeping watch…

Does he think you naive? Or that–wrongly–you’ve had it easy? Does your answer tip the scales in his opinion for the worse?

And what about him? Has the QZ made him dangerous? Hard? Dishonest? Tommy always said he was an asshole…

“Can I see it?” Ellie interjects. “The Roost. Can I go out there with you?”

The question is surprising in more ways than one; most noticeably in its boldness and by your shock in a kid getting so excited about sheep. “Uh, yeah, sure. I mean, that’s why there’s a bunk bed. We bring folks out there all the time. But you have to be willing to work while you’re out there.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Joel grumbles with a tight jaw, stabbing a potato with his fork.

Maria had explained to you the circumstances of Joel carting the girl across the country. To get her that far unscathed? To get her to the Fireflies… He must not have found them or he would have come back alone. Maybe they were dead.

Not that that would be a bad thing.

The girl is smart. Better off here.

But it seems no amount of time can take the father out of the man and he’s fallen into the role for her pretty hard, his jaw twitching as he balances between politeness and worry.

“It’s completely safe, brother. Walled in. Patrolled. In communication, as you’ve witnessed. And the Roostlings are all pretty skilled with a shotgun. She’ll be fine. Might do her some good.”

“Come on, Joooooooel. It’s sheeeeeeeep. In a treehouuuuuu-suh.”

He takes his time chewing. Keeps his eyes on his plate.

“We’ll see.”

“Well,” you smile, winking at the girl across from you, “I just got off my shift, so you’ve got three weeks to warm up to the idea before I go back.”

“Do I get a codename?” She wiggles in her seat, grinning hard at Joel, goading him.

“Sure. I don’t know. You’re pretty spikey. How about Thistle?”

“What?” This dismays her and gets a choke–and then a chuckle–out of Joel. “Why can’t I have a bird name?”

“Because you’re not a Roostling. You have to earn your wings.”

This sets her jaw in a challenge. “Oh. I’ll earn it. I’ll earn it so hard you don’t even know. Bring it on. Take me to the fluffy bastards.”

“Ellie, dammit!”

_____

“So, he’s, uh….” you hand a dish to Maria so she can dry.

“Less than personable?” She finishes, keeping her voice down so as not to be heard by the brothers chatting on the back porch.

“Got some adjusting to do if he’s gonna fit in here, I was going to say.”

“He makes you nervous though. I can tell.”

“No. Not…like that…I just…” It’s best to avoid her keen eye, but catch her surprise out of the corner of yours. “It’s just–”

“My oldest friend in this god-forsaken world,” she declares, throwing the dishtowel on the counter and settling hands on hips. “You are telling me that? That is the man that is turning your head?”

“No. That’s not…He’s…” a growl of frustration follows, trying to scare your thoughts into cohesive order as you scrub glaze out of a pan. “It doesn’t happen that often, you know? Someone from the past showing up and there’s all this…change. I mean, he’s not really from our history, but you’ve had that picture of him and his daughter sitting out and there’s this face from the past just…looming. Like, there was this man who lived and worked construction and then the worst day happened and his child was killed and the person he was just got…replaced with that guy. It’s…I’m just morbidly fascinated by what twenty years in a post-hell society can do to someone. I mean…that smile in the polaroid…he was so warm and healthy…”

It isn’t until this moment that you realize what Maria begins to surmise. The pan and washcloth are abandoned.

“So you’ve had a crush on a man from the past all this time, making your castles in the sand. And you’re disappointed that he showed up and was that.”

She generously and lovingly gives you the time to think.

“Maybe. I don’t know. He’s still good looking, so you have to give me a little slack there. But I don’t know him. Didn’t know him. It’s just an interesting thing, you know? A little fantasy of the beforetimes? One that didn’t really line up way I imagined it?”

Maria begins to laugh kindly and quietly. Then a little less kindly and a lot less quietly. “Oh shit, that man came here for sanctuary and didn’t know he walked into a full-on trap.”

“Hey!”

“No. No. That’s not fair and I’m sorry,” she concedes, taming her laughter somewhat unsuccessfully. “Just go easy on him, okay? He’s Tommy’s brother.”

“Well, then that’s as good a reason as any for me to stay on my side of the creek bed. And, to be fair, those other guys? They came after me first. I have no interest in men that have no interest in me. So it looks like he’s safe.”

“For now,” she smirks. “But. If Tommy keeps me up at night complaining that you’ve busted a bottle over his brother’s head–”

“That was one time! And that guy was a fucking jerk!”--now you’re both laughing–”Which, I guess, yeah, if Joel’s as much an asshole as Tommy says, then maybe I should play it safe and apologize to y’all in advance!”

Thank goodness you have each other to lean on, or you’d both be rolling on the floor in a cackling mess. _____

It only takes a fistful of days and as many shy nods in passing around town for a knock to come at your door one evening.

“Well…hey there….Mr. Miller. What can I do for you this evening?”

The generated streetlights don’t come all the way down your block, and he blinks in the candlelight coming from your open door, his jaw gaping slightly before sealing shut, blocking any words that want to come.

Stepping back, you let the door open wider for him. “I was just putting a snack together. You wanna come in?”

“No, I..don’t…”

You’ve seen this look before from folks new to Jackson. From folks who’ve had to keep what they have to survive. Folks who lived among others who would never offer up anything for free without the expectation of payback and therefore have forgotten–or perhaps never experienced–the simple joy of receiving hospitality.

“You don’t want to come in? Or you don’t want to eat my cooking? Because I’d be offended by either.”

Walking away from the open door has the desired effect and he finds his way to the front room sofa in view of the kitchen on his own.

It allows you to watch him check off the boxes as you put together a tray. Telltale sign of the long-hauler as he scans the rooms for exits and places where a threat could be hiding. Check. Then the sign of the QZoner as he studies his surroundings, taking in a home that’s lived in but not damaged by twenty years of decay or depression. Check.

That finally leaves him open to be vulnerable, and you watch to see if he’ll allow himself to be at ease.

The way his fingers curl and uncurl on his knees, how he looks away when you catch his eye.

You wonder if he’ll ever really sink in. Having family here will help.

“You drink, Joel Miller?”

“Depends,” he answers vaguely, but nods with certainty.

Your offering is simple, rye crackers on a plate, a disk of sheep’s milk cheese with a knife in it, two tumblers, and a bottle of sunshine.

“You all are sure generous with your whiskey around here,” he comments as you pour him a full glass.

“Not whiskey. Cider.”

He frowns. “Cider? You make this?”

“I’m not that talented,” you wave your hand over the cheese and crackers. “As you can see, this is what I consider cooking. Like most things here, I traded for it. There’s an orchard a ride out. Gone wild. It gets harvested once a year and there’s a cider press in town. Couple of ladies spend a good month canning and bottling.”

“Seems like the women run the show around here,” he says, impressed, taking a sip and then staring hard at the glass. “Holy shit.” You’re not sure at first if that’s a good or bad expression until he goes in for another drink.

“That make you nervous? Ladies brewing up the good stuff?” You only laugh at his impression of a deer in the headlights. “I suppose if you’ve spent enough time around Maria, it’s easy to think that. It’s just a very empowered place for everyone. Everyone’s got something to contribute that gives them some pride and gets them some respect. And I guess, in that way, you don’t have to worry about Ellie here. I can tell she’s gonna find her place and do just fine.”

“That’s actually what I came by for,” he says, distracted by the cider. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink of something that doesn’t burn?”

“It’s sweet, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s been a minute since I had anything sweet.”

You let that hang, watch him examine the amber liquid…or, rather, a memory swirling in its depths.

Twenty years of a broken heart can’t be good for a person.

“You came to talk about Ellie?”

It takes him a second to realize you’re addressing him, but he only nods, and finishes the glass. When you pick up the bottle to pour him another, he quietly stops you with a gesture and the tiniest shake of the head. No. “You ever have raiders come by your Roost?”

“We’ve seen raiders in the area. They’ve attacked the town border before. Always small groups. Hungry. They don’t have the numbers or the ammo round these parts.”

“But what about out there in the open?”

Crossing your arms and leaning back in your seat, you let him know he’s being assessed, let it sink in that he might be over-protective and has the right to be scared but doesn’t need to be. Realize he may never grow out of his defensive conditioning.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Joel Miller. There’s always a chance. But I don’t know if there are any words I can say that would magically put you at ease. There’s one thing I can see though, you care a lot about that girl. I reckon you’re here tonight because she’s bugged you about going out there. And you hate disappointing her, so here you are. But you’re also afraid of letting her out of your sight.”

He doesn’t look at you. Just rolls his glass between his wide palms.

Ducking forward, you do your best to get your smile in his eyeline. “Since I can’t convince you with words, I’ll do it with evidence. Ride out there with me tomorrow and see for yourself.”

“I don’t…that’s not what…”

“Hey. Good parents want their kids to be safe. I know the type.” It was meant to put him at ease, but you realize a bit too late that your words were poorly chosen. It’s difficult to read his emotion; there may be a few going on at once. 

Most of them break your heart. 

An apology would only make it worse. “Tomorrow morning. Stables. Dawn.”

________

He doesn’t like to talk much, Joel Miller. Knows his way around a horse like a true Texan should, completely at ease with a shotgun strapped to his back, but doesn’t seem to want to spoil the silence. Or perhaps he’s just always on guard. That’s okay. You like the sounds of the morning. The crunch of the woodland floor, the sweep of the wind in the leaves. The birds have been up for hours already, their voices warmed up and singing clear. It’s still chilly at daybreak this time of year and steam rises from the horses’ noses, mixing with the fog of the dew evaporating in the rising sun.

After a good half-hour ride through dappled forest light at a leisurely pace, you take up the walkie that you’ve borrowed from Chickadee.

“Meadowlark to Whippoorwill.”

Seconds and trees roll by as you wait for your answer. No hurry.

“Whippoorwill here. You taking another shift? You’re a day early.”

“Nope. Just giving a new resident a tour and letting you know we’re coming in at the north passage. Put some clothes on and don’t shoot us.”

“I make no promises.”

“Don’t ever change, Whip.”

As you come to a ravine and dismount, Joel finally pipes up. “Put some clothes on?”

“Yeah,” you explain, leading the horse down the steep incline, “Whip’s a nudist. Don’t ever show up at her house unannounced if you aren’t ready for a lot of skin.” When he doesn’t know what to say, you smile over your shoulder. “Just fucking with you. Although, there is a stream to the south we all like to skinny dip in come summer.” Another baffled look from him, and another sly smile from you.

He’s distracted by this to the point that he actually flinches when the barrier appears before him. “The hell?” he exclaims, examining a hedge of vines growing up over a twelve-foot tall wall of stone. “You don’t even notice this from the top.”

“Nope. That’s the point. Doesn’t look like a wall from up there, just looks like a hedge from down here. Most people don’t want to make the effort to climb down but if they do, they just assume they have to find another way.”

“This is the meadow perimeter?”

“Well, this gate anyway. A lot of it is woven steel gage and cliffs that only goats can manage. Most of it is natural barrier or camouflage like this so you wouldn’t even know there’s anything being protected.”

“Huh. Clever.”

“Welcome to Jackson Meadow, home of the Roost.”

After displacing and replacing some facing shrubs, you’re able to coax the horses through a narrow tunnel and up a gentle rise that eventually opens out into a sweeping field in a valley under the face of the butte.

It’s still early enough that the wildflowers are just slivers of purples and yellows behind their bud casings, but they spread far and wide across the green expanse, broken only by the random white-gray lumps of grazing sheep. The sun is just beginning to break over the surrounding mountains to the east, but once it spills over, it will only make the spring colors of the valley more vivid than any surviving photograph, more picturesque than any oil on canvas…probably. It’s been decades since you’ve seen a landscape painting, so what the hell do you know.

Able to ride side by side now, you make another study of your companion. And there’s a war going on inside him. You can tell he’s taken by the raw beauty of the meadow, but twenty years of looking over his shoulder makes him nervous in wide open spaces and his eyes won’t stop moving between the grasses and the treeline, constantly appreciating, constantly scanning.

“Relax, Mr. Miller. Enjoy the view. You’re in good hands. See that patch of trees up there?” You nod to a wooded area near the center of the expanse. “Roost is in there. I guarantee you Whip has eyes on us and everything in this valley right now.” Raising a hand over your head with three fingers raised, you use the other hand to point to them.

The walkie smacks on and Whippoorwill’s steady drawl comes out. “Three.”

You wave. Smile at Joel. “See?”

He relaxes in the saddle and a quiet, ponderous minute goes by before he works up the bother to ask whatever’s tumbling around in that head of his. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“What.”

“Mr. Miller. I’m no mister. It’s just Joel.”

Things are slow in Jackson, people take their time. As you do with your answer. “Maybe it’s my way of keeping a distance, Joel Miller. You seem like the kind of man that likes people to keep their distance so he can get a good read and make sure it’s safe to approach.”

Twisting with a frown, he scans you as if he’s never really looked before, maybe a little annoyed that you have his number.

You dismount your chestnut mare some distance before reaching the trees, leave the reins to the saddle and let her be, walking over to the nearest duo of sheep–a mother and baby. The ewe bleats at you out of habit, but knows you’re no real harm. She watches her lamb though, chewing when she remembers to.

This lamb is still very young and you’re not sure if it will remember. There’s a bounce to the left, and then two to the right, and then each leg steps carefully as he haltingly makes his way forward. You’re able to scoop him up and turn him over in your arms like a baby, instantly quelling him, and his legs hilariously splay.

“What’d you do to it?” Joel, having followed suit and let his horse graze, walks up and there’s the tiniest smile as he gazes down at the creature in your arms.

“Nothing, that’s just what they do when you turn ‘em over. Here.” You don’t even tell him to put his arms out or ask if he wants to hold the lamb, you simply get close enough and the man’s instincts kick in. All you have to do is hand him off.

Joel’s surprised at first, flinches a bit when the lamb wiggles in his arms–the tiniest protest to being transferred to an unfamiliar nanny. But then both of them calm and you have to stifle a laugh as the two of them just…stare at each other. The lamb in his lamby wonder, and Joel like a new, star-struck dad.

Going about your business, you begin checking the creature’s general health, pushing at the belly, checking the mouth. “This one was born on my last watch, so he’s only about ten days old.”

“Really,” Joel sighs, totally enchanted, not even realizing that he’s instinctually bouncing the lamb a bit. The father in him showing its face again.

“Yep. And,” you indicate the mother, now watching a bit more closely since there’s an unfamiliar human involved, “I birthed that one too. And probably most of her whole line for the last twenty years or more. All of them were as little as this one, and all of them survived. And if the Roost can raise flocks and flocks of dumb little sheep, we can certainly take care of one smart little girl.”

When he scans you this time, it’s clear you’ve given him reasoning that resonates.

He allows you to lift the lamb from his arms, watching thoughtfully as the little thing springs away past its mother and tumbles into some lupines head first. After it recovers and bounces a little more, you bring Joel’s attention to the trees a few hundred meters to the south.

“You can just catch the Roost there, see? The A-frame sticks up above the treetops. And that’ll be Willa at the porch railing.”

He squints. “How do you get up?”

“Retractable ladder. Tommy rigged it for us. You gotta be in it to win it. You’re either up it or fuck it. Ergo, if the ladder’s up, you don’t get in.”

“Huh. How do you get supplies up? Pulley?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

It’s a quiet ride back to Jackson, and you do your best not to look over your shoulder to gauge his reaction, like Orpheus leading Euridice out of Hades trying not to lose a tenuous chance for Ellie to spread her wings. It’s not every day a young person wants to learn the shepherding gig. Most of them want to stay in town near their friends, or are too afraid of the world to venture out. Ellie though, she’s been in the world. Observant. Eager to learn. Fearless.

The sheep could use someone like her.

You could too.

It’s when he’s busy unsaddling his horse in the stables that he clears his throat, and you let the curry brush lighter over your horse’s coat so you can hear him think out loud.

“Yeah that works,” he mumbles. “Think it might be good for her.”

Poking your face over your mare’s shoulder and waiting to catch his eye, you release the hounds of smiletown. “You’re right. And probably good for you too, Joel Miller.”

____

“Whoa, coooooool!!!” Ellie says for the fourth time on the ride from Jackson as she spies the Roost through the trees.

Over the past few family dinners, Ellie asked a million questions about this week–how to stay warm, where to bathe, if the sheep bite–anything and everything, even if it was common sense.

And with every answer she’d listen, enrapt, her eyes flicking to Joel now and then. It became obvious to you–although maybe not to the others–that she was asking not so much for her own good, but to calm Joel, signal that she was thinking ahead and covering all the bases, that even if she already knew the answers it might calm him to hear them too.

A little overkill. But the concern they showed for each other while trying not to be sappy about it was endearing you to both of them.

And perhaps Joel was calmed; maybe not so much by the answers you gave, but the way you gave them--calmly, indulgently, and with just a little bit of sass to show you could keep up with Ellie’s tongue and put her in a figurative headlock when she got too cocky. You caught Joel smiling down into his plate a few times. And at you a few more.

He’s got a good smile. It comes out more often now.

A duffel bag lands on the ground at the base of the Roost’s tree and your horses jump a little. Then there’s a cheerful trill from above, “I’ll be right down! Just packing up the wool!”

“No rush, Goldie! We’ll go water the horses while we wait.”

Ellie follows your lead you as you dismount to pull the packs off the horses–bulky with a week’s weight of food, water, and clothes–before climbing back into the saddle and heading off to the south.

“There’s a creek up here flows right down from the Tetons. Purest, cleanest water you’ll ever see.”

“Can you drink it?”

“Absolutely. You, me, the sheep, it’s for all of us. We humans boil it first, of course.”

Ellie’s nose wrinkles. “Seems a waste. I mean, if it’s coming down from the mountains it’s really cold right? We hardly ever had cold water in the QZ. It’s so good when it’s cold.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune when you have to bathe in it.” Her face falls and you can’t help but laugh, hauling yourself out of the saddle and guiding the beast through the pebbled creekbed. “Believe me, come summer, you’ll be plenty happy with how cold it is.”

Once the horses are watered it’s a leisurely stroll back to the Roost, handing the reins over to a tall, veritable Viking of a woman, stong-boned and willowy all at the same time, the long golden braid spilling down her back and curls springing out from the sides of her face giving her the appearance that she’s wearing a lazy albino scorpion on her head. Her blue flannel matches her eyes and clashes with her sunburned cheeks.

“Ellie, this is Goldfinch, our junior Roostling.”

The woman takes Ellie’s small hand in her long, sturdy fingers. “Maybe not so junior if you pull yourself up on board.”

“Goldie started with us about ten years back when she was around your age.”

“Ten years ago?” Ellie asks. “There hasn’t been any new shepherds since then?”

The Rootling shares a concerned look with you before you answer, “Well, there have been, but not all of them stuck.” And you put the question to rest by helping Goldie pack up your horse. “Shit, this is a lot of wool. How many did you do?”

“About twelve?” She answers. “I’m only taking ten worth. Left the rest for you.”

“Damn, you must have been bored. Ellie, can you hand me that duffel? Thanks.”

As Ellie brings the bag to you, she’s also scanning the thatch of forest where the Roost stands. “So she’s taking the horses? She doesn’t have her own?”

“Horses are a sign of civilization,” Goldie offers. “Especially if they’re on a picket line. And we like to keep it not so obvious that we’re out here. We’d have to keep them on picket or they’d just wander off back toward the gate an s hang out there wanting to go home and give away that location.”

“Besides,” you explain, “won’t need ‘em until we go back to Jackson. Safest place to be in the whole pasture is the Roost with the ladder up and a loaded shotgun nearby, not trying to saddle up to ride off. If there’s trouble, we can hold out the time it takes for a posse to come down from town.”

“Is there ever trouble?” Ellie wonders, just slightly concerned.

“Never yet,” you wink.

Finally there’s the ceremonial clink of the walkies, acknowledging that the leaving Roostling is taking hers home and the new occupant has one with a completely restored battery. “Patrol, this is Meadowlark taking over for Goldfinch.”

A few quiet seconds. A pinecone drops nearby.

Then a man’s voice from the speaker. “Meadowlark, this is patrol, we read you. We’ll be hitting east gate around noon today. Anything you need?”

“Nope, we just landed. By ‘we’ I mean me and a learner. New girl, Ellie Williams. Callsign Thistle.”

“Copy. Welcome to the Roost, Thistle.”

Ellie beams, then blinks as you hold the walkie to her face, and you nod her a nod of encouragement.

“Thanks…patrol. Uh…Thistle over and out.”

“Good job, kid,” Goldie says, hoisting a leg over the horse and taking the reins of Ellie’s mare from you. “Have a good week, you two. May your days be filled with storms.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Ellie turns to you. “Storms?”

You strap a pack over each shoulder and start climbing the ladder. “We’re in friendly competition with each other to have the most lambs born on our watch and shear the most sheep. If it rains it can be miserable work at best and impossible at worst and we’re less likely to make good numbers. So it’s an affectionate curse.”

“Oh. Seems cruel to the sheep.”

“What do you mean?”

Shouldering a smaller pack, Ellie starts climbing behind you. “Wishing for storms when they have to be out in it.”

“Eh, they’re happy as clams when it rains. They’ve got wool sweaters already.”

“I’ve never worn a wool sweater.”

Reaching the top, you wait for her to crest so you can see the look on her face when she does. “Then you’re in for a treat. It takes a lot to waterlog wool. Rolls right off. You’ll see. You’ll love it. And that’s not even mentioning the socks!”

“What does happy as a clam mean–” she begins, but stops abruptly as her face comes to the top of the ladder, her mouth opening in awe, rounding in concert with her eyes. “Whoa! Holy shit!!!”

The Roost as a whole isn’t all that large and can be crossed in half a dozen steps. Roughly a seven meter square platform, it holds a one-room cabin with a balcony running along the north and east sides. The windowed, A-frame peak looks out to the north pasture and the roof slopes just out and above the east balcony to shade it in a cascade of knotty pine. Windows wrap all but the west side, the interior wall of which has a simple built-in double cabinet bed with a single bunk running across its head above.

It’s this cabinet bed that draws Ellie inside, and you watch her slowly take in the rest of the cabin, with its rustic table and chairs–Goldie left a couple Indian Painbrush in a mug of water in the sun–the windowed corner with the soft, plush, patchwork pillow chair and a basket full of wool roving, the opposite corner with its woodstove upon a harlequin tilework patch of floor and the spare array of cooking tools on spiraled iron hooks in the knotted wood walls.

The honey dark timber stretches overhead to a peak, from which hangs dried strands of vegetables and herbs, higher up a set of snowshoes, a number of straps and ropes–a butcher’s hook among them, the one arguably ominous tool, meant to make dragging a bloated carcass easier…although it is rarely needed anymore.

Even though the Roost has become your home away from home, the fresh smell off the boards and the dust motes dancing in the sun make you pause and smile every time.

It’s just comfortable enough for two people, a generous hideaway for one, and your favorite place in the whole world. There’d been more than one occasion where you thought about asking Tommy to build you its replica in Jackson, but it would be a shame to ruin its uniqueness…and, of course, there were higher priorities in town.

“Is that where you sleep?” Ellie points at the cabinet bed.

“Yep. Or you, if you want. There’s a bunk. I’ll take whichever you don’t want.”

Bouncing over to the side of the cabinet with the recessed ladder, she climbs, pats the mattress, and frowns. “Why’s it all lumpy?”

“It’s filled with fleece. Same down here. It doesn’t feel lumpy when you sleep on it. Feels like a cloud hugging you. How’s the view up there?”

Ellie pets the bunk mattress another second or two, considering it, before turning out with a smile, “It’s–” but the smile fades when she sees beyond the four meter peak of the cabin and out through the windows for the first time.

Turning to face outward--to see though her eyes–-the sun is breaking fully over the butte, filling the valley like a warm, golden bath, serving up a green to the eye that exists nowhere else in the world. It never gets old and is beautiful from every angle, especially this view from the treetops, birds-eye.

Wordlessly she descends the bunk ladder behind you and wanders out to the balcony, resting her forearms against it, staring out at the vista, and you let her have it while you unpack the bags, situate the supplies, assess the woodpile, toss a set of fresh sheets on each bed.

Once finished with the settle in, you join Ellie where she’s drifted to the other side of the balcony, looking out at the north pasture where the sheep like it best.

After a moment she asks quietly, “What was this place before?”

“This land?” you specify, and she nods. “It was just this. A valley meadow. Native land.”

“It’s hardly touched out here. No broken buildings. No bomb craters.”

“Nope. This place was never really that urban. Even with all those people, some wild places remained. Some were actually sanctioned by the government as untouchable natural places, just to let the animals live and the trees grow. It was for everyone to enjoy.”

“National parks.”

“Yeah, that’s right. This was part of a park like that. But Jackson wasn’t densely populated. Didn’t spread as fast out here. We were low priority. No bombs. So many of us lived on our own land that when the governments came to round any of us up, we’d take up arms and hold our ground. It’s what my sister and I did when they came at our ranch. I think after a while military just left the area thinking if we all got infected it could only spread so far before it just finished off the population and had nowhere left to go.”

“Did it?”

“Oh it came, but it didn’t take everyone. It wandered in later, like everything does out here. Cordyceps are like a fashion. It spread in the urban areas first and made its way out here eons later. But there were fewer people in a lot larger space…and a lot more guns. It was easy to stamp out.”

Ellie’s not like most of the other kids in town who nod at your ancient stories of the olden times. To them, this is the world as it is and how it will be and stories of how it used to be are less than monumental, just a passing curiosity for aimless evenings around a fire. But Ellie’s attention reaches beyond the meadow, beyond the mountains, beyond what she can see. It stretches out in time and tries to divine the past and what might have been; she tries to calculate what exactly was lost and in what ways it’s actually better. A life she could have had versus the one that’s brought her here to this balcony in the morning sun.

A far off bleat becomes a signal for the reverie to break, and you bump your shoulder against hers.

“C���mon. I’ll show you how we do the rounds.”

_____

After a few days, Ellie is doing the morning rounds on her own, reporting in when she notices an ewe in a lay, keeping an eye out for cast sheep–“You see a sheep on its back, do whatever you can to right it, you’ve got about twenty-four hours until they die there of bloat and stupidity,”--and generally letting them all get to know her.

“You’ll need to take your time. Let the lambs come to you or the mammas get emotional about it. Treat ‘em light and gentle for a while. If the ewe sees no need to watch you anymore that means she trusts you and you can pet and pick up the little ones if they let you. But they start cryin’, best to put ‘em down and let ‘em run. Never chase them. You chase them and never let them come to you, they’ll run when you need to get to them most. Take ‘em some apple or carrot and they’ll be your friend forever. Squash and pumpkin are good too. Sometimes I’ll bring out a pocketful of oats. Don’t tell the stablemasters in town; they’d have my ass.”

By mid-week if you couldn’t find Ellie, all you’d need to do was climb up to the Roost and survey the green meadow for the contrast of her red tshirt and you’d spy her sprawled out in the grasses surrounded by a clutch of lambs and ewes. The girl was a sucker for animals.

Shearing went by faster with someone there to hold hooves and legs or just keep the lambs within sight so any ewe under the shear wasn’t kicking to check on her baby. It might have been Ellie’s least favorite part except for the evening time task of carding wool (“Boring”) and drop spinning (“Impossible”).

“Motherfucker,” she whispers, singing a song of hatred at the breaking threads on her spindle, throwing her hands out and taking a dramatic fall backward onto the wool rug she’s sitting on.

“Patience, young grasshopper. It’s not a fast skill; it can take years to learn to spin consistently,” you laugh in the warm glow of the lantern, your spindle wizzing as your yarn pulls at an even gauge, “and all you have out here is time. You’ll get it.”

“Grasshopper? Have I graduated from Thistle?”

“Nope, sorry. Old joke, before your time.”

Abandoning her work and rolling over to her belly, Ellie kicks her stockinged feet lazily in the air and pulls at the fibers in the rug. “There’s only one more day left and there haven’t been any new lambs.”

“Season’s slowing down some. They’ll be fewer and further between.”

“Don’t you wanna win?”

“Win at numbers? Not if it means the health of the sheep. They’ll birth when they birth. Besides, nobody’s beating Willa this year. Those triplets made that a certainty.”

“Whippoorwill’s name is Willa. Chickadee’s name is Addie.”

“Yup.”

“So everyone turned their name into the closest sounding bird except you.”

“Nah. We’re just not real clever with the names is all. Goldie’s name is Pam. We just call her Goldfinch because she’s a blond. Probably wouldn’t even have callsigns but that it makes it easier to hear over the walkie.”

“So what about yours then? Why Meadowlark?”

You smile. “Larks are songbirds. I like to sing when I’m out here. I’ve been caught at it so many times, I don’t even hide it anymore.” You belt a made-up melody loudly out through the open window into the night, “Isn’t tha-a-at ri-ight you wooly ba-a-a-asta-a-a-ards!”

A sleepy sheep calls back in irritation.

“You’re a weird lady.”

“You’re a weird lady.”

Ellie laughs begrudgingly, sits up with a grunt and starts picking at her thread again, squinching her mouth at the lumps. “So if I become a Roostling, I don’t get to pick my own bird?”

“I’m sure we could make an exception. Why? You got one in mind? Because left to us you’d probably be a red-bELLIEd something-or-other.”

“Ha ha. Fine. I don’t know much about birds. Mostly just pigeons in Boston.”

“Well fuck if I’m gonna call you Pigeon.”

The night’s starting to chill down a little and she hugs her knees into her chest, setting her chin on them in thought. It’s about time to close up the window and put a few logs in the stove, but Ellie’s attention wanders up and out among the stars.

You have so many questions. Were all the kids in Boston as stubborn and wild and foul-mouthed as her? Where were her parents? Dead, most likely, but how did she survive them? How did she meet Joel? Did she smuggle run with him? She’s a fair shot with a shotgun, but not practiced. Did he get her here all by himself? That takes a lot of luck and skill. He must care about her a lot to bring her with him all this way, to keep her safe….

“So it was just you and Joel out there for a long time, huh.”

“Yeah.”

“I bet you’re happy to finally have somewhere warm to sleep. Traveling during the winter would have been rough. Good thing it was a milder one this time around.”

She gives a pathetic shrug. “I dunno. I liked it. Just us under the stars. We looked out for each other.”

“Well, you have a lot of folks who will look out for the both of you now. And if you need someone to look after, well, these sheep could really use you.”

Unexpectedly, she laughs, something you’ve said keeps her in the giggles for a while. “One night we were camping and I asked Joel where he wanted to go most in the world and he said he wanted to settle down and farm sheep. This is kind of his dream. But then he said that he wanted to be a musician. Maybe he should be the one out here with you to watch sheep and sing.”

“Maybe. Does he have a tolerable voice? The sheep are picky, as you’ve heard.”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t sing for me,” she squishes her cheek into her knee, giving you a shit-eating grin and a teasing sing song. “But I bet he’d sing for you if you asked him.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” you smile and wink, trying to hide your chagrin under a swirling cape of nonchalance. “I can be very persuasive. But...I don’t think Tess would like that so much.”

“How do you know about Tess?”

“Tommy has his tales. They were quite a little family unit for a while. I’m actually surprised she didn’t show up here with you two.”

This sobers her, turns her attention back out to the stars, halting her response. “She would have…. but she didn’t make it.”

A chilly breeze sweeps through the window, and you’re not quite sure if it’s the drop in the air or your heart that makes you shiver.

Tess didn’t make it. In the world as it is, that means one thing. You wonder what happened. How. If it was horrific–of course it was, you can see it in Ellie’s hardened eyes that it was–and how much it affects her or doesn’t. It’s so difficult to tell with kids these days. In the end though, it hardly matters how. In all the myriad of ways it could have happened, it would have ended the same.

You wonder if Tommy knows.

You suddenly feel ashamed of that selfish little spark of hope it sparks in you.

But while what you know about Joel Miller could fill a book, what you don’t know about him could fill a library.

And you’ve had enough time pass through you to know that a lot of patience and a little observation can go a long way towards preventing disaster.

Thoughts for another time.

“What about you, kid, hmm? What was your answer? In all the world, where would you go?”

But you’d already guessed, seen the longing in her face every night this week and see it now as she looks out the window at the silent silver satellite in the sky.

_____

“Ow, dammit! Just keep a good hold on her back legs so she stops kicking me!”

The lamb is breach and you’re halfway up to your elbow in sheep, trying to push at the little one’s one back haunch to clear the way for the other leg. Ellie, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement keeps letting the ewe’s leg slip and you’d be laughing if the hooves didn’t pack such a punch.

You must have seen a thousand sheep born and assisted in a high percentage of those in your lifetime, but this one manages to give you a new rush. It’s the morning you’ll be heading back to Jackson and you were afraid you’d go all week without Ellie getting to experience a birth. Here it is, and she’s just as thrilled as you’d hoped and all you have to do is make sure both the lamb and the ewe make it through.

It doesn’t take much–a little push, a little twist, a little pull, a little gasp from Ellie–you’re able to get both back hooves in your hand and the little one comes sliding out in a gloopy mess onto the grass. Your favorite flannel is caked with blood and you’ll have to go straight to the launders with it on arrival back in town…

…but it’s all worth it when the baby bleats the tiniest baa and Ellie giggles and clutches her cheeks.

“Holy shit! That was awesome! It’s so tiny! Can I name it? Like Snowball or something?”

The footfalls making their way through the meadow proceed Willa’s answer, “You don’t have to do that. The earth and the sky and the wind will name her themselves.”

Leaning back to acknowledge not only your friend and her arrival, but also a broad form following her clad in denim and gristle.

“Brought you a friend,” Willa smirks for the girl’s benefit, tilting her head in Joel’s direction.

“Joel!!! Look!!!” Ellie’s grin is so full she can’t even close her jaw, gaping like a kid who just saw her first Christmas tree.

Another tiny bleat escapes the lamb as its mother begins to lick it clean and Joel’s eyes nearly disappear behind cheeks and crinkles. “Hey there, babygirl. You have a good time?”

“Fuck YES.”

Willa extends a hand to help Ellie up and Joel does the same for you, taking care to keep your dripping forearm at a good distance.

“She did real good out here; you’d be proud,” you praise the girl, squelching her grin with a big, wet, slap on the back. “I’d love to have her again.”

“Aw, maaaaaaan!” Ellie reels in disgust as you dig your palm into her shoulder, really getting the juices in there.

“You just earned your keep, kid.”

This snaps her head around. “Really? Do I get a bird name now?”

“Yup. And I think I know what’ll suit you just fine.” In a short second of mountain time, the wind picks up just a little, lifting the brown curls around her face and the sun comes up behind her over the bluff, kissing her pink cheeks as you lean down and look her straight in the eye.

“Welcome to the Roostlings, Starling.”

____

You let them ride ahead of you, allow the father-daughter team to catch each other up on the week’s news, watch adoringly as Ellie chatters on about the lambs and how they tumble and bounce and how cold the water is and how the Roost creaks and sways a bit when it’s windy, which sheep were her favorite and how much she hates spinning wool.

Next time you’ll have to teach her how to knit, you think. She’ll probably take to that a little better.

And when he’s not giving her his glowing attention, Joel’s only report is that he started work in the new section of town, nothing exciting except the house was blessedly quiet for a whole week thank god.

She still has stories to tell Maria and Tommy at family dinner, repeating again some of the highlights you overheard her tell Joel, and new ones she just remembered. Your friends smile and listen, bewitched, time enough to give her an ear and delighted with the novelty of an excited young person at their table.

“Looks like you have yourself a new recruit,” Maria laughs. “What did you settle on for a callsign?”

Ellie tips her head back, answering through a mouthful of potatoes, “Starling!” and slaps a hand over her mouth when a chunk goes flying.

“Ellie, dammit, talk OR chew, not AND.”

Maria ignores Joel’s curse at her dinner table to ask you, “What prompted that?”

You chew and swallow, pointedly showing off the patience that the girl couldn’t muster, a blatant tease. “Seemed a good choice. Kid’s a sucker for the stars.” You match Ellie’s smile before you sweetly add, “And, y’know. Because starlings are loud and annoying as hell.”

That earns you a bird of another kind.

_____

Tommy cuts a good silhouette against the coming twilight as he lines himself up to the peg and explains for his adopted niece how to score a ringer in an after-dinner game of horseshoes. He demonstrates the looseness of the grip, the swing of the iron, and Ellie soaks it up like a sponge, eager to learn.

He’s a good teacher. He taught Maria…who is currently beating his ass. But Maria is good at whatever she does regardless, always has been.

You concluded long ago that it’s not your game. Branded it a Texas thing and took up your spot on the back porch swing with a bottle of cider, kicking off your boots and putting your woolen-socked feet up on the railing to enjoy the setting sun reflecting off the mountain face.

There’s a cheer as Ellie tosses and the shoe lands with a loud clang.

The porch door opens when Joel returns with a bottle for himself. But instead of rejoining the game, he wanders over to sit next to you on the swing, upsetting it enough to pull your feet from their perch.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Pull up a seat, Joel Miller.”

Several lazy minutes pass, a sweet, comfortable silence filled with the occasional sip from a bottle and an exchanged smile as you push at the porch a little, encouraging the swing to do its thing. And he lets his knees go soft, keeps his feet on the ground but aids in a little gentle rocking.

“Thank you,” he says, finally, tipping his head toward his ward as she scores yet again, “for taking her out there. She hasn’t shut up about it since.”

“Yeah? What’d she have to say?”

“Went on about the lambs, complained about how cold the water was. Said she was tired because she liked getting up early in the morning to see the sunrise but liked being in the trees at night and wanted to stay up to listen to the night birds. Said you liked to sing when you work and the fact that she didn’t complain about it–and from what I heard the night we met you–makes me think you’re not too bad at it. Not too fond of your cooking, though.”

That earns a snort from you. “Well I don’t blame her there; I warned y’all. I wouldn’t say she’s the most obedient kid, but she sure is smart, and really capable and brave. That girl eats the world with the spoon she’s so hungry to know all the things all the time. And strong–she swings an axe better than me. Got a mouth on her–”

“Sorry about that–”

“--and is beautifully, brutally honest, and pretty fucking hilarious. She’s really special.”

“Yeah. Yeah she is.” Something like pride melts his shoulders as he watches Ellie joke around with Tommy, and then slowly evolves into gratitude as he turns to you, to someone who can see her like he does. “Funny, that’s what she said about you.”

There’s a pull to share in that pride and gratitude, to lean in and let yourself bask in the glow of the compliment.

But a wall goes up when you reveal, as kindly as you can, “She told me Tess didn’t make it.” As his eyes grow stony and deny you the pleasure of their focus, you chase after his attention by turning your body toward him on the swing, bringing a knee up and placing a hand on his forearm, gently urging him to stay here with you. “Hey. She didn’t tell me what happened and I don’t need to know and you don’t have to talk about it. But I do need to ask you one thing. That man out there might be your brother, but he’s my friend. And Tess might have been your lady, but she was still family to him. She was important to him. And he’s important to me. And I need to ask you if he knows.”

The arm under your finger tenses as his fingers grip the cider bottle and you move to let go–to let him know you’re not forcing him–but a hand claps down over yours. It’s now his turn to urge you to stay, to give him a minute, to let him bust through whatever is starting to well up in him so he can swallow and tell you, “He knows.” Another quiet minute as he stares out at his family on the back lawn, his jaw working to bring the air in and keep the tension out. “He knows. Thank you…thank you for… taking care of him too.”

His fingers flutter a little, scarred knuckles contracting and loosening like he’s fighting the instinctual urge to hang onto something. So you set your bottle on the porch railing and gently lift his away too, slip out of this awkward hold and instead shift his hand between both of yours, giving it warmth, giving it permission to hold onto you like it wants to.

“They’re my family, which means you are now too. As long as you plan to leave off your wandering and let us keep you safe and cared for, that’s thanks enough, Joel Miller.”

“Quit that,” he grumbles, clasping your hand in case you interpret his words as an ask for release, needing a stolen moment of secret comfort in the deepening twilight. “Joel’s enough. You sound like my mother.”

“Okay,” you compromise, trying to tame your eager heart, silently explain to it that there’s nothing here but the time to do things right. “Okay, Joel.” You smile. “Joel Joel Cinnamon Roll.”

“Shit,” he cringes, shakes his head slowly, stifling a laugh. “Now you really sound like my mother. That’s what she used to call me, how did you-- Tommy.”

“Yup.”

“I hate you both.”

“No you don’t.”

Ellie scores another ringer and Joel smiles. “No, I don’t.”

________

NEXT: SUMMER

MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

[crazywomanposting]

ೃ⁀➷ maneater (spencer reid x oc)

summary: Spencer falls in love with an unsub.

warnings: explicit sexual content, graphic descriptions of violence

read this on ao3!

Chapter 7: The Woman Is Wild

They had spent that evening sitting beside each other in silence. Mary watched him process it for a while, before silently leaving. Undoubtedly, not the resolution she had hoped for. 

He spent his Sunday thinking about her. Her mouth, her teeth marks on a corpse, her hair, her hands bloody. Thinking about the families who buried empty coffins, hoping one day a body would be found, knowing now it never will. 

Now, it was Monday. Time to put his game face on and act like everything is normal, lest he be arrested on eight counts of aiding and abetting homicide. 

Garcia greeted him as soon as the elevator doors slid open. 

“Spencer!” She flung her arms around his neck. He could feel her pom-pom earrings against his neck. 

“Garcia, how are you?” He grinned at her. 

“I’m good.” She drew out each word, and cast a sidelong glance at him. 

He must be doing a terrible job of acting normal, if even Garcia was on to him. 

The day passed similarly, small talk, weird looks, paperwork. Spencer was grateful for the admin work, especially today, as it gave him an excuse to keep his head down. 

Hotch came by his desk in the early afternoon, just as Morgan was beginning to formulate excuses to get out of the office early. 

“Reid,” He began, “Let’s talk, in my office.” 

Spencer’s pulse raced. It was all over. They knew. She had confessed or Erica had. He was spiralling as Hotch closed the door. 

“Are you feeling alright?” 

Spencer froze. 

“Sorry?” 

Hotch furrowed his brow. 

“Reid, are you alright?” He leaned against his desk, arms crossed. 

“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Sorry.” Spencer stammered, wringing his hands together. 

“Reid, if you need to take some time, that’s fine. I know, with everything that happened last year…” He trailed off. 

“I’m fine, Hotch. Really.” He tried his best ‘don’t worry about me’ grin. 

Hotch didn’t seem convinced. 

“Okay.” 

Morgan had weaselled his way out of the office before 3pm–a record. Prentiss wasn’t far behind. JJ, however, seemed to be busying herself, as if purposefully hanging back. 

“JJ,” Spencer began, “I’ll finish off whatever you need.” 

She pressed her lips together. “I’m worried about you,” She blurted.

He tried his best not to fidget. 

“Spence, you seem off lately. Talk to me,” She stood and walked toward his desk. 

He shook his head. “I’m fine, JJ. I promise.” 

She held his gaze. 

“No. I know you’re not. Even before San Francisco, you were off. It’s more than just that case.” 

Oh. He’d nearly forgotten. This was the perfect excuse. 

“It’s my mom. She’s gotten worse.” He wouldn’t elaborate. She would just have to be satisfied with that. 

Her face fell. “Oh, Spence.” 

She threw her arms around him. He reluctantly returned the embrace. Far too many people had hugged him today. 

⁂

When he returned home, he hoped to see her. Then, chastised himself for hoping. Either way, she wasn’t there. 

It hadn’t been until he was sitting at his dining table, littered with paper, that he heard a knock. Something in him stirred, but she wouldn’t knock. She’d break and enter. 

He tentatively opened the door, to reveal her small frame, brown eyes peering up at him. 

“Something smells good.” 

Embarrassment flamed his cheeks. “Indian food.” He sounded simple. 

“Can I come in?” She took a step towards him. 

“Yeah.” He didn’t move. 

She took another step, seeming to enjoy how flustered he was getting. Her hand wrapped around his forearm. 

“You’re in my way.” She breathed. 

He took a sudden step back and nearly lost his balance on the uneven hardwood floors. 

“Sorry, sorry.” 

He moved towards the table, suddenly unsure of himself. 

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Her skirt was short and it took all his constitution not to stare at the sliver of thigh visible below the hem. 

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you about the cannibalism.” She mused. 

He stilled, eyes wide. 

“You seem so scared of me.” She sounded lighthearted but there was an undercurrent of hurt in her voice. 

He met her eyes. “I’m not scared.” 

She grinned. 

“Are you hungry?” He asked, gesturing to the food. 

She shook her head with a laugh. “I’m not going to burst in here and eat your food, Spencer.”

He froze for a moment, computing. “You don’t eat… Indian?” 

She laughed. “Spencer, are you asking if I eat people?” 

He met her eyes. “Do you?” 

She pushed off the door, moving toward him. “No. Never have.” 

He nodded. 

“Money’s money.” She shrugged. 

He didn’t really agree with that but didn’t want to press the serial killer on morality. So, instead, he offered her a seat. 

She grinned. “Dinner together.” 

He couldn’t help his grin. “Very domestic.” 

She laughed. “Look at you, making jokes. Maybe I’m not so scary after all.” 

He grinned down at his tandoori chicken. 

“Do you feel guilty?”  

She huffed. “Ruining the mood, Spencer.” 

He was silent. 

“No. I don’t,” She sighed, “If you knew these men, you wouldn’t either.” 

He shook his head. “I’d feel bad for killing anyone. I do feel bad about the people I’ve killed.” 

She leaned back in her chair, pulling her legs up to her chest. 

“You’ve never been a prostitute, Spencer. You can’t know how it feels. Some of those men…” She trailed off, looking out of the small window across the room. 

“Why do you do it?” He stopped eating, waiting for her reply. 

“I was young. It’s hard to get out once you’re in.” She seemed so closed off. The carelessness painted across her features moments ago seemed like a distant memory. 

“Are you still… working here?” He was afraid of the answer, if she was, there was no denying him as an accomplice. 

“Not yet.” She refused to meet his eyes. 

“Will you?” 

“If they ask me to, I have no choice.” She met his eyes then. Her gaze was hard. 

He shook his head. 

“I can help you. We can put you in witness protection,” He leaned toward her, eyes pleading. 

“I have no valuable information. They don’t use names. They always call from a different number. I have nothing for the police. They won’t put a serial killer in witness protection because she knows a cannibal ring exists.” She explains, exasperated. 

“Do you think I haven’t thought about this, Spencer? You think I’ve never attempted to get out before,” She scoffed. 

He shook his head, reaching his hand across the table to graze her arm. 

“No. I’m sorry. Of course.” 

She met his eyes hesitantly. 

He turned his hand palm up on the table. She grinned, sliding her palm against his. 

“You are fraternising with the enemy, agent.” She teased. 

He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Don’t tell my boss.” 

last chapter / next chapter

[cherryblossomwriting]

The debt

Summary: “Y/N’s brother owes Harry money. However, he is unable to pay the debt. So Harry decides to strike a deal that involves Y/N”

Tags: Dom!Mafia/Gang Harry x Innocent/Virgin Y/N

Note: Everything mentioned in this writing is consensual. Harry and Y/N both are 18+

Also, this writing has not been proofread so please ignore any spelling or grammar mistakes! 

W.C: 1442 

Y/N was in her pyjama set when she heard the doorbell ring. She wasn't really expecting anyone at 2pm on a sunday afternoon. She had just turned 18 last month and decided to move into her brother's flat. The best part was that the rent wasn't really high, she got her own, private room and also soon realised that her brother was rarely ever at home (god knows what kind of activities he is involved in). She had just completed her long college assignment and was planning on napping for a while. She made her way to the door to see who it was. She opened the door slightly, just enough to poke her head out to see who it was. The tall man with a chiselled face, toned body and long, brown locks reaching his shoulders, she gasped when he harshly pushed the door completely open. 

“Hi, umm are you looking for someone?” Y/N squealed. “Ahh, didn't know he had just an innocent little pretty sister” the man murmured. “Where's your brother?” he asked in his deep voice. “How can his voice be so deep and rough and still be as smooth as honey?” She thought to herself. “Umm.. I am not sure he hasnt come home in two days” she replied. “Oh, is it? I want you to call him right fucking now and tell him to come home” he cocked slyly. She casually bent down to pick up her phone that was lying on the sofa, without realising how her short shorts hiked up to reveal the bottom of her ass. He could feel his cock stir in his pants. There was something about her innocence that turned him on. She called her brother's number and asked him to come home. “He is coming home in 10 mins,” she answered shyly, unintentionally biting her lip (she did that when she was nervous). That lip bite made him go furreal, he wanted to bite that lip. Push her down and take her right on that sofa. Ruin her. Destroy her. Fuck her. 

After 10 mins, y/b/n entered the house, not expecting to see Harry there. “H-hey, Harry. How are you? W-what are y-you doing here?” he asked with a blank expression. His face looked like he just saw a ghost. “Harry… what a sexy name” Y/N she thought to herself. “You motherfucker, cut the bullshit, you know exactly why I am here. To collect my money. It has been 6 months for fucks sake. I want my bloody money right fucking now or I will hesitate to show you who is in power here.” he roared with dominance. He slightly lifted his suit to show the gun that rested on his hip. 

“H-harry you know how things have been for me, I don't have a penny to give you right now. I-I promise, I will pay you by the end of this month. Please,believe me.” “Over my dead fucking body will I give you more time. You've been saying the same thing to me for the past 4 months. Do you think I am stupid? Have you forgotten who I am? Do i need to remind you about who youre fucking talking to? I am the fucking drug kingpin of London, it wont take me a minute to kill you and throw your body in a place where no one will ever find it.” he smirked knowing the effect his loud and dominating voice has on people. 

Y/N was terrified to say the least. “Why does her brother owe money to the fucking drug mafia leader? Will he actually kill my brother? No, I have to save him!” she thought to herself. She mustered up her strength and said, “N-no, please don't kill him. P-please.” 

“Oh baby girl, I'm afraid I might have to if he doesn't pay up.” the mafia leader uttered. 

“Y/N, go to your room. I can handle this myself, I don't want you to get involved,” y/b/n said. 

“You know what I have a deal for you. I will forgive the loan. On one condition. You have to let me fuck your sweet little, innocent sister” harry said. “W-what. N-no. that's my sister dude” y/b/n said. “Im not your fucking dude. You have two options and they are in front of you.” Harry said while roughly squeezing y/b/n cheeks and jaws. 

Y/N couldn't believe her ears and eyes at the moment. “He wanted to fuck me? I am a virgin. Do I really want to lose my virginity to this man? I mean no doubt he is fucking hotter than the devil but he was in the mafia for fucks sake.” These thoughts were spiralling in her brain. 

“O-ok, I-I am ready. If that's what it takes to save my brother's life. I am ready” Y/N retorted. 

“Y/N you don't have to do this. There are other ways” y/b/n said. “I don't think you have much of a choice right now anyways. I will be taking her to my mansion and she will be safely dropped back home once I'm done with her,” he smirked, winking at me. “I will go change and then we can leave” Y/N said as she walked her way to her room.

Y/N changed into my favourite white, bow dress pairing it up with stockings and boots. If im doing this might as well do it properly. Y/N looked in the mirror one last time before leaving my room and going towards Harry. “Ooh you've already got me so hard baby. You have no idea what you're in for. I hope you don't like this dress and stockings because they are going to be torn apart” he whispered in her ear. He held her arm and they left the flat.  

They drove up to his humongous mansion. He took her to his bedroom. He swung the door open and pushed her on his bed. “I will make sure to pleasure you so much that there will be fat tears streaming down your eyes,” he said. He pushed Y/N on his bed and took both her legs in his left hand and with his right hand he tore open the flimsy stockings. “Spread your legs fo’ me” he commanded. As she spread her legs, he started licking long strips up her slit. “Fuck, you taste like heaven,” he moaned and kept fucking her with his tongue while his fingers rub on her clit. “On your knees and hands, NOW!” he demanded. Y/N quickly was on all fours. “I will make sure this pussy remembers who fucked it so good. It was made fo’ me” He poked his tip on her entrance and slowly entered her weeping hole, inch by inch. “Please, do something it hurts” Y/N cried out. “Oh, yeah, then you're gonna live what I'm about to do next.”  He pulled out completely. “Why did you pull-ohh,” Y/N moaned and he thrusted his 9-inch cock all at once. He started relentlessly pistoning his cock right in her virgin hole. He kept fucking her doggy-style. 

He held you by your stomach and turned you on your back. His cock re-entered her pussy. “I love seeing your face when I enter you. You’re perfect. It's like you were made for me” he said as he kept thrusting in you. “Bloody hell, you have the perfect, perky tits” he said as he took your left nipple in his mouth and kept sucking on it like his life depended on it. He took your other nipple in his fingers and kept pinching and fondling them. “Im gonna cum, oh god” she said as his movements became faster, wanting her to cum first. He saw her eyes roll at the back of her head as her fingers grasp the expensive, velvet sheets and a moan erupts from the depth of her throat  as she feels the euphoric high. After she rides her high, Harry cums deep inside her, coating her insides white with his milky cum. He has never cum this much. He slowly pulls out and falls on top of her, his head hidden in the crook of her neck. 

His thick cum oozing out of her glistening pussy. He feels himself harden again at the site of his cum flowing out her pussy. 

“Are we done?” Y/N asks shyly. “Oh baby, this is just the start of the night, you have no idea of what you're in for” he says as he slowly enters her pussy once again. 

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

Note: Please let me know your thoughts and views about this piece in the comments below. All support is appreciated.

Lots of love

xoxo

[stevesbestgirl]

Phases of the Moon - Part 3

Steven Grant x f!Reader, eventual Marc Spector x f!Reader

4747 words

Warnings: minor angst, mutual pining, idiots in love, chances of a few minor swears, miscommunication

As always, keep in mind that I am not a system and am not an expert. All of my information about their relationship comes from the Moon Knight show and I use that as my reference point.

*Bold type is spoken by Marc when Steven is fronting.*

Masterlist

Steven sent you his schedule for the next week on Sunday, “We can start the north wing this week, if you like.” He was a bit nervous about it- after what Donna had said.

You wanted to see him again; you were still happy to be friends with Steven. But you hadn’t replied yet- you needed a bit more space than you’d originally thought in order to get over this crush.

Steven was working Tuesday again and even though you hadn’t responded to his message, he’d still hoped you would show up. But his break came and went and he started to worry that Marc had been right. Maybe he had blown it. He’d must’ve done something on Saturday that made you decide not to come back. He knew he could be a bit oblivious, but he couldn’t figure it out for the life of him.

Come Wednesday, he spent far too much time agonizing over whether he should call you. He was up so late, he overslept Thursday morning. It was strangely nostalgic of his life before he’d known about Marc, but the charm quickly wore off when Donna got on his case. Not that she ever needed a reason, but she seemed pleased to have an excuse to torment him.

In fact, she must have enjoyed reaming him so much that morning that she returned in the afternoon. He did his best to appear busy as she marched up to the counter, her phone clutched in her hand, “I suppose you and your girlfriend think you’re being rather cute, don’t you?” Her tone was more derisive than downright angry.

“Sorry, what are you on about?”

“Like you haven’t seen this?” Donna brandished her phone. Steven tried to get a look, but only caught a glimpse of the some website before she huffed and pulled it back around, reading aloud, “Received a tour today from the gift shoppist, Steven Grant. Steven’s knowledge of Egypt is only surpassed by his enthusiasm for it, which makes this museum patron pity the museum management who waste his talents for touring in the gift shop. So-” 

Steven didn’t realize he was smiling until Donna looked up from her screen, “Oh- don’t look so pleased. Your girlfriend can write all the reviews she likes, but it won’t convince me to make you a guide.”

“There’s more?”

“Like I’m going to continue stroking your ego or whatever,” Donna wrinkled her nose. “Just get back to work. At the counter.”

As soon as Donna disappeared from sight, Steven had his own phone out, not bothering to hide it from the customer that had just walked over to browse. He scanned the site until he found it- your review. 

He read aloud, beginning hushed and growing louder as he went, “So, I will most definitely be returning for the rest of the tour in hopes that others might share in the experience. As lucky as I’ve been to enjoy a private tour, it would be selfish to keep Steven a secret.”

Steven’s chest felt light, “Did you hear that, mate?” The young man clutching a plastic pyramid looked around, confused, but Steven didn’t wait for a response, “I think she likes me. Or she did like me. Bloody hell, I’ve gotta call her- I’ve gotta call her right now.”

He pulled out his phone and faltered, “Wait, but-” his finger hovered over your contact, “If she liked me enough to leave that review, why hasn’t she replied to my message?”

The customer gave a weak shrug, hesitantly setting the pyramid on the counter. Steven seemed to only notice him just then, “Right, of course, let me get that for you.” He cashed him out and once he was out of sight, he continued staring at his phone. He’d texted you Sunday; this was the fifth day with no response. What if you’d changed your mind?

“Steven, just call her.” Marc sounded exasperated, watching on from the mirror behind the counter.

Steven glanced at the mirror, looking stricken, “What if she doesn’t like me anymore? That’s why she hasn’t answered.”

Steven was putting the phone away, moaning under his breath about how he’d blown this. Marc knew he could front, call you himself, but that kind of defeated the purpose. This was Steven’s show to run.

Steven pressed his palms into the wood, “Alright, get a grip on yourself, mate. C’mon.” 

His halfhearted attempt at a pep talk stuttered to a halt when he glanced up, seeing you walk in. You were dressed casually today, wearing a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt with planets on it. Not that it made any difference to Steven; he thought you looked lovely in whatever you wore. 

“Marc, she’s really here right, I’m not just mad, am I?”

“Two things can be true,” Marc quipped, falling silent as you approached.

*

You tried not to look too much at Steven as you approached the gift shop; you needed to keep yourself in check today. No flirting, no admiring, and definitely no pining. Steven was your friend, that was all.

“You came back.” Now your eyes were drawn to Steven as he spoke, sounding like he’d seen some kind of angel instead of just you, torturing yourself.

“Of course I came back, I need the rest of the tour, right?” You smiled; that wasn’t flirting, right?

“I didn’t hear from you, so I thought you might have gotten tired of hearing me talk,” he chuckled weakly. 

You breathed a sigh of relief; at least it didn’t sound like he’d seen your review. He deserved it and you hoped he might read it someday, but it was easier this way. It gave you time to quash the little ache in your chest at the sight of him.

“I’m sorry about that, my cousin’s been dragging me off to visit family all week, so I’ve been a bit scattered.” Lying to Steven didn’t feel very good. “But I’ll always come back for a tour; you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

Steven couldn’t figure out what you were thinking. You were being perfectly pleasant to him- it didn’t seem like you were upset. But you’d withdrawn from him; you weren’t being as playful- as open with him as you’d been before. You were being polite. Distant.

He tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat, “Does that mean you want to start the north wing today?”

“If you’ve got time for me- if not, that's completely alright, I should have told you I was coming-”

He nodded furiously, “Course I do; always got time for you, don’t I love?”

You tried to keep your expression even; why was this so hard? Why did he have to be so sweet and charming and positively dense? “Thanks.”

There was a beat of silence before Steven clapped his hands together, “Well, let’s get started then.” 

Things were awkward. And it was your fault. But you couldn’t let yourself be sucked back into that magnetic field of Steven’s warm personality. It would make this- being friends- impossible. You were probably giving him a weird vibe. And maybe he was mad at you for ignoring him. Most people would be; you might’ve been if you were in his position.

But he didn’t give up on you, that was for certain. He still spoke to you with the same enthusiasm as before. You wondered if he even had it in him to be mean to someone; it seemed doubtful. 

It felt like if you tried hard enough, you could envision the little bubble of radiant energy that emanated from Steven, with you standing just outside. He was trying extra hard to make you smile, it seemed, adding little jokes to his explanations. You couldn’t help yourself, lips turning up as he asked you, “Why didn’t Cleopatra go to the psychiatrist?”

“Why?”

“She was the Queen of Denial.” He rocked on his heels and did a “buh dum tss” motion with his hands, a goofy smile on his face.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled out of you, “That was absolutely awful, Steven. How long have you had that abomination in your pocket?”

He seemed rather relieved to see the hint of your usual self and suddenly it felt the same as it had before. You were back to making your little quips and teasing him again. He realized he’d missed hearing your laugh. 

He kept moving, beaming as you continued to complain about the bad jokes. He’d been scolded an awful lot of times in his life, but he never liked it so much before you did it. The way you’d roll your eyes at him, but then you’d smile; it made his stomach drop. 

Glancing at his watch, his stomach dropped again, but not in as pleasant a way, “Oh bollocks, I’m late getting back again.” He hadn’t thought you were coming today so he hadn’t set an alarm.

This time Steven pulled you by the hand back toward the gift shop. “I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” you huffed, trying to keep up with him and ignore the way he was clutching your hand.

“Sorry, I’m a bit hopeless I’m afraid,” he grimaced as he hurried around a corner, only to stumble to a halt as he caught sight of Donna over by the front desk with JB. He ducked back behind the wall, pulling you back with him. Surprised by his sudden change in direction, you stumbled.

In a moment of rare coordination, Steven kept you upright by your hand, pulling you back in and catching you in his other arm. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared up at him, pressed to his chest by his arm around your back. 

“Careful,” he breathed, speaking so low that his accent was barely audible.

You peered out, comprehension dawning on your face. That is, until you inhaled, the scent of whatever kind of soap Steven used filling your senses. You were far too close- this was not good. It felt like you were short-circuiting, staring up at him with your mouth half-open like a deer in headlights. Two minutes ago, you were thinking that maybe you could pull off this whole friend deal and now you were struggling to form even a single word because proximity to Steven was intoxicating.

“Sorry to surprise you,” he whispered again, only now beginning to blush. 

“You’re- uh- it’s fine. Fine,” you managed to get out. You peeked around the corner again, “I think you’re safe now.” 

You took a hasty step backwards and now Steven looked flustered, “Right. Better get back then and hope she hasn’t gone to check on me.”

You nodded, following him back the rest of the way to the gift shop, relieved to see Donna wasn’t poking around. You leaned against the counter, hoping your face wasn’t flushed, although you supposed you could blame it on all the rushing around, “Sorry.”

His brow furrowed slightly, “What are you sorry for?”

You gave him a wry smile, “Seems like I keep getting you into messy situations. I’d hate for you to get into real trouble.”

“I’ve been in real trouble before, you don’t need to worry.” He chuckled and you almost felt like you were being left out of a joke. But he smiled at you, “But just to be safe, when will you be back? So I can set another alarm. Just in case you get busy again, you know.” You weren’t prepared for Steven to tease you; you suddenly felt a bit warm.

You turned away, absently examining a stuffed mummy off one of the racks, “When do you have time?”

“I’m working the morning shift tomorrow; if you came by around two, we could do like we did on Saturday,” he offered.

“You don’t mind staying late after a real shift?” You smiled; teasing him wasn’t flirting. And he was doing it to you too. 

“I told you, love, I’ve always got time for you.” It was like he wanted you to suffer.

You chuckled weakly, “And you’re sure you haven’t gotten yourself punished with inventory again this week?” 

“I haven’t been punished quite yet, although that might change now that Donna’s read your review,” Steven smiled. “She was a bit steamed about it this morning.” You tried to smile back, but your mouth was suddenly dry. Steven tilted his head, “You alright?”

You prayed your cheeks didn’t give you away even as you could feel the warmth creeping through them, “Sorry, yeah. I didn’t, um, realize you’d seen that. It’s a bit embarrassing.” 

“Why’s it embarrassing?” That little furrow between his brows returned and you wanted to shout the answer at him; it felt like it was so obvious and it was somehow more humiliating that he hadn’t picked up on it.

“You didn’t think it was-” you bit your lip, searching for the most diplomatic way to put it, “A bit much?”

Steven’s lips parted in understanding, but his brow remained furrowed, “A bit more than I deserve, maybe, but I thought it was lovely. No one’s ever said something so nice about me- not that I can remember anyways.” 

You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from telling him that he deserved to hear so much more than that; Steven was oblivious, but not that oblivious. At least you didn’t think so. “Well, I’m glad I posted it then. Especially if Donna wasn’t happy,” you smiled.

“She read about half of it to me and it was quite satisfying, if I can be honest,” Steven grinned guiltily.

“Did she see any of the others?”

“The others?” Steven cocked his head. “Did you leave more than one?”

You shook your head, “No, the other people who have been listening to your tour did.” He stared at you like he didn’t understand, so you smiled, chagrined, “Okay, so maybe I mentioned it to a few of them when that little boy was asking you if he could draw on the walls like in the displays.”

You gestured for him to check his phone and Steven was quiet for a long moment, just scrolling through and seeing his name before speaking softly, a small smile on his face, “No wonder Donna was so short with me this morning.” 

“And you still didn’t get inventory? You must be having a good day.”

Steven remembered how nervous he’d been this morning, thinking that you didn’t want to see him anymore. You’d pulled away from him and he wasn’t sure why. But all of those worries had dissolved into nothing when he’d heard you laugh. And he’d gotten to hold you close, albeit because of Marc’s split second of intervention. And you were coming back to see him again tomorrow.

The corners of his lips tugged up, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” you patted the counter. “See you tomorrow at two then?”

He nodded,  “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

Once you were out of sight, Marc spoke up, “No one’s ever said anything that nice to you, huh?”

Steven rolled his eyes at the gift shop mirror, “I was excluding people I share a body with.”

“Oh, well you should have said so-”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to mention that to her next time, won’t I?”

Mark’s retort was cut short by the clack of Donna’s shoes on the polished floor. “Stevie, glad to see you’re back at your post,” she mused, sarcasm evident. He opened his mouth to protest, but she tapped her watch, “I came by at three seventeen and where were you? Not here, that’s for sure. Off with your little girlfriend again? You know what I’m gonna say.”

“Donna, no- I’ll stay late tonight to make it up-”

“What good does that do me? No. You’re in the back tomorrow.”

“I can’t work late tomorrow, I’ve got a date.” He was going to ask you to dinner after the tour was finished.

“Well I imagine you don’t anymore, do you?”

“I can’t cancel, Donna, I’ll do the next two Fridays instead.” Steven hated that he had to plead with Donna; he usually just put his head down and took it, but he couldn’t cancel on you. He couldn’t risk messing this up again. 

Donna gave her head a derisive toss, “Well, guess you should have thought of that before you took an extra long break, yeah?” And she clacked away, taking Steven’s good mood with her.

Steven shook his head insistently, “I can’t- I can’t cancel on her.” But still, he took out his phone, sending you a text, “Spoke too soon on inventory, I’m afraid.”

You were already on the bus, on your way home, so you replied quickly, “Oh no. Was it because of the reviews?”

“No, completely unrelated.” Steven wasn’t going to tell you that it was because he’d gone over on his break either. He didn’t want you to feel guilty about coming around to visit him.

“Well, I’m still sorry- I’m sure it wasn’t justified. We can reschedule, no big deal.” 

“We could still get dinner after I’m off at eight, if you like?”

Last week you would have been overjoyed at the offer, but now you felt strange. You wanted to go, but you had a feeling it might be bad for you in the long term. You were already pushing your luck as it was. 

“I’m sorry, Steven. I’ve actually already got plans for dinner tomorrow.” It was difficult to type and even more difficult to actually send it; you hated lying to Steven.

“Right, of course. I’ll let you know my schedule tomorrow. We can choose another day.” He felt a bit of panic; what if you had a date with someone else?

“Looking forward to it.” You sent a follow-up message, “Don’t forget to read those other reviews. Hope they cheer you up a bit.” 

Steven sighed at his phone. So much for his good day. Although, thinking about the nice things you’d said about him, the way you’d looked at him when he’d held you close- maybe it was still alright. He returned to the website, searching more thoroughly this time. 

There were a handful of others, the most recent from barely twenty minutes ago. He wasn’t even sure when you’d found time to speak to anyone today, but somehow, you had. And they were all lovely. He felt his face flush at the idea of all of those people saying nice things about him. One in particular caught his eye, though not because of what it said about him.

In the very last paragraph, it read, “Steven, if you’re reading this, you’re a lucky man. Hold onto her. -Dorothy.” She signed her name on the review like it was a letter. Steven remembered the older woman who’d been trailing after you during his tour; he’d slowed down a bit that day so she could keep up.

“Well Dorothy, I gotta get my arms around her to hold on, don’t I?” he murmured sardonically. 

Come Friday, Steven started his shift feeling a bit downcast. He should be walking around the museum with you right now- making you laugh, finding a way to hold your hand again. Instead, he cursed Donna under his breath and clocked in. He was pleased to find out from the first shift at the gift shop that she’d left for the day; at least he wouldn’t have to listen to her complaints today.

Around four, Steven’s heart leapt as your name popped up on his phone, “How’s the inventory going?” 

“I’ve not started yet. Manning the counter until 7 and then inventory after close.”

“I could call Donna and try to order a pizza if it’ll make you feel better.”

Steven chuckled, “Afraid she’s ducked out early today.”

“That’s hypocritical.”

Steven hit a bit of a busy spurt in the gift shop; it was Friday, which meant that the kids in the after-school programs were extra rowdy. They needed to touch absolutely everything, but rarely had the pocket money to buy anything. So he spent a great deal of his afternoon fixing the displays, his phone still hastily stuffed in his pocket.

Meanwhile, you were deciding where to order pizza from. If Donna wasn’t in, you could afford to brighten Steven’s day a bit. Especially since you still had a sneaking suspicion that he was working late because of you.

He’d told you about JB’s negligence; you waltzed right through the lobby at quarter to seven with a pizza box in your hand and he didn’t even look up from his phone. Pausing at the entrance to the gift shop, you watched Steven for a second. He was typing something on his phone, only to shake his head and mutter something before deleting and typing again. He repeated this process twice before tucking his phone away and moments later, your own phone chimed in your pocket.

Steven’s head snapped up from the plushes he was sorting and you lifted the pizza box, “I really wanted to order that pizza.”

A slow smile spread over his face, “Are you having a laugh? You’ve actually brought pizza into the museum?”

You shrugged, “You told me JB wasn’t the best security guard.”

“Actually I said he was bloody awful, but you’re much sweeter than I am,” Steven chuckled. 

You set the box on the counter, “If we want to eat before I get busted with this, we’d better get going.” Noting his hesitation, you added, “It’s vegan cheese. Don't worry."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. He'd only mentioned it offhand, but of course you were listening. You always listened- you made him feel like the most interesting person in the world, even if no one else but you cared. He followed your lead, taking a slice of the still warm pie, “Thanks- for this. I’ll admit, I was having a bit of a shit day-” he caught himself, “Sorry-”

“Steven Grant, did you just curse?” The little bubble of laughter that left you was pure delight.

His face went hot, “Yeah, sorry, slipped out I guess.”

“No, I love it,” you grinned. “I wanna hear more Steven curses.”

“You want me to- curse?”

You nodded, laughing again, “Let them all loose- all the curse words you know, right now.”

“I don’t think it works that way,” he chuckled weakly, half-tempted to comply, if only to see the way your nose scrunched up when you laughed. “After all, you’ve gotta earn a true curse.”

“I suppose you’re right,” you conceded.

He smiled, tentatively checking his watch; he didn’t want you to go. He was about to invite you to stay while he did inventory- he could tuck you in the back until JB had done his walkthrough, but then he remembered that you were supposed to be busy tonight.

His brow furrowed, “Did your dinner plans fall through?”

He seemed so genuinely concerned, you crumbled immediately, “That was a bit of a fib actually,”

Watching his expression fall made your heart ache, “So you didn’t have dinner plans tonight?”

You chewed your lip, suddenly nervous, as you shook your head, “I thought maybe we shouldn’t get dinner- together, you know. It would’ve felt like a date and you made your position on that clear, so I-”

“Oi, what the- You can’t bring food in here!” JB had started his rounds early, likely eager to get out of work on a Friday night.  

You jumped whipping around, “Right, sorry about that. Wrong address.”

JB grabbed the pizza box from the counter and shoved it into your hands, giving you a firm push toward the exit, “We’re closing up anyway, get moving along.”

Steven felt a flash of anger that was unusual for him, “Hang on now, no need to be so rough.” And he wasn’t finished talking to you; what had you meant about his “position?”

“Stand back now, Scotty, let me do my job, yeah?” He pressed a hand to Steven’s chest and Steven felt the irrational urge to grab his fingers and twist. 

“You don’t need to touch her- she wasn’t hurting anything!” 

“Look mate, it’s Friday, I wanna get out of here, alright?”

Steven pulled JB’s hand from his chest, glaring at him as he dropped the closed sign down on the counter with a loud clatter, “What’s stopping you then? It’s closing time.”

 JB glanced off in the direction you’d gone, muttering something under his breath before moving on. 

Steven wanted to follow you- to chase after you and talk more, but he was on thin ice as it was. He’d been lucky to get his museum position back at all, after everything, and if JB was feeling cross with him, it wouldn’t be a surprise if he reported back to Donna. And he was always on thin ice with her. So he stayed where he was. But once he was sure JB was out of earshot, he pulled his phone out.

You hesitated a second before picking up; you were just out front. You’d needed to stop and take a moment to admonish yourself for blurting so much out; you’d been so swept up in doing something nice for Steven that you’d forgotten about the lie you’d told him. When he’d brought it up, you’d panicked.

“Hello.” You grimaced at the forced normalcy in your tone. 

“Are you alright, love? He shouldn’t’ve pushed you like that and I’ll be sure to have a word with-” there was a pause as he considered who’d he’d be chatting with, “-someone, about this on Monday.” You’d never heard Steven so riled before.

“I’m fine, Steven. No need to get all worked up, alright?” You were hoping- praying even, that Steven had only called to check on you. But that hope was short-lived.

“Yeah, you’re right, I know. I just-” he took a deep breath, “Right. I’m good- I’m aces. Very calm.” There was a pause, then he cleared his throat, “What did you mean, back in there?”

You played dumb, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you said you didn’t think we should get dinner because it would feel like a date.”

“Right, that,” you acknowledged.

“Then you said that I’d made my position on that clear. But the thing is, I don’t remember that. And sometimes I forget things, but I don’t think I’d forget that, you know?”

“Steven, we don’t have to-”

“If I said something, I want- no, I need to know what it was. Please tell me.”

“Right.” You sighed, “Last Saturday, you mentioned that you’d told me you were working because otherwise it would have seemed like it was a date.” 

“It wasn’t, was it?” To Steven, giving you a tour wasn’t a date. Not a proper one, like you deserved. But he did remember saying that and now that he recalled the memory, he remembered the way you’d faltered in the conversation. And you’d worn that dress.

And suddenly it all made sense. The long silence in your absence, the way you’d been reserved when you came back; he’d hurt you. And you’d still left him that lovely review. You’d still come to see him again. You’d brought him dinner at work just to toe the line he’d accidentally drawn in the sand. 

“No, of course not, you said so yourself,” you agreed quickly. “Sorry Steven, I’m getting on the bus, so I’ve got to go.”

“W-wait-”

“I’ll see you again soon, alright Steven?” And then you were gone. 

If he could have made it down the street to the bus stop before they pulled away, he would have made a run for it. But he heard the familiar hiss of the brakes just before you hung up, dropping his phone onto the counter and fisting his hair. 

“God, I’m such an idiot!” He raised his hand in a mock toast, “Cheers to Steven, the biggest knob on the whole bloody island.”

“Statistically, probably not the biggest.” 

Steven glared at his reflection in the mirror at the back of the counter, “Not helpful, Marc.”

“I wasn’t trying to be helpful.”

“Great. Thank you for that. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” He began working on the inventory, but the real work was brainstorming how he could make this up to you. You deserved something special- something that would make it obvious how he felt about you. 

[dallonwrites]

LOVER BOY - WIP INTRO

[ lover boy by @dallonwrites / sfgate / tumblr user catilinas / lover boy | little weirds by jenny slate / lover boy / hellraiser (1987) / manhunter (1986) / the lost boys (1987) / lover boy ] this post has alt text.

disclaimer: this is my own original work

Genre: Literary that wishes it were horror Setting: San Francisco, 1987/88 Aesthetics: fake blood, uncanny SFX in old horror movies, grainy home videos, a deeply orange sunset, retro arcade games, an empty mall, overripe fruit, anatomical heart models, heart shaped candles, leather jackets, rolling fog, the moon in the ocean, bowling alleys, red lights, trying to see a ghost in the hallway, real blood, mixtapes from former lovers, nightclub bathrooms, vampire fangs, neck kisses Summary: Sometimes, to cope with change and unpredictability, Beau likes to pretend he's the protagonist of a blood-soaked horror movie. And all he's ever wanted is a lover. But after the death of his childhood best friend he retreats into himself - frustrated at love and frustrated that Bobby hasn't haunted him the way he promised to - until he's jolted back by former friends needing his help with a movie project, an ex lover returning as new ones find new ways to hurt him, his friends and his community getting sicker, and a near death experience that comes with the urgency to record everything around him whilst he still can. The more that happens, the more he tries to find ghosts around him. The more times he sees blood on his hands, the more painful his old coping mechanism becomes, as his thoughts become less and less tasty.

what if you were autistic but you didn't know it because it's the 1980s and your special interest is horror movies and sometimes your brain feels a little bit blood-soaked but it's okay because it feels good! it makes you feel better, right? but then your best friend dies and also you lose the closest person you had to a lover and you wonder if you've wasted your time obsessing over romance but you don't have time to think about it because life keeps happening and nobody seems to care that your community is dying and no matter how hard you try you never see a ghost in the hallway or the bathroom mirror like you want to, and then your lover comes back but he's different, and so are you, and you really want to stop looking death in the eye, so you try to capture everything around you on your video camera to show that you were here, we were here and we're alive, and your queerness is your heartbeat and all you want to do in this life is love, so that's what you do, despite everything, whatever that love looks like, even when everything gets louder and brighter and too much to bare and you're starting to get scared by the blood in your thoughts

I call this "the culmination of my growing obsession with horror and the undergrad dissertation I wrote on how the AIDS crisis functions in queer narratives". I think it's my favourite thing I've started in a long time! There's so much flesh to this story that I haven't even dug my hand as deep into it as I could go. It's fun, it's silly, it's raw, it's sweet, it's emotional, it's complicated, it's a bit bloody, it's theatrical, it's trying it's best. It doesn't take itself too seriously but it's also crying in the bathtub you know

Characters (just a few otherwise this would get way too long)

Beau (he/him) the bestest boy in the whole world. Someone pleeeease take him to a farmers market on a chilled Sunday afternoon

Benji (he/him) Beau's little brother who Beau thinks is the bestest boy in the whole world. Even though he loves bugs and dirt and wants to be a shark when he grows up

Bobby (he/him) dead but before he died he thought being a ghost would be so fun. It'd be so much easier to sneak up on Beau! He could finally go to Fire Island! He loved handmaking jewellery and wanted to be a volcanologist.

Felix (he/him) the ex lover! He's doing sooo much better since the last time you saw him! Hey why is he crying in that movie theatre bathroom

Tiff (she/they) Beau's old friend and roommate. Tattoo artist who collects eye shaped decor and broken rotary phones. Lesbian/gay solidarity is the backbone of this novel.

Dorothy (she/her) In love with the moon and acrylic paints. What if you bumped into your ex boyfriends twin sister and feel like you shouldn't get involved but then you remember she's realllyyy fun to talk shit about people with?

[martynrandles]

I was traveling back from Caernarfon the weekend before last on this very stretch of road & saw that a Fox & a Badger had been killed.

As a boy aged 12 in the 1980’s I was hit by a car & knocked off my bicycle, believe you me I am still in pain, I can’t take pain killers due to the amount of pain killers prescribed to me as a child messing with my heart condition. So from aged 18 to now knocking on the doors of my half century I’ve had to learn to deal with it. The women who pulled out and hit me with her car in the 1980’s said she didn’t see me. Time slowed down & I didn’t feel a thing but saw everything in extreme slow motion, until I hit the ground. I did feel as though giant wings were wrapped around me. My point is it was a Sunday afternoon, her being in a rush destroyed my life, made an already disabled boy more disabled… yet good luck getting help in Britain if your disabled.

I was forced into hauling on my bicycle brakes when an on duty policeman in north Devon decided to speed up the hill in the rain without his lights on. I highsided my brand new bicycle and bent the frame. What the fuck was he in such a rush for late at night? Badgers regularly used to accompany me up that hill as my dicky ticker doesn’t allow me to cycle up hill. This one beautiful Badger, fearless amazing creature used to even walk up ahead then wait for me to catch him up, even chilling out waiting with me half way up the steep hill before the nightmare Summit. I eventually went to see a GP about my hip, 2011 the preventable “accident” happened, 2012 I went to see a quack about my hip & came out (eventually) with heart failure. To be fair I’d lost so much weight as I had contracted an “unknown virus” whilst surfing north Devon’s so called blue flag beaches… & I’m not the only surfer from that village either.

I have witnessed drivers nowadays in England, driving way too bloody fast, without a care for their own safety, the safety of others & not even giving a flying fuck about wildlife (please excuse my language if you’re easily offended, but as an actual Englishman who studied linguistics at University “flying fuck” is the appropriate usage… as in: it’s obvious the British Government do not give a flying fuck about the British Taxpayer or the NHS… etc,.) If you care about all creatures great & small & can spare a few moments to sign the petition above, you will help to make a difference to local wildlife in Britain that the Government & the elites would rather cull or hunt to extinction.

Once the elites are done getting rid of the wildlife they don’t have a use for guess who’s next? I’ll give you a clue, actually I’ll just make it plain & simple, “We” are next on their list.

Please accept my apologies if anything I have written offends or causes any upset to any reader. It is never my intention to do so. But today is a day I dread every year, Danny died today 4 years ago, he was my best friend. And he’d love my rant today… rest in peace Danny boy, & if you still love mischief go fuck with the bastards while they sleep. RIP dude, catch a wave for me buddy x

[sitp-recs]

Hi! I recently read Here’s Looking At You Kid by MesserMoon and loved it. It was a rarepair I’ve never heard of (George/Blaise), and I wanted to ask: do you have any fav fics featuring rarepairs that are practically unknown/no one talks about them? Thank you!

Hi anon! I’ve heard great things about this fic, was even thinking about reading it on my trip but I ended up taking a break from fandom too 🤣 I’m a bit hesitant to declare this or that ship as popular/non-popular bc perception is often deceiving - my Tumblr bubble talks a lot about some rare pairs that are not necessarily popular on AO3 (like Harry/Teddy, here’s a specific list if anyone’s interested) while other ships are not as popular here but have over 1k fics (like Harry/Pansy). In the end I didn’t want to overthink this so I just went for my favorite fics — there are quite a few het ships and they are not generally long; I like my rare pairs short & smutty like the doctor ordered 👍🏼 lastly, I wanna mention two authors who write a variety of excellent rare pairs: pauraque and AU champion provocative_envy. You can’t go wrong with any of their fics!

Harry's Pots by HenryMercury (G, 1.8k) - Harry/Dean

Dean goes to art school in the States for four years and when he comes back Harry bloody Potter has become a maker and merchant of ceramics.

Between the Houses by @thesleepiesthufflepuff (E, 2k) - Dean/Charlie

He paused on the doormat, taking out the ring that he’d stowed away several hours ago. Its white golden band caught on the amber light coming from the torches that lined the road of houses, and nestled in the middle of the ring was a circular moonstone that had belonged to his great-great-grandmother.

They Bought A Sports Bar by @fw00shy (T, 2.2k) - Ginny/Cho

Ginny buys a sports bar (run-down biker pub, really) and ropes Cho into helping out. They're just business partners, so why does everyone else think they're more?

lace and scars by tryslora (E, 2.2k) - Lavender/Hermione

No one can wear lace like Lavender can.

Up the Road by @ruinsplume (T, 2.6k) - Tonks/Charlie

The best way, Tonks thinks, would be to take the initiative herself. But it has to be a boy she can stand to ask, one who won’t laugh at her, one who might actually agree to what Tonks knows is a preposterous situation, even if she can’t say exactly why.

Hand Check by provocative_envy (T, 2.7k) - Theo/Blaise

“I’m just . . .” Blaise trails off, realizing he probably doesn’t need to explain to Nott why he’s buying lube. Except—he wants to. He wants to explain to Nott why he’s buying lube. In detail. Graphic detail. Exceptional detail. He wants to demonstrate, wants to show off, wants to outline all the ways he’s uniquely qualified to take care of Nott, all the reasons he’s uniquely capable of taking care of Nott. How he can do it better. Do it best. “Yeah.”

Drip, Honey, Drip by tamlane (E, 3k) - Lily Luna/Michael Corner

Lily's boss catches her daydreaming on a Friday afternoon. He thinks there could be a business opportunity in it, and he wants to hear more. Sequel here.

Seasonal by provocative_envy (M, 3.4k) - Narcissa/Charlie

Charlie’s balls-to-the-wall stupid gap year finally sputters to a grinding, inauspicious halt somewhere in the rural Tuscan countryside.

Mothering Sunday by pauraque (T, 3.6k) - Astoria/Narcissa

Narcissa always wanted a little girl of her own, and Astoria never really had a proper Mum. Together they build something that neither of them ever knew was possible.

Boyfriend Dick by fw00shy (E, 3.8k) - Pansy/Percy

Percy was the Parkinson accountant. He had no business babysitting Pansy on her birthday yacht. Pansy was turning twenty-one. She was a bloody adult, and she was going to prove it to everyone by fucking the Weasley nerd.

Her Life in Dreams and Wakefulness by rillalicious (M, 4.2k) - Luna/Gabrielle

The first time she has the dream, Gabrielle is sixteen years old.

Life During Wartime by ruinsplume (E, 4.6k) - Sirius/Charlie

Between worrying about whether his father will recover from the snake bite and being jam-packed into Grimmauld Place with a family that doesn't understand him, Charlie's having a rough time of it. Fortunately for him, Sirius is going to smooth things out.

The Secret Incantation by pauraque (E, 5k) - Sirius/Hermione

This is what she wants. This is what he needs.

Puddlemere’s New Man by mindabbles (E, 6k) - Teddy/Oliver

Teddy is willing to put in the work. He’s willing to practice twice as hard as anyone else, except that no one can out-work Oliver — a fact that Teddy finds he doesn’t mind in the least.

Postscript by provocative_envy (T, 6.5k) - Harry/Pansy

Pansy is getting married for all the wrong reasons, and then she meets Harry.

On the Same Side by rillalicious (M, 7.5k) - Teddy/Charlie

Teddy is heading to Romania to protest a proposed anti-dragon law. He finds an interesting ally there.

testosterone (sounds like a spell) by pauraque (E, 8k) - Justin/Hannah 🏳️‍⚧️

Justin never returned to Hogwarts after the Death Eaters came. He's found that the Muggle world offers other kinds of transfiguration — a body alchemy far more powerful than any magic spell. Sometimes he wonders if anyone even remembers that once, years ago, he was a novice wizard.

Of The Race That Knows Joseph by scoradh (E, 8.4k) - Remus/Regulus

When dead men walk and badgers give you sarcastic looks, it's time to re-evaluate what it means to be a werewolf.

Hopelessly Devoted To You by @writcraft (E, 10k) - Harry/George

Harry and George watch a lot of musicals and accidentally fall in love.

like the lost lyrics of a song suddenly remembered by @lqtraintracks (E, 11k) - Teddy/Bill, Teddy/James

Teddy Lupin, aging rockstar, is making a comeback after his life and career were nearly ruined by an illegal potions habit. Everyone's out to support him tonight. Including the man he's always tried so hard not to love -- as well as the man he's always turned to instead.

Burned Silk, Buckled Leather by ruinsplume (E, 12k) - Draco/Sirius

When Sirius discovers a down-and-out Draco Malfoy lurking around the edges of a Muggle kink club, he thinks he knows just what Draco needs. He isn't expecting to run into some long-buried needs of his own.

The Hollow by @wolfpants (E, 12k) - Draco/Remus

They both drink, and Remus wonders how much longer he can stay here. His eyes are already moving around slowly, looking for an escape. Anything to get away from the eerily familiar slope of Draco’s cheekbones, from the richness of the voice that sounds so much like the ghost inside his own head.

Still the pine-woods scent the moon by @fluxweeed (E, 15k) - Harry/Remus

You’ve learned to ignore the stench of perpetual horniness that Harry—twenty years old and finally free—exudes. That is, until you walk into the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and find him naked, spread over the table, with Draco Malfoy pounding into him from behind.

Rebirth (Coming Home) by @onbeinganangel (T, 16k) - Harry/Regulus

Harry’s decrepit House Elf is dying. If things were normal, that would be a sad but ultimately natural thing. However, he’s Harry Potter and — of bloody course — nothing can ever be normal. Why shouldn’t Kreacher’s death have to involve Draco Malfoy, who Harry hasn’t seen in two years, and Regulus Black, who Harry has thought was dead for over twenty years?

The Werewolf Handbook, Page 147 by Snegurochka (E, 20k) - Teddy/Bill

Everyone knows that when a person with any werewolf blood reaches 21, untamed sexual urges will manifest themselves and require an outlet. It's a fact. No question about it. The Werewolf Handbook says so, right there on page 147.

Mirror, Mirror by @orange-peony (E, 23k) - George/Lee

George feels a wave of relief washing over him at the thought that he still has time, that he can still get his shit together and stop feeling so utterly broken every single moment of the day, and then maybe he will be good enough for Lee.

Within These Walls by sara_holmes (E, 24k) - Draco/Seamus

Torture, rebellion, war and Draco Malfoy. Seamus won't even know where to start telling this story if they all make it out the other side.

Spring Street by rillalicious (T, 25k) - Harry/Pansy

Harry's been undercover for eight years, on a case that's going nowhere fast. Then Pansy Parkinson is kidnapped, and everything changes.

The Sketchbook by Snegurochka (E, 30k) - Teddy/Sirius

Sketching portraits of Sirius Black had been Teddy's way of avoiding life in the present for years. He never expected one of them would come to life, but then, he might have known that interacting with any kind of magical parchment invented by a Marauder would only open up one epic can of worms.

you will burn right now but then you won't regret it by @thistlecatfics (M, 32k) - Tonks/Fleur

Eight years after Voldemort’s defeat, as the illegal potions trade ravages England and the government intensifies lycanthropic restrictions in response, Fleur and Tonks join forces to uncover corruption in the Ministry.

The NottPott Chronicles by @amarillis39 and @missmrah (E, 33k) - Harry/Theo

A series of moments from Theo and Harry’s lives as they learn to navigate their relationship, deal with their demons or just simply revel in each other’s company.

May Contain Nuts by scoradh (E, 32k) - Harry/George

After Voldemort is defeated, the script for Harry's life comes to an end. Unsure of what to do with his life, he does nothing. Only one person is on hand to show Harry that a hero is not the sum of his vanquished enemies, but he's got problems of his own.

The Secretary by PacificRimbaud (E, 46k) - Percy/Pansy

Threatened with the loss of her trust fund allowance, wild child Pansy Parkinson takes her mother up on an offer she can't refuse: a job at the Ministry of Magic as personal secretary to tightly wound bureaucrat Percy Weasley.

Play Me Like A Love Song by writcraft (E, 67k) - Minerva/Will

Minerva McGonagall doesn’t believe in love at first sight, which is why her instant attraction to drag king Wilhelmina ("Will") Grubbly-Plank is so unexpected. War tears apart the wizarding world and as one battle ends Minerva and Will must fight once more, this time for the lives of their friends on Little Compton Street.

[endofapaige]

I Moved to University...

University. I’m here in the tiny single bed bedroom with the lights that are either too bright or flickering too much to even claim they actually work; on FaceTime to my boyfriend, procrastinating 30 pages of reading I need to do for my next English Language lecture in two days. The weeks leading up to moving to university were probably some of the most anxiety fuelled weeks of my life. My friends moved before I did, and those who didn’t go already had their lives set in motion, and then there was me sat with little to do just waiting for move in day. It was the Wednesday before the Sunday I moved when things started getting busy. Mum and Dad took the rest of the week off work so we could get everything together and pack things away ready for me to move. And while they did so to spend time with me, I spent the rest of the week trying to see everyone I’d leave behind. One day that week, I don’t remember which now, Georgia came round. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, our plans the week before falling through, her starting to get busy with work and me spending most of my week with Jack. We went out for lunch that day, to a pub down the road from me, which I was sure I’d never been to despite my mother thinking otherwise. She paid, ‘a going away gift’ she said, although she also showed up to my house with a disgustingly cute card, the biggest bottle of Vodka I’ve ever seen and a book on Creative Writing for Dummies. A book I need to start reading because my creative writing seminars are already starting to get hard.

Jack came to mine the Friday afternoon, we made gingerbread and white chocolate cookies (all thanks to Jane’s Patisserie) and watched a couple of our favourite Marvel movies. I fell asleep on his chest while Shang-Chi was on. It was that day that sparked something for us, a realisation how much we loved each other and how desperately we didn’t want to be without each other. So, the messy and complicated but happy has now turned into serious but still a bit messy but still very very happy. I’m just very glad I can now go around introducing him as ‘my boyfriend, Jack’. It has a nice ring to it.

On the Saturday, my dad’s side of the family came round to bid me adieu, we ate more food than anyone would ever need, from sandwich platters from M&S to their entire picnic range. It was nice to see everyone together, because while they’re the side of the family we see most often it’s still relatively rare we are all in one place at one time. It’s odd to think this year they’re going to have gatherings like that and I’m not going to be there for them.

Sunday 2nd October. Move in day. Waking up at half past 7, rushing around the house first thing making sure I didn’t miss anything because fuck if I missed anything I’d be screwed. With a McDonald’s breakfast and a coffee, we began the road trip north to my home for the next year. If you don’t know, I’m currently studying English Language and Creative Writing, minoring (now, but that’s a tale for later) in Media and Cultural Studies at Lancaster University.

I’ll be honest with you guys, usually I write these sorts of posts as they're happening, a way to capture memories of big parts of my life so I can read back on them later. It’s now a month since I started university, the start of this post being written so long ago I can’t actually even remember when. I usually have a system, recount events, share emotions, be funny. But I can barely remember what happened now and when I’ve spent almost every day I’ve been there crying to myself in my room, it’s hard to be funny.

It's not that I don’t like university, if you ever get the pleasure of visiting Lancaster, it’s bloody beautiful. The campus is self-contained and acts as its own little village only a 10-minute bus ride from the city and I am so glad I’m there. There’s a sense of pride in myself I don’t usually get, with the knowledge I am at one of the best universities in the country studying something I thought I loved. That’s the issue though, I thought I loved English Language. It was my favourite subject at A Level supposedly, but as I go through years at school, I realise I cling to the subjects I am good at as well as the ones I have the most fun in. At A Level this was English, because I was best of the class and I had Emily and Eleni to keep me entertained through them. What I forgot to realise was that I don’t like English, not really, I never have. I hated it at GCSE, I was dozing my way through it at A Level. I remember searching for universities, telling myself not English, anything but English. Yet here I am doing an English degree, and without Em and Len, it has finally hit how much I hate it.

In addition to this, I’ve also realised I’m not a huge fan of creative writing. I mean you could call this creative writing, me writing to you ranting about mundane issues in my life. But it’s not so much, not in the way a degree wants you to creatively write. So, I’m at a stalemate. I hate my degree.

At the start of this post, a very long time ago, I told you I’d tell you a tale of my minors. Lancaster, unlike a lot of universities, allow students to take a second (or in my case, third) subject as an optional module alongside their main degree. For me, this was originally Moral and Political Philosophy. A subject I took because I thought it’d be different and maybe it could be fun. But two lectures in and they were talking about capitalism and farming or something I’m not even sure and I had to watch most of it online. The module didn’t work with my main degree, I had a lecture clash meaning every week I’d have to skip a lecture and catch up with the recording. So, it was like I was learning in covid all over again. Not a fan, I switched it to English lit. I told you I hate English right? English Language is the more bearable of the two. Hated that too, obviously, so I switched to Media. Media was the original plan; the one Georgia told me to do because she knew a month in I’d be hating English and wanting to change to Media. The girl was right. I didn’t take Media because at the time I was knee-deep in the A Level, hating every second of it because lessons were more casual chat with Scott than it was the course. But I loved the course, I did really, even when I thought I was doing terrible I loved it, like how Film was my favourite at GCSE. I’ve always wanted to go into that industry in some way. At the minute it’d be a dream to write for a media news outlet like Screen Rant or Cinema Blend or Comicbook.com. So yes, as much as I hate to admit Georgia was spot on, I’m probably going to change my degree at the end of my first year.

People describe university as the best years of their lives, the social, lively side of it all, the lifelong friends, the partying. But truthfully, it’s fucking lonely. I know I’ve only been there a month; I know I’ve spent most of it either at home or with Jack, but it still just feels like it’s me vs the world and there is no one in my corner. I’ve made friends, of course I have, my flatmates are fucking lovely and the lot of us genuinely get on quite well, when Jacob isn’t screaming the words to Beggin’ by Måneskin at 4 in the morning in the kitchen. I’ve made a couple of friends in my seminars too; everyone seems so nice. But this social side of university sounded great, until I realised I was an introvert, add to the fact I have the biggest fear of missing out and a chronic tendency to convince myself everyone I have ever met secretly hates me. So, when my flatmates started inviting me to play drinking games, I started passing it up, and then started wondering why they stopped asking, I got myself all upset. I don’t know why either. I’m a freak.

No, maybe at the minute university isn’t quite my thing, and I’m sure Alyssa and I will have many more drunk conversations about dropping out while crying in my bathroom. I didn’t realise how much I’d miss home, not just my family as people, but the blueprint of the house, the knowing where everything is, the familiarity, the pipe under the sink that isn’t leaking like the one in my room still is. I miss the decorations, the homely feel. Of course, I miss my family too, the ability to walk downstairs and someone be there to chat to and it not feel forced or awkward. The walking into my brother’s room to pester him while he plays his PlayStation. The watching TV with my dad in the evening, tormenting him as I sit next to him, rubbing the bald spot on the back of his head because he hates it or putting my feet in his face to block his view. I always knew I hated watching TV alone, but I hadn’t done anything I enjoyed until last week. I never felt right enough to get a crafts project out or sit and read an actual book. I just did work and talked to my parents or to Jack.

Maybe getting with Jack just after moving to uni didn’t help the homesickness. It’s not solely because of him, I know I like my comforts. But it went from seeing him three times a week to all of a sudden, he was 110.8 miles away. It was hard. It was so hard starting a relationship and falling in love with someone over FaceTime. We managed it though, we’re managing. He stayed the entire week last week. I had always been someone who couldn’t do sleepovers, because by the second day I missed my own company. But he stayed the week, and it was so blissfully perfect. Me and him, together, living life pretending to be grown-ups. I told him before he came it’d be a bad idea, that I’d get used to him being there, start to depend on him. And I’ve done exactly that. The thought of being by myself now scares me, because it was him and then I was home for a week and still then I haven’t spent more than two nights in a row without him. I go back tomorrow, and I’m dreading every second of it, even though I know it’s only a week and a half and I’m back again. But a week and a half alone. In that tiny single bed bedroom. Just me.

That’s me now. I’m at university and I am struggling. Every day it gets a little bit harder, every day it feels like something goes a little bit wrong. But at the end of the day, I’m there, I got in, and I’m so proud of myself for that. And I know as time goes on it will get easier, maybe it’ll get a lot harder before it does, but I know it will. Maybe university won’t be the best years of my life, or maybe I’ll finally find my place. But for now, I’m surviving each day as they come, knowing at the end of it every second will be worth it. Because this is the start of the rest of my life, and the rest of my life is going to be fucking brilliant.

spoilers: I dropped out

[darry-rules]

creepypasta - the hanging tree. ⚠️Trigger warning: Suicide

The ball streaked towards little Jimmy Hanson, covering the distance uncomfortably fast. The scrawny boy two sizes too small with the aviator glasses, cringed out of the way. It landed directly where he had been standing, and like that the game ended.

“Damnit Jimmy, you’re supposed to catch the ball not hide from it!” a fat kid with a glove on one hand cried.

A skinny boy with glasses turned from the pitcher’s mound to look at Jimmy disdain clearly visible on his face, “This is the third run you’ve allowed, and you wonder why we never let you play with us. You’re dog shit! Actually, I apologize to all loads of shit out there, you’re even more useless. I’d prefer to have Roger Morris on our team and he can’t see a damn thing with those bug eyes.”

An easy-going boy with blonde shaggy hair and a confident smile strolled up to Jimmy, extending his hand to assist, and said, “Here let me help you up. After all, you’re the best player on our team. MVP hands down. Come on boys, give him a cheer!”

The boys chanted Jimmy’s name in a mocking parade of triumph.

“I don’t need your help, David,” said Jimmy.

Dirt smeared and face growing hot, the embarrassed boy attempted to climb to his feet. The hand extended to help, struck lightning-fast, catching the smaller boy squarely in the chest. With a groan of pain, the dirty boy hit the ground for the second time that afternoon.

“Well, if I knew you liked to eat dirt so much, I never would’ve offered to help,” said David, a wolfish smile forming on the landscape of his face.

A chorus of cruel laughter echoed all around.

“I hate you David Baxly,” said the wheezing boy.

David looked at Jimmy with disgust, giving him a savage kick to his left kidney. “Why don’t you do us all a favor and die. I doubt even your family would miss you.”

The rest of the boys walked away leaving the bleeding Jimmy whimpering on the ground.

No longer crying from pain but seething anger, slowly he began to crawl to his feet. “I wish I could go somewhere else. Just pick up and move and never have to see those shitheads ever again,” said Jimmy speaking to no one in particular.

It was thoughts of revenge that occupied his mind, half-baked plans, he didn’t have the courage to act upon. No matter, it wasn’t revenge he truly sought, but a friend. The idea of having people look at him and truly see him. Humiliation for David Baxly was just an added bonus.

The bloody boy was still fantasizing about these things, when he found himself staring at the intersection of Jackson and main street in the sleepy town of Brookhollow, Tennessee. Brookhollow is like many rural towns, so tiny that it doesn’t even appear on the map. There are 876 residents in the tight-knit community, according to the 2008 census. Main street boasts one general store, a gas station, the town hall, and Debbie’s Diner.

It was on the outside of the later building that he saw the missing sign of Jack Dunkin, a 12-year-old boy from a neighboring town a few miles to the west. Jack was from Polk, a slightly larger town and known rival to Brookhollow. Even though Jack was in the same grade as Jimmy, they had never met.

Jimmy looked at the picture and saw that the boy had been missing for nearly 3 months. He wondered how his mom would react if he was missing that long; he reached the conclusion that she probably wouldn’t even notice. Ever since she took that job at Debbie’s to pay for the remainder of her husband’s gambling debts, she was hardly even home.

She was gone when he woke and didn’t come back too well after he was asleep. The only time Jimmy had any communication with Laura Hanson was on Sundays. Even this small exposure was tainted by the bone deep exhaustion. She may have been present, even so, she wasn’t there. Laura wakes, eats, drinks, uses the bathroom; yet she isn’t really living. She reminded the boy of those cheesy horror movies they sometimes play late at night. The walking dead.

As little as his interaction with Laura, at least she still lived in the ramshackle motorhome right off the main highway. His dad, if he even still qualified to be called that, left some time back, draining the joint bank account and leaving the two of them penniless. Jimmy didn’t even know where he stayed, let alone had a phone number for the bastard. A few years back he received a postcard from him. He was shelled up in some two-bit motel in the thriving city of Las Vegas. On the back of the card was a charming little note, it said, “Jimmy, I wish you could see the city. Maybe you could come out and visit. I’d love for you to come and hang with my friends. Ps. Could you have your mom send me some money, I’m in a little bit of trouble here.

This led to his first real fight with his mom. He was adamant on going and meeting his father, thinking that if he got to know him he could change him. Bring him back. His mom wanted nothing to do with the man, nor did she want her son to be hurt again. The argument got heated and words were exchanged. In the end, he stayed, but some things chafe over time. Things were never quite the same.

If the boy was honest with himself, he would have to admit there is no one in his life. He has no friends in school, there is no one waiting for him at home, and he is not a part of any extracurricular activities. He goes to school, comes home, does his homework, makes dinner for his mom, and goes to bed. It has never occurred to him that he is lonely, the fact is he has never known anything else.

Jimmy doesn’t actually live in Brookhollow, his house is about two miles north up highway 29. He lives outside of the school’s jurisdiction, so he is unable to take the bus. He walks to school every day. The walk is peaceful and he actually looks forward to it. The boy possesses an overactive imagination and gets lost in his fantasies. A little less today, his ribs ache with every step. But not even this inconvenience can ruin the solitary 2-mile trek back home. He makes no turns, highway 29 is main street. All he needs to do is walk straight and he will arrive at his house.

But he is not walking in rural Tennessee anymore. He is a pioneer exploring the Great Frontier. Native Americans and wolves stalk him at night, he must be aware of the dangers that lie beyond every turn. He can see his way through any situation with the help of his trusty companion and best friend, One-eyed Pete. Pete used to be an outlaw that robbed and cheated people, but changed his ways when Jimmy saved him from being hung on the hanging tree.

A shutter runs through his body every time he remembers the hanging tree. It’s the largest oak he had ever seen. He loves to climb trees but would never dream of climbing that one. It is twisted, not a single leaf on its branches. If evil was ever a location, it would be at the heart of that gnarled tree. Jimmy doesn’t like to think about it. It always seems to ruin his mood. Poison his mind. His fantasies always turn darker when he thinks of the oak.

Suddenly he is aware of exactly how alone he is. A full mile out from the safety of the town. No one is nearby. It’s just him, the trees, and his own tormented imagination. He wishes he wouldn’t have thought of that tree. He wishes he had a dad to pick him up from school, but there is no rescue for him. In Jimmy’s experience, heroes only exist in the story books.

“The hanging tree is in your mind, Jimmy, it isn’t real,” he tells himself over and over as if to ward away evil. And why not? For that tree is most definitely evil, the hideous villain in an insidious plot.

In the primal portion of his mind, he senses danger. The same skittish feeling the antelope experiences shortly before the concealed lion pounces and feasts on flesh.

“Trees don’t eat little boys,” murmurs the frightened boy.

“Maybe so, yet that oak could hardly be classified in the same league as other trees,” responds his own treasonous thoughts.

The boy’s mind splinters; warring factions jockeying for supremacy. Paranoia seizes him, inky black hands clawing the air out of his lungs. A young boy unaware of the inward mutiny happening amidst his own wits, completely left to his own demented imagination. Yet, the stakes of this adventure are a great deal higher than any he has yet to experience.

His mother was fond of telling him, “What you think, you become.”

A truly awful thought slinks into his mind unbidden. What if the stories his mind conjures could gain reality too? The thought overwhelms the boy. His eyes shift back and forth searching for threats. Jimmy’s senses are keen to his surroundings. Every twig snapping, a creature stalking. Every bush rustling, a hungry beast ready to devour. Yet, the petty fears of a child’s tormented mind pales to the unearthly wrongness of the hanging tree.

“What if mom is right?” says the concerned boy to the emptiness. At this unwelcome thought the boy slams his eyes closed in a futile attempt to banish the horrific idea.

“The hanging tree isn’t real,” says Jimmy, knowing in his heart this isn’t true. In the back of his mind, the boy is certain that the moment he opens his eyes, he will see it. He will see the strands of rope dangling from the gnarled branches. He will smell the smell of decaying bodies. He will hear the creak of rope swaying gently in the cool breeze.

The boy doubles his efforts in a vain attempt to keep his eyes closed. He sees red due to the strain he is putting on his muscles. He hears the steady pulse of his blood rushing in his head. The boy also understands that all this effort is for naught. He must open his eyes at some point. Jealousy creeps into the boy’s heart. Envy for the man born without sight. For the boy understands the moment he sees, there will be no coming back.

The moment has come.

Jimmy can no longer keep his eyes shut. Seconds before his eyes fling open, he feels the gentle touch of someone’s hand on his shoulder. This touch startles him, and the boy throws wide his eyes.

Sure enough a few hundred yards in front of him, stands the abomination. A lone tree on the top of a bald, scarred hill. Not a living thing to be seen. No vegetation growing on the hill, no squirrels scuttling about, just a great oak, standing; an obscene gesture to the god of this world. The only fruit of this tree the decaying flesh of dead men, and likewise, the only cup the curdled blood of those hanging. A final meal set for the boy, an unholy communion.

The hand, whose was it? Was it even human? The little boy left visibly shaking at the touch of the unknown. Is this death? The icy grip of the Reaper himself here to harvest with his scythe. No marriage, no children, not knowing the pleasures of true friendship. Life cut short, a lamentable state of affairs.

It was in this line of thought, where true courage was mustered. A strength measured not by the size of his muscles or the amount one could lift, but the more impressive type, the type quantified in the amount of shit one can wade. Identified in the amount of crap hands dealt without bowing out altogether. Young Jimmy Hanson did the unthinkable, he turned and faced death looking it in the eyes.

Eyes, yes, but death perhaps not. It was no titan of horror, nor was it the poster child of demented evil. Child it was, but this boy was familiar. Not anyone from his class, yet he knew the boy. In a moment of clarity, he recognized him. It was the missing kid, Jack Dunkin.

He looked identical to the poster on the side of Debbie’s Diner. He wore the same black and white Van’s tee shirt, ripped blue jeans, and some tattered Nike tennis shoes. The thoroughly terrified Jimmy stood staring at the missing boy, mouth ajar.

Jack with an easy-going grin plastered on his face, said, “It’s about time, someone comes looking for me. I’ve been waiting for you Jimmy, far too long.”

With an audible click the boy shut his gaping mouth and responded, “Ja- Jack, you’ve been missing for nearly three months. Have you been out here all along? Are you alone? Are you hurt?” Jimmy fired these questions in rapid succession, growing more suspicious with each word.

“I’ve been right here, waiting for you to come and play with me. You see, I am like you. I never had anyone to play with either. Now you are here, and you must stay with me,” said the bigger boy with a smile on his face.

Jimmy’s mind quieted, for the first time in his life he saw himself clearly. A boy with no friends, no father, hardly a mother, bullied every day, and no way of escape. Clarity revealed the harsh truth. A day had not gone by that he wasn’t lonely. There was no one in his life. There was no life for him.

The undersized boy looked at the other with longing in his eyes. He thirsted for a friend, like a man lost at sea. He hungered for companionship, like a man stuck in the wilderness. It wasn’t just a desire; he was desperate for a friend. If the bigger boy would leave, Jimmy felt as if his soul would tear in half. His heart would shatter into a thousand pieces unable to be put back together. The boys’ eyes were a mirror reflecting the same sad truth, they understood each other. Both had lived, and neither had anyone to share it with.

The boys bound by shared hardships grasped onto each other refusing to let go.  The combined burden of loneliness lessened by two backs, instead of one.

With few words exchanged, the two of them created soul ties. Not the ties of lovers, but of lifelong friends. The type one dies for. The rare type of friendship that most people never form in their entire life. It was rich. It was wholesome. Jimmy felt as if his life was complete. The one thing he always desired truly fulfilled.

Jack grabbed the smaller boy’s hand and guided him towards the tree.

Jimmy, not wanting to get anywhere near that monstrosity, tried to pull back.

“Don’t worry. The tree is a good place. It will take us to a new land filled with boys and girls just like you and I. No David’s or bullies like him,” said a smiling Jack.

“How did you know about David? You’ve been missing all this time,” said a concerned looking Jimmy.

“Jimmy, I hear whispers. My friends tell me things. They will tell you secrets too. If you want to be friends with me, that is.” The bigger boy looked down at his ragged shoes. He looked so pitiful and Jimmy was so starved for companionship, how could he not follow the boy.

Jack led the two of them to the scarred trunk of the tree. Here he let go of Jimmy’s hand, telling the boy, “Do exactly what I do.”

Jimmy’s fear bottled up deep in his guts. He felt as if he was going to explode. The tree was sinister and twisted. Evil through and through. Yet, the little boy had never had a friend. He was not willing to throw that away so easily.

Jack walked to the lowest hanging branch. He reached up and grabbed one of the dangling nooses. He wrapped it around his neck and looked at Jimmy. “Don’t worry, no pain is felt. The hanging tree is magic. You’ll close your eyes on this world, and wake up in a better place with me and all of my friends,” said a smiling Jack.

“Ja-Jack, I don’t think I can do this. It seems dangerous. I need to go back home soon. My mom will be waiting for me,” said a terrified Jimmy.

A heartbroken Jack looked at the smaller boy and said, “Jimmy, I can’t believe you would lie to me. Your mom isn’t home and she wouldn’t even notice that you are missing. Come with me. I am the only one who cares for you.”

Tears streaming down the smaller boy’s face, he responded, “Please don’t make me do it! This place frightens me. Can’t you just come home with me?”

“No! This world despises people like you and me. We weren’t made for it. We were made for the hanging tree. This is where you belong,” snarled the bigger boy.

Jimmy, eyes still running, reached with trembling hands for the dangling noose. He seized it. With one final glance at his friend, the little boy placed the loop around his neck. Immediately the noose drew tight. It felt as if the tree was hauling him up by it. The boy kicked and squirmed. Trying to shout for help, but his airflow was cut off. He managed to make a choking noise, then with one final twitch all was still. Still as the glassy surface of a lake on a spring day.

Little Jimmy Hanson had finally made a friend.

The two boys remained dangling together, gently swaying in the stale autumn breeze.

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day. Welcome to the working week although, for those of you working in the NHS, welcome to just another day.

Wow! That was another breathless weekend!

Many thanks to everyone that listened to the radio show live and to everyone that will listen to the show on MixCloud. The Letter N (Part Four) this Saturday at 1.00 p.m.

The weekend got off to a slow start as my son, having picked up The Mighty Josiah, struggled to get home. There was a fender-bender on the M1 that brought both carriageways to a standstill for more than an hour. There are TOO many cars on our roads and TOO many bad drivers!

On Saturday morning, I set off for Summer Soulstice and arrived at High Barnet tube station early. So, I thought, instead of waiting for the ‘Soul Bus’, I’d walk to the event. What I forgot was that I was in the bloody countryside and, as I got closer to the field, there was no pavement! I enjoyed a bracing walk, though, even at 11.00, it was bloody hot! The back of my T-shirt was soaked!

I’ve never been before but I’m so glad Jon Jules organised for me to do my radio show from Summer Soulstice. What a fantastic event! Naturally, we were helped by some marvellous weather; as noon passed, it just seemed to get hotter! There were FAR too many beautiful people there! I tried to grab selfies with as many people as possible and there were one or two popping their Lindsay selfie cherry! At one point, this devilish woman gave me a glass of rum punch. I know you’re not meant to drink alcohol live on air, but it smelt so nice, plus it was cold and wet! I needed something to lubricate my throat. I was drinking on an empty stomach so, when I played ‘Hip Hop Hooray’, my brain was literally going, “Hey! Ho! Hey! Ho!” I don’t know what the show sounded like but it was fun to do! In the middle of my show, these two gorgeous women arrived, told me they were part of an act called Soul Fusion Seven and that they were performing later. After my show, I caught their set, and it’s a very impressive set of seventies soul, disco and jazz-funk covers. I wanted to try something different for lunch (and to soak up the alcohol), so I opted for jollof rice and moi moi, which was very filling! I could feel the ‘itis’ coming on, so I kept moving. One of the best things about this event is that it’s a family-orientated soul music event, with lots of activities for the kids. You don’t know how tempted I was to jump on the bouncy castle! As well as the main stage and the Mi-Soul V.I.P. bar, there were two tents full of cool DJs. Really, something for everyone! Tons of the Mi-Soul boys were there because they’ve always played Summer Soulstice, so I hope we can continue to do live broadcasts from our little house.

I was on my train home when I got a phone call from Gordon wondering where I was. My beautiful friend Vivienne McKone had just finished her set and was looking for me! Vivienne: we will catch up soon!

I got home after 8.00 p.m. and, after a day in the sun, I could barely move. Thank God, my son had ordered pizza! I had just enough strength to post my photos!

The bedroom was too hot so, just after 4.00 a.m. I came downstairs to my favourite armchair. Josiah woke me up around 7.00, looking for his breakfast and, after toasting two waffles for him, I went back to sleep. I actually slept through until 10.00. I never do that.

On Sunday evening, we attended the birthday party of the amazingly talented, versatile and lovable Edward Adoo. Always nice to see Ed and his mum. In fact, no party is complete without Ed’s mum! Also, lovely to see my friend Joanna Abeyie, who always looks so glamourous. Ed’s dad played a blistering live set with his trio, which is a classy way to spend your Sunday afternoon.

Definitely need a day off! That ain’t happening! Seven hours of teaching today; wish me luck!

Have a marvellous and momentous Monday. I love you all.

[private-bryan]

Cheers for the tag, Coco!

1)The last book I read?

Strong Female Character by Fern Brady. It's a great autobiography of her growing up autistic and the troubles lack of support/belief she had during her teenage years and early 20s. Very funny but also very stark at the same time

2)A book I recommend?

If you're into fantasy, and you don't mind a long commitment, The Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan is a masterpiece (excluding book 10, possibly). Specifically, my favourite is book 9, Winter's Heart.

3)A book I couldn't put down?

Barefoot Soldier by Johnson Beharry VC. Another autobiography, detailing the life of one of the few post-war Victoria Cross recipients. It's compelling, showing his childhood in Grenada up to the action in Iraq that earned him the medal saving his unit. I read it in an afternoon.

4)A book I've read twice (or more)?

Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton. I love me a good techno-thriller, and Crichton has some masterpieces in that respect. I enjoyed The Andromeda Strain and Timeline too, but my childhood obsession with Dinosaurs (and aborted plans to be a palaeontologist) mean I keep rereading what I consider his best work, JP.

5)A book on my TBR?

The Life of Pi by Yann Martel. I picked it up in a charity shop last weekend, and haven't made time to read it yet.

6)A book I've put down?

Ulysses by Hames Joyce. I tried, I really did, but it just didn't grab me. Maybe I'll try it again soon when I can dedicate more time to trying to absorb it.

7)A book on my wish list?

Angel Fire East by Terry Brooks. I've read the other Word vs Void books (Running with the Demon and A Knight of the Word), but I've yet to read the final one in the series.

8)A favourite book from childhood?

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. A classic adventure story, full of pirates and lost treasure; what more is there to love?

9)A book you would give to a friend?

Hogfather, by the late, great Terry Pratchett. Any of the Discworld novels would be suitable, especially the later ones, but Hogfather is really something special, especially around Christmas. Despite being a later book in the Death series, it stands alone really well too, and is chock full of PTerry's trademark wit and humour.

[10)Take a moment and rest. Breathe in. Breathe out. Now, you may continue]

11)A nonfiction book you own?

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable. It's an amazing tome, and quite weighty (which is the mark of all good books); it's a listing of all sorts of idioms, fairy tails, phrases, fables, slang, facts, and little known information. I highly recommend having a copy on your shelf, especially as a writer.

12)What are you currently reading?

On Bloody Sunday by Julieann Campbell. I picked it up at the Museum of Free Derry when I went to the city, and it's an emotional but important read. It's the story of Bloody Sunday, told by the people who were there and involved.

13)What are you planning on reading next?

Aside from the Life of Pi above, I want to read some more classic fantasy, so I've got The Earthsea Quartet by Ursula K. Le Guin upstairs on the pile ready to go afterwards.

Tagging @areseebee, @imstressedx, and @soratobukujira as I'm curious as to your book picks too :)

13 books!

I was tagged by @consistantly-changing (thanks!) to answer these 13 questions, tag 13 people and, if desired, add a shelfie! I looove this one!

1) The last book I read:

Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett, which is a departure from my usual fare; I just wanted something fun and cozy. I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed it!

2) A book I recommend:

Ugh, so so many. uhhh how about The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett

3) A book that I couldn’t put down:

My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante (that whole series, really)

4) A book I’ve read twice (or more):

Uprooted by Naomi Novik

5) A book on my TBR:

A new one I'm excited about that I'm on the hold list for at the library is The Warm Hands of Ghosts by Katherine Arden.

6) A book I’ve put down:

Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. I don't know if I wasn't in the right headspace for it, or if I'm just too dumb. Probably both. I would like to try it again sometime, though.

7) A book on my wish list:

The Handbook of Bird Biology by the Cornell Lab of Ornithology

8) A favorite book from childhood:

The Secret Garden. I had a really pretty illustrated copy. I still have it, actually!

9) A book you would give to a friend:

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

[There is no No. 10 I guess?]

11) A nonfiction book you own:

The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson ugggh it's so good

12) What are you currently reading:

Waiting by Ha Jin and The Art of Gathering by Priya Parker

13) What are you planning on reading next?

I won't actually know until I get to that point. My reading mood changes with the wind. :P

And a shelfie! It's a couple months old, but I don't feel like taking a new one. (fwiw, a LOT of these are used or gifted, and I prune/donate them regularly)

Tagging @glassprism @musicalhell @bogglebabbles @les-gnossiennes-fantomatiques @rjdaae @ladystormcrow @forestscribe4 @a-partofthenarrative @jennyfair7 @pianomanblaine @lucy-ghoul @dying-suffering-french-stalkers @lestatslestits

[ordin-arily]

Ghosts, Goblins, and Good-for-Nothings

i was intending to keep my tumblr for requests alone but please enjoy this halloween drabble in the spirit of spooky season! 🎃🖤

Notes: fem reader, 2nd person pov, language, mentions of street harassment 

Halloween is on a Monday this year. It’s not great for trick-or-treaters—never is on a school night—but for every other enthused fan of the holiday? This means three days of non-stop festivities.

Saturday in its entirety is booked to the brim with plans for pumpkin carving, hayrides, costume contests and, later in the night, throwing back October 31st-themed shots 'til you puke orange and purple sparkles.

Sunday morning is for recovery and what Leo dubbed Boo-zy Brunch in the group chat. Pumpkin Pancakes, Candy Corn Crêpes, Witch’s Brew (re: coffee), AHH-vocado Ghost, and Devilled Eggs are all on the revamped menu at Pepe’s for the season—and how could you possibly do without a few Bloody Marys? (The words come from Mikey because you can fair just fine without that tomato juice concoction monstrosity. And, come to think of it, you’ll probably be so hungover the mere smell of alcohol will be enough to deter you regardless of the potion it comes mixed in.)

Sunday afternoon is reserved for horror movie marathoning and engorging on the candy meant for some infant-sized ghosts, goblins, and ghouls ringing your doorbell the following evening, which is a dangerous game because they promise tricks without the tempting of treats.

These plans had been months in the making and you couldn’t have been looking forward to it more. Still, this left you with a vacant slot on Friday night. The spot blinked at you on your calendar mockingly, like a neon sign on its last leg. How could you not have plans with anyone else?

In hindsight, you probably should have begun asking around a little earlier than the day of. You love the Mad Dogs—obviously—but two back-to-back days are probably about all the celebrations you can manage.

You send out a few texts after class and plan to try some more on your commute home.

Nothing of the sort transpires.

You end up walking through your front door sort of dazed and out of it, lost somewhere inside yourself.

You’re not sure how much time passes where you sit motionless on your couch, feeling just as trapped as you did on the subway fifteen minutes ago. Eventually, you get up to change clothes. You fish out your favourite seasonal crewneck from a bottom drawer. It’s soft and comforting and it has the words Halloweentown University plastered across it with an outline of the famed pumpkin at the centre. It’s your best attempt at saving face, if only for yourself.

You peel out of stiff jeans next and replace them with plaid sleep shorts. It’s not the most cohesive outfit—especially not with a full face of makeup and all your jewelry still on from the day—but it makes you feel better than you did before so you leave it on.

Your feet shuffle slowly, numbly, one foot in front of the other until you reach your living room couch again and smooth your fingers over your phone screen absently. It’s already dark out with only one sliver of teal haloing the horizon. You mull over sending out another text.

If you’re being honest with yourself, there’s only one person you really want to see. It’s becoming more and more of a regular occurrence and you try not to beat yourself up over it too much. He’s good at making people laugh and you like to laugh.

The odds of him being free this short notice are slim but you shoot him a message anyway and stare off into space until his response comes.

Miraculously, he thinks an early movie marathon at your place is an awesome idea and asks if you’ve already eaten. You lie and he tells you great, he’ll just bring snacks then.

Somehow, that little text bubble makes it easier to breathe (and think and move) and you get up to toss a bag of popcorn in the microwave. You wonder if he’ll beat the timer.

Leo, never one to lose a challenge, indeed proves successful. His circle of cerulean light appears just six seconds before your microwave bellows at you.

You're pouring the bag out into a large bowl as you greet him in the most uplifting manner you can muster. You fall into light, engaged conversation—mostly about the snacks he opted to bring—and, before long, the two of you end up buried alive in wrappers, Cheeto dust, and popcorn kernels.

You try to keep concentration on the TV screen, you do. Leo's laughing and making comments that you would find downright hysterical—possibly some of his best material yet—if you had it in you to listen, but your mind continues to derail, veer off course, sink into terribly murky waters below.

You’re drowning by the time he pulls you up to surface.

The screen is paused and you have to focus on it for a few seconds to remember you’re supposed to be enthralled in the campy 80s thriller he picked out. Leo’s eyes are trailed on you, like he’s gathering all the info he can just by sizing you up.

“Sorry, what?” you have to ask.

Leo’s brows knit further. “I asked what was wrong. You seem… I dunno, distracted.”

He’s right. You hadn’t even noticed him grab the remote to pause the film, forget trying to recount any of the plot.

He’s been observing you for the last little while—the way you seem so far away.

Hollow stares don’t suit you.

You shrink a little. “No. Sorry. I’m good. Just, uh… It was a long day, you know?”

He throws an arm around the back of the couch and angles his body more openly toward you. A silent invite.

You sit there in the dark for a long moment. The silver glow reflecting off the colour of his skin makes for something supernaturally beautiful but this observation is merely a form of stalling.

A small, defeated breath wilts your posture. “Some guy kept taking pictures of me on the subway today and, honestly, I’ve just been kind of mentally fucked by it. It’s so stupid but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“He did what?”

You have to fixate your gaze on one of the empty bowls on your coffee table to keep your face from twisting, but the tears are already forming and they don’t yield for anyone.

April is tougher and more resilient than you—you know this—but you kind of take pride in coming in a close second. You’re loud about injustice and rant and rave about pet peeves all the time. Mostly for comedic purposes, sure, but you like to think you’ve got a backbone built from the same stuff as hers. A similar brand of gall that has the two of you teaming up to fight… whatever it is that needs to be fought, really. Suddenly, you wonder, not without a payload of shame, if maybe April’s been doing most of the heavy lifting this whole time.

“I should’ve put my hand around his neck and told him to delete them but I just sat there like an idiot until it was time for me to get off."

You can feel the mascara and eyeliner getting into your eyes and it makes all of this a lot more uncomfortable. Though, still not quite as uncomfortable as you felt today so you decide this is fine.

Your fingers reach high to tug at the elastic holding your half-up bun in place, if only to give yourself something to do.

You don’t get to fuss a ton before Leo’s wrapping you up in a hug. “Don’t call yourself that."

You blink slowly and heave a shattered sigh into his shoulder.

“That’s messed up,” he continues. “And if you can paint me a portrait, I’ll hunt that creepo down and kick his ass.”

“I wish I’d done something,” you mumble.

He pulls back and doesn’t say anything for a long moment, sort of like he’s weighing the words in his mind. “That’s not... your responsibility. You don’t have to manage the shitty things people do to you.”

You're not anticipating that out of him but, weirdly, it's what you need to hear. You nod, unexpectedly entranced by all this.

“Don’t worry about him, okay? Donnie’s insane with this kind of stuff. He’s got facial recognition tech better than the CIA's and he can tap into any electronic device in the state, probably the country. He'll track the phone and wipe it clean in under an hour without even moving from that stupid-comfortable gaming chair he never lets any of us sit in.” His voice goes sort of bitter at the tail end there and it makes you giggle.

Leo smiles at you.

“C’mere.” And then he’s hauling you in close, incentivizing you to lie down with him, willing some of that tension out of your shivering frame. (You hadn't realized you were shaking so badly until his palms came up to rub warmth up and down the length of your arms.)

You stay there for a little while as Leo starts the movie back up. Neither of you is really watching but that’s okay. You feel better knowing justice is afoot, even if that makes you some vindictive low-road traveller.

“I wish I could go everywhere with you. Be your little bodyguard.”

You snicker. “You just want to wear aviators and an earpiece.”

“Come on…!” Leo whines. “I’d look so cool! And you’d get 24/7 personalized security. All I’m seein’ are wins here.”

You hum. “I’m inclined to agree, Nardo.” There’s a space of silence where you have to keep from replaying the incident in your mind per Leo’s request. (He told you not to worry and you intend to follow through on that.) He must sense your labours, though, because he goes on with his scenario.

“Eh, scuze me, Mr. Sleazy Scumbag, sir, no flash photography,” he proclaims, voice getting somehow more nasally than usual. “I know it’s hard to resist capturing such model-like energy but I’ll have to ask you to exercise some self-restraint.”

You put on your best manly impression, voice descending somewhere that is comically deep and husky. “Uh, I’m trying to exercise my personal liberties, here, my dude. It’s my constitutional right—nay, my duty—on this earth to harass women and be a colossal piece of shit.”

“Sir, I won’t ask you again.”

“Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it, tough guy?”

You’re not sure what kind of response you’re expecting but it is nowhere near one that includes being tackled to the floor and pinned down in an ambush taking the form of hellish tickles. You laugh and squirm, only marginally resentful over how easily this boy manages to lift your spirits.

He shows you mercy quickly enough, declaring, “See, I don’t even have to use violence to take down my opponents. God, I’m good.” And then he’s leaning down, whispering secretively to you: “But I wouldn’t be nearly as friendly with that clown. Trust me.”

“I do,” you tell him, and Leo has to hide the surprised elation that glosses over his face.

You grin and grab for his cheeks with your palms. “You’re so important to me.”

For someone who talks all the time, it's unbelievable that he can’t find the right words to reply. In lieu of anything verbal, a chaste peck finds its way to your forehead. (Well, it’s not like that isn’t a welcome response.)

“I should go wash my face,” you shrug sheepishly from under him. “Bet I look like a raccoon right now.” (You might have to play the lottery if it turns out your undoubtedly smudged makeup has somehow slid itself back into place.)

“Prettiest raccoon I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re sweet.”

Leo pauses the TV once again as he waits for you and the screen goes into sleep mode, transposing stock images of landscapes he’s finding it difficult to trust are real places that exist.

In this lapse, he takes the opportunity to look around. Tiny pumpkin fairy lights are strung up along the cupboards in your kitchen. Next to him, the napkins are patterned with ghosts and bats. Your bowls are colour-coordinated. The one harbouring the Doritos he brought is forest green, sporting the cartoony face of Frankenstein’s monster. There’s another with Dracula and a third violet one that doesn’t at all fit in with the others. There's just some random, unknown witch on it. Leo’s bottom lip juts out disappointedly.

A platter of chocolate-covered pretzels sits off to the side of your small table and Leo helps himself to one. And then another and a few more, until he ends up unveiling the eyeball motif on the ceramic. There are scarecrows on the matching one on the other side of the table, that one brandishing the fluffiest sugar cookies he’s ever tasted.

You’ve got werewolf coasters and pumpkin pillows and, upon further inspection, Leo finds that even your throw blanket is littered with dancing skeletons. He grins. It’s just so like you.

And then, while you’re still in the bathroom, he sends out a few texts.

***

You’re at the lair bright and early on Saturday morning and you come bearing orange-frosted cupcakes and pumpkin-spiced lattes. The turtles and April cheer in unison when they spot your goodies. It doesn't take very long at all before you're learning they’ve got surprises of their own.

The first is impossible to miss; the Hamato home is thoroughly decked out in Halloween memorabilia, including a few extravagant displays that look like they belong in the annual fun fair’s haunted house (an event that was, at the last minute, added to tomorrow’s evening agenda).

“Guys!” you squeal excitedly, taking it all in. “The lair looks incredible!”

You’re, like, fully hopping from one foot to the other, bouncing on the tips of your toes, and Leo could not find it more adorable.

Donnie outs his brother almost immediately. “It was Leo’s idea.”

Mikey’s parading around the kitchen with oven mitts on. “We’re baking pumpkin bread too!”

“Also Leo’s idea!” Donnie interjects, sliding his way over.

“And we managed to swap tickets for the forest hay ride,” April announces buoyantly from her seat, picking at the bowl of kettle corn in the centre of the table. You’d tried for those tickets initially but they’d been completely sold out so you’d had to settle for the farm route instead.

You’re about to ask how they managed to swing that when:

“Leo was on the phone with them for over an hour…” Donnie volunteers.

Raph, who’s sitting on the floor hunched over a pumpkin and getting a head start on carving offers yet another headline of terrific news: “Oh! And we’re VIP tonight. Drinks are free and we get to judge the costume contest.”

Leo’s hand wraps its way over Donnie’s mouth before the boy can so much as inhale. “I think she gets it,” he bites out through gritted teeth.

Even behind Leo’s hand-muzzle, Donnie looks entirely too smug.

Raph and April glance at you, grinning from ear to ear. Judging by this reaction, you’d say your expression has to be somewhere between awed and flabbergasted.

You don’t know what to say.

April helps you out. “Donnie’s being annoying about it but, yeah, Leo really does deserve all the credit for this.”

You watch Leo’s head turn mechanically in her direction, the stiffest grin etched into his face. It takes everything in you not to laugh. It’s strange, though. Leo’s the type to seek credit even where it’s not due so this feels suspiciously out of character.

“Oh, Leonardo…” you singsong jubilantly. “Might I have a word?”

His gaze whips up at you and he nods, shyer than you know him to be.

“Don’t take too long!” Mikey calls, removing the pan from the oven as you branch off to another room. “It’s better when it’s still warm!”

You end up in the projector room near the pile of pumpkins you’re set to carve today. Leo sucks in a pitted breath but you start before he can.

“I don’t even know how to thank you. You didn’t have to do all this.”

Leo’s shoulders come up to his jaw and fall back down slowly. “I wanted to make up for what happened. And I know you love Halloween so…”

“That’s insanely thoughtful, Leo. Thank you.”

“Oh, and I made sure Donnie caught the guy. Saw the pictures with my own two eyeballers. They were gorgeous, by the way, as always, but they have been eradicated from that perv's cellular device along with his entire camera roll and every password, contact, song, and app." He gives you a little bow. Theatrics are always in full bloom with him. It makes you smile. "We also may have leaked his bank information online but that's because Donnie's cynical and I have no self-control.”

“How am I supposed to return this kind of favour, huh? I’m gonna be buying you pizza for the rest of my life.”

Leo waves you off before picking up a pumpkin. You do the same, mostly to give yourself something to fidget with.

“You could… uh, go on a date with me instead. Like a… yeah, a date.”

Your head tilts to the side. You’ve always felt there might be something more between the two of you but you weren’t confident either of you would ever act on it. It’s hard to tell if he’s being sincere now.

You venture an answer: “One measly date in exchange for a whole weekend of fun? You’re not making this a very tough decision.”

Leo smirks at you, lip caught by his teeth. “Then say yes.”

“Yes. On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“I get to plan it. You’ve done so much, let me take this one.”

Leo slumps in relief and nods at you, eyes filled with stars. You giggle and tap your pumpkin to his, an extra pep in your step as you start off on a walk back to the others.

The rest of the weekend might just be the greatest of, like, your whole freaking life. It’s impossibly fun and chaotic, and you go home each night with your cheeks hurting from smiling so wide and your throat raw from laughter.

Everything is wonderfully spooky and delightfully festive and, come Monday night, you and Leo spend a rooftop dinner on a decorative picnic blanket mottled with broomsticks and pointy hats. You laugh and chat and cling wine glasses together, watching the sun go down and the streets below fill with costumes. Later, you’ll hand out candy and watch family-friendly classics but, for now, you dither in the wind and kiss underneath the stars.

***

[mint-yooxgi]

hi , its me, the yandere bff chenle 😔 ik ur pretty loaded with rqsts but could i have 1 more yan chenle? Maybe reader somehow finds out his feelings for her by accident and out of panic she decides to just ghost him and he confronts her about it? And maybe gets just a lil bit too yandere when he expresses how hurt he is with reader thank u in advance 😭 ur works are amazeballs

Part One

***

Just as you sit down to have lunch one Sunday afternoon, a sudden knocking at your door has a sigh escaping your lips. You have no idea who that could be, and from the frantic banging of their fist on your door, it seems urgent.

“Okay, okay,” you huff out, “I’m coming! Sheesh!”

Flinging open the door, you’re about to ask whoever it is what they want when you see who exactly is standing on the other side.

“Oh, so now you answer?” Chenle storms past you right into your apartment, an angry furrow to his brow.

“No, no, please do come in,” you roll your eyes, letting the door fall shut behind you as you turn around, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “What are you-”

“You seriously can’t be about to ask me what the hell I'm doing here.” He seethes, rounding on you. “You’ve been ignoring me, your best friend,” he spits out the words, “for two bloody weeks!”

You purse your lips. He’s got you there. 

Ever since you found out about Chenle’s not so secret crush on you, you’ve felt a little awkward about your friendship to say the least. You don’t even remember who it was that told you, but once you knew, you knew. Everything he’s done, everything he does towards you now all makes sense.

No wonder he got so jealous about Taeyong.

“Right,” you trail off, “best friend.”

Chenle pauses, “the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to keep secrets from one another.” Your voice comes out smaller than you had hoped, wrapping your arms around yourself now for comfort.

“You mean like what you’re doing right now?” He counters with a slight tilt to his head. “Do you know what it’s like not to talk to you for more than a day? How it feels to have the person you’re closest to go radio silent on you out of the blue? To watch the person you’re in love with ignore you, and instead pine over other people right in front of your very eyes? Yet, you try to tell them that the two of you are perfect for each other, hell, you’ve been best friends for years, but when push comes to shove they just toss you aside like you mean nothing to them when they mean everything to you.”

You swallow the sudden dryness in your throat as he begins to slowly advance towards you until he’s standing right in front of you, your back pressed right up against the wall.

“I tried playing nice. I tried to play fair and give it time, but I'm done.” He spits, eyes dark as he meets your gaze. “You are mine, whether you like it or not, and I am yours.”

“Chenle-”

“And I'm not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

[uroborosymphony]

Ilana & Jiho

The lights are dimmed. In the background, murmurs and whispers lacing with the smoke of cigars. Sundays are slow, the regulars have claimed their usual table in the center of the speakeasy, the perfect night and setting to dissect and discuss business. Men mostly, of a certain age, gathered around the kangpae's attention. In the south of the city many traffics take place under her eyes. She is not unknown on the underground scene - on the contrary. The songstress, the fallen angel, the serpent, the whisperer. She has gained her reputation, for always associating with the right ones, for the many betrayals she has committed as well. An opportunist. One not to trust. Her goal was never to shine or make a name here but only to get everything she needed to take care of herself and her daughter : money. She is in her signature red dress, catwalking, standing up from the kangpae's table to join the bar's counter. She comes and goes, in between chats and drinks during her breaks, gracing the room with her voice whenever her heels bring her back under the spotlights. 4am. Her stage was reaching an end as the songstress now had to spend the following hours of the night waiting for her paycheck and perhaps tips if the mob was feeling generous. Behind the bar, Jiho. She takes place in front of him, on one of the high chair made of black velvet. "Mmm I'm exhausted of these business talks, I need a drink." She confides, rolling her eyes. She then rests her elbows down the counter, her long hair cascading at the side of her forearms as her dark eyes are resting on him. Eyes as deep as the raven of her hair and the fires in her perfume. "You don't get involved, do you?"

Her voice is deep and calm, there is a tranquil smile on her lips. She's thankful for his presence. He is a kind man, Ilana knows that. A gentle soul. But oh, don't good hearts always end up here? Tainted. Scorched. In the cold arms and bloody guts of Itaewon. On some days she is afraid he might disappear, one day. After finding his answers, after taking care of his debts, singing up for a better life with his girlfriend and leave her behind. It wasn't that the songtress absolutely needed someone to survive in this environment, she was less on her pride however, more enclined to ask for help, for company in her darkest days and nights. "As the days are passing, I have been realizing something..." Her voice echoes in some sort of a whisper as her eyes connect and follow his actions closely from above the marble. Ilana's struggles were known and overknown. Whenever Jiho would come over to spend an entire afternoon with Luna, helping her with homeworks as Ilana had to disappear for hours, attending places of shade and secrets - closed doors it was better for her to keep away from her daughter. Moments of calm like this one were rare. Discussing Jiho's issues was rare, too. She wanted in a little more, perhaps be there for him the way he was for her. The only difference was how unreliable she could be, unstable but her heart was in it. "I can help you, too. I know, my methods might not be the best but," And she laughs, with that slightly deranged laughter of hers. Of a woman who fights for her life yet in an impulsive way, as if there was no tomorrow. "Family is a gift Mother Nature has given us. Skin of your skin, blood of your blood. I remember being young... and mad. Furious that after all this love she has given me, she would simply take it back the way it pleases her. To just... take my family away, leave me all by myself. " The corner of her lips are drawing lines, of saddened smiles, dammed memories, tragedies of the past. "And then I finally understood, it is not Nature who wants to watch you ache and suffer. It's humans themselves, with that sick pleasure of theirs." Twisted, when thinking about what she did to the father of her daughter, hidding Luna from him, going away, never looking back. Wasn't she one of these humans, too? "What happened to him? Your brother."

            FOR @ORIONIN

[babyboibucky]

Obvious

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are more than friends but less than lovers.

Word Count: 1,700

Warnings: slight angst??? mention of injury???

A/N: Inspired by Ariana Grande’s “obvious” because I fucking love that song lmfao. Let me know if anyone wants to be included in my Bucky Barnes tag list! Will do separate tag lists for everything Bucky and Babysitting Bucky. Feedback is highly appreciated!

MAIN MASTERLIST

---

You and Bucky weren’t lovers, no. But you were definitely not just friends either.

There were kisses early in the morning, while both of you were cuddled in bed basking in the warmth of the sunlight spilling through the thin curtains; soft and subtle touches in the afternoon as the two of you navigated through the kitchen in an attempt to bake together. Slow touches late at night, cold metal fingers grazing you in just the right places that made you feel like on fire. And the exchange of whispers in the wee hours of night after coming down from the high of exploring each other’s bodies, uttered so softly, words meant only for each other to hear.

More than friends indeed, less than lovers? Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter though? Because even without the words of affirmation, you loved Bucky and was sure that he loved you just as much.

Besides, you were obviously head over heels for the soldier. Not that you were denying or hiding it, in fact, you felt like you showed it a tad bit too much.

“Leaving so soon, soldier?” You’d asked with a pout as you watched Bucky leave your side on the bed.

“Duty calls.” He told you as he began to dress up.

Noticing your frown, he chuckled and approached you on the bed, bending down to press a kiss on your forehead.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He reassured you, smoothening out the crease on your forehead with his thumb.

“But I wanna cook you dinner.” You told him.

The thought of you and Bucky spending a domesticated evening together always elated you. You loved daydreaming about it, about sharing a life with your super soldier. Him coming home after a mission and you making sure to take good care of him. Maybe run him a bath while you prepared dinner. Silly, it seemed but you couldn’t help imagining all the possibilities with Bucky. Letting him sleep in on Sundays while you go on a jog, only to come back home with pancakes and bacons waiting for you in the kitchen. And Bucky of course, fresh out of bed with his hair sticking up in different directions.

Being with an Avenger of course, made it difficult to experience all these things. Sometimes you’d wake up alone but Bucky always made sure to leave you a little note.

I’ll be back soon, beautiful.

His notes found a home in one of your drawers. There were plenty and although these notes symbolized his absence on most days, they also meant promises. Promises to make it up for the lost time, promises that were never broken nor forgotten.

Dinner dates were often postponed, sleepovers a rare occurrence— spending time together in general, wasn’t as easy as it was for other couples out there.

But that’s okay. Because you’d always wait for Bucky. You’d wait for him to come home and even if it’d take him three days, one week, two months or even a year, you’d still wait and welcome him with hugs and kisses and affectionate whispers.

Sometimes you wondered whether Bucky knew how much you loved him.

Disagreements were of course, unavoidable even between you and Bucky. Oftentimes, the arguments would stem from his carelessness and selfless decisions during missions. Your super soldier, always so giving and generous and kind. You couldn’t care less about what others thought of him and his days under the influence of monsters. The moment you knew you loved Bucky, you had already accepted him. And that included his demons and dark days too.

To you, Bucky had always been kind and put others first before himself. Sometimes a little too much that you couldn’t help but feel hurt that he didn’t seem to care how you’d feel if ever he wouldn’t make it home.

If Sam hadn’t called you that night, you wouldn’t have known about the serious injury inflicted on Bucky while on a mission.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You asked as soon as you barged into the medical bay, ignoring the nurse who immediately scrambled out of the room.

Bucky laid in bed, bruised and wrecked and unable to respond upon seeing you seething with anger for the first time ever.

“Were you even planning to tell me in the first place?” You scoffed.

They needed to infiltrate another Hydra base. Raid the base, get all possible information and blow it up to ashes. But then Bucky found a secret basement at the very last minute, young women and men were kept— future Winter Soldiers. The serum hadn’t been injected into their systems yet, they were merely poor teenagers in captivity. Bucky knew he couldn’t let these young people suffer the same fate as him. With barely a minute left before the bomb was set to explode, Bucky did his best to save everyone in that basement.

Never mind the Falcon’s orders to abort his mission, never mind the back-up they had called for to help them out. Bucky knew the choices he had: walk away unscathed knowing that the back-up wouldn’t arrive in time to save the children, or stay behind and do his best to make sure that no one will become another toy for Hydra to play with.

Even if it meant risking his life, even if it meant leaving you back home unaware of his fate.

“They needed me. I couldn’t just leave them behind.” Bucky explained.

“And you didn’t think I needed you too?” You asked, eyes rimmed with tears.

God, you knew you were selfish for feeling hurt but you couldn’t help it. Did it not cross Bucky’s mind that if he had died, you’d be left behind too? Did you not cross his mind during that time?

“Look, I understand what the superhero life is all about. And I know that it’s fucking selfish of me to say this but...Bucky, I need you too. As much as the world does.”

It was a conversation that you and Bucky had many times now. But with how your love grew for him with each passing second, the thought of losing him, it had become too much for you to suppress.

Waking up without his little notes of reassurance that he’d be back soon, no more cold fingers tracing against the smooth expanse of your skin and having to sleep knowing that the next day, Bucky wouldn’t be there anymore— just the mere thought of losing him broke your heart.

“I can’t...” you breathed out, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, Buck.” You admitted with a shaky sigh as your tears continued to fall.

Bucky wanted to get up and pull you to an embrace, but he was too injured to do so. How we wanted to kiss your tears away, all he could do was extend a hand towards you, inviting you to come closer and touch him.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled. “I should have told you, I’m sorry. C’mere.”

Despite your anger, you didn’t think twice and immediately went to hold Bucky’s hand, squeezing it tightly as if you were trying to make sure that he was fine and real and that you didn’t lose him.

“Please stop being so reckless. With how much I love you, it drives me crazy whenever you come home all wounded and bloody and now—“

“You love me?”

Bucky had asked the question as if he couldn’t believe that yes, you do love him. Sam really wasn’t kidding when he said how dense Bucky was.

“Is it not obvious?” You asked, wiping away your tears.

“I mean yeah but...I just didn’t want to assume that you do because we never really talked about it.” He explained, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb.

His metal fingers, although cold and hard against your skin, had always been your favorite. They were gentle when they needed to be, or at least whenever Bucky touched you. They were cold and made you shiver but always in a good way.

“Bucky, I’ve talked about wanting a future with you. You still didn’t think that that was love?” There was a hint of playfulness in your tone despite your deadpan expression.

Oh no, what if you interpreted everything the wrong way?

“Do you not...oh my god, Bucky am I the only one in love?” You asked, panicked.

“Oh god, no.” Bucky immediately clarified as he pulled you to sit down on the bed beside him.

“I love you. So much. Please don’t think otherwise.” He said, cupping your face and wiping away the remnants of your tears.

A smile followed by a quick peck on the lips. Bucky moved and gave you enough space to lay down beside him on the hospital bed. Suddenly, everything felt right. Not that it wasn’t before but with the both of you finally uttering those words, it felt different.

The perfect kind of different.

You laid your head against Bucky’s chest and listened to his heartbeat as his hand rubbed comforting circles on your back. You can’t imagine a life without being this close to him, your super soldier.

“I thought of you, you know.” His chest rumbled as he spoke.

You lifted your head up to look at him in confusion. He smiled at you lovingly, “During the mission. Every mission I go to actually, I thought of you.”

Bucky thought about how you always waited for his return no matter how long he took. He imagined what you’d be doing when he’d come back, would you still be asleep? Perhaps you’d be in the shower, singing. Bucky thought about how he’d kiss you as soon as he comes home, how he’d make you feel how much he missed you and your scent, how your smooth skin felt against his.

Every single time, Bucky thought about coming home to you. It was his motivation to stay alive no matter what. He knew you needed him as much as the world does.

Because he needed you just the same.

More than friends, indeed. Less than lovers? No, you and Bucky were more than that.

You were each other’s worlds.