#space-strudel

[talesfrommedinastation]

Have you tried asking Doug his thoughts about TBB S2 Ep16?

Honestly, I'd love to hear them.

It was pithy, to be honest. Sometimes Doug goes OFF, and sometimes he's fairly reserved.

This is all I got from him that day, on my text messages:

"Aw, no, not Ryan-from-Accounting! Eh, he'll come back as Space Gandalf, calling it now."

"Oh, poor orphan Blondie."

"Damn fat lizard bitch."

"Daddy Rambo is so worthless, why isn't Toaster Strudel in charge."

"Oh shit what is Jimmy-the-Scientist doing?"

"Oh shit, stepsister Beth is the sister after all!"

But 'The Solitary Clone' aka 'DADDY WARCRIMES' GOES TO TEXAS' was WILD.

I'm typing that one up as best I can!

[bearsandbaublesss]

Hello, Tumblr, I'm Bobbi! Just a silly (mostly) digital artist who likes space, fantasy, creachers, character design, worldbuilding, wallpaper-making, etc. Thanks for checking out my stuff!

To kick things off, here's a couple introductory pieces I made recently. The "Oh, hello!" banner was something I made because I saw some artists make pinned banners on IG but, uh, who knows if I'll ever go back to posting there at this point. :'D Also have a cute little board I made to show off some previews of my favorite pieces, which I intend to update every once in a while and use as an intro piece on my Carrd and other socials. Both feature my sona, Bearry!

[cheekydogs]

I’ve been super busy while I was here, so I haven’t had a chance to take many pics of my old collection, but I did wanna take a pic of my current fav, Sunny, with my old fav, Strudel!

She’s super well-loved at this point, with most of her stuffing from her middle pushed elsewhere and a lot of matted fur. Considering the state of most my other sigs, which are rather pristine, it’s really cool :)

[eggomancer]

constellation guide 🌠✨

[mothmanns]

how come sweet breakfasts is so easy but savory breakfast is so hard

[prof-peach]

Plum's new Pokemon: Strudel

Ever since the ranger days, Plum loved Bob the Torkoal, and Bob loved Plum. despite their trainers not getting along well, those two really hit it off. Imagine the old torkoals joy to see the ranger return to his trainers life once more, many years later, this time permanently.

When its cold everyone puts their feet on Bob's big warm shell, and he serves as the finest egg hatcher on the whole island. But his egg duties sometimes leave him without space for feet in the winter, and he's very serious about hatching those little ones. SO, with him following Peach around, Plum is left a little cold as the autumn draws in, working away in her office close to the docks. Until that is Peach sees an egg hatch that is less than normal. A dunsparce with torkoal traits, no wonder Bob took special care of that one egg. It imprints to the big nanny pokemon instantly and follows him around for the day as the professor observes just what this thing is, other than fat and cute, of course.

Peach takes the weird hybrid home and shows everyone, Both Grey and Plum fall madly in love with it, as do all the house mons give or take. So, until the little one shows signs of wanting a change in pace, they decided to keep the little hybrid around. She's registered to Plum, seeing as she has the least mons of the trio, and it took an instant shine to her thanks to Bob having a soft spot for her too. Where Plum goes, Strudel goes. Best travel companion you could ask for.

She seems mostly ground typing, but can produce a small flame, enough to start a campfire, or heat soup, but past that is not suited to battle. Likes to nap!

[cerise-on-top]

I just read "141 with an S/O who likes muscular people"

BUT! what if they have an S/O who loves to bake or loves cooking.

What if unit 141 follows a diet to keep those muscles and shape? Would they have the heart to tell their lover "no" when they offer some of the food/sweets they just make?

I think all of them would love your food a little too much to simply go on a diet, but some of them are more willing to say no than others! Besides, all of them would sometimes go to the gym together on their days off, just to catch up with each other and burn some unused energy! They're still some rowdy boys, even if Price doesn't always have the time to go to the gym with them!

TF141 with an S/O who Likes to Cook for Them

Price: While he may eat quite a lot, he doesn’t really eat very many desserts, so it’s not often he’d say yes to one of your delicious marble cakes. However, he can appreciate you cooking for him as much as you do. It’s lovely. He comes home from deployment, tired and hungry beyond compare, and there you usually are, making him the most delicious food imaginable, from simple spaghetti to roast pork. Whatever it is you make, he’ll eat it with a smile on his face. Though, from the get go, he’ll tell you that he doesn’t eat too many sweets. He’ll indulge in the occasional cookie, maybe eat a single, thin slice of pie, but that’s it. He’ll tell you no in a nice, polite and gentle way. Besides, considering how much he eats normally, it isn’t really surprising that there’s no space left for your delectable pain au chocolats. He will try something every once in a while, but he’ll usually say no, so staying fit isn’t really a concern for him in the first place. You’d need to continuously insist for him to eat your apple strudel for him to budge, but even then it’s just a tiny piece. He doesn’t particularly have a sweet tooth.

Gaz: He absolutely has a sweet tooth. There are phases where he will consume more croissants than what is probably healthy, and then there are phases where he won’t eat anything sweet at all, won’t even look at it. It all depends on how sick and tired he’s gotten of something like your macarons. Trust me, he will still eat your food like it’s his last meal, but will turn down any and all sweets you make. Gaz does go to the gym fairly often, to keep in shape and maybe grow just a bit stronger as well, despite being rather strong already. You suspect that he sometimes stops eating your sweets because he may have gained weight, but he never confirms or denies this, he just tells you that he needs a break. But, as mentioned already, he can never get enough of your food, even if he’s just eating normal portions for someone his size. That’s why there’s always room for dessert in his stomach. But sometimes he’s content with just eating a banana or a tangerine. It doesn’t always have to be processed sugar, even if he adores your mochis as well. He can cook very well himself, but if you’re always eager to cook for him, then he will simply help you out.

Ghost: Eats a lot, eats sweets every once in a while, it’s as simple as that. He loves you, so he will even eat more sweets just for you, even if he won’t usually eat them as often. Your food is the best out there, and so your cupcakes have a special place in his heart as well. While he won’t dig in whenever you make a batch, you can see him steal one or two from the tray when he thinks you aren’t looking and, for humor reasons, blames it on Soap, regardless of whether he was even here or not. While he may not be a fast eater, he likes to savor every bite of what you made, he eats a mountain of food. When he realizes he has put on some weight, he will call up Soap and Gaz and train with them until the weight is gone. While he has a hard time saying no to you, he tries his best to not eat too much French toast when you make it. He needs to stay fit as a lieutenant, and thus he will softly refuse, or simply eat way smaller portions of sweets than he normally would. But you’d need to pry your home-made ravioli from his cold, dead hands since he loves those so much.

Soap: As mentioned in another ask, this man can eat literal trash and he won’t put on weight, he was blessed genetically in that regard. Likes sweets a lot, so he has no shame about stealing some of your braided easter bread while it’s still cooling down. He can usually be found chewing something, when it’s not your food, it’s some gum he bought. He likes the feeling of having something in his mouth he can bite down on. While he doesn’t eat as much food as, say, Price, he actually prefers to steal the food from your plate, he eats about as many sweets as Gaz does during the prime of his sweet phases. Not per day, he doesn’t love apple cake and the likes that much, but it’s quite a lot. Fortunately, he does train all of it off by going to the gym whenever he can. He does take Gaz along with him during those times, Ghost sometimes as well. While he does goof around with Gaz when he can, he does take his training fairly seriously more often than not. You can make him just about any food and he’ll enjoy it, but he does prefer savory foods, such as roasted chicken. Don’t make his food too spicy, though. He’s very white and can’t eat it otherwise.

[munsster]

hi pookieee

i just found your blog and legit spent like two hours reading your stuff- IT'S SO GOODDDDD OML

so, if requests are open, and if they're not! totally fine, but if they are... can i maybe possibly request a jonathan byers oneshot? 😍maybe domestic vibes, some will and joyce, sort of where reader is just part of the daily, like it's not a 'oH jOnAtHaN hAs a GiRl OvEr' type of thing, the byers are just so used to her being around-

OKEY BYEEE, DRINK WATER, EAT SNACKS, KEEP SPARKLING ✨

fall into place

A/N: HI POOKIE! im obsessed w ur energy and i would do anything for u, this sounds so cute hope u like it 😋

Pairing: Jonathan Byers x Fem!Reader

Summary: Jonathan comes home to find you fully adopted into the Byers’ daily routine. When did that happen? 1.3k words.

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, cringe 80s references, mike being annoying, KISSING, pet names (baby, heartthrob)

The front door slamming shut rattles the frame of the house, but nobody seems to care over the ruckus. Jonathan drops his messenger bag by the bench in the foyer, shucking his shoes and skirting to the kitchen. Joyce flips through a fashion catalog by the phone with her thumb nail perched between her lips.

"She's in El's room," Joyce says while Jonathan swipes an unopened juice pouch off the counter and tucks a pack of toaster strudel under his arm. There's an uproar in the other room from the usual teenage suspects. He's about to make his way upstairs when his mom chuckles.

"Oh, hi, mom, how was your day?" Joyce teases, "Thanks for asking, Jonathan. It was lovely, I bought you those juice pouches and toaster pastries you like. How was yours?" She cocks a brow, and he peeks back into the kitchen.

"Love you, mom."

"Love you, too. Oh, also it's fend night. There are some leftovers and dinners in the freezer. Your brother was craving frozen pizza."

"Sounds good!" he shouts, already halfway up the stairs and down the hall. The cassette deck on El's desk sings something tinny and youthful and he's pretty sure she has it cranked to full volume. You're perched at the foot of her bed with your fingers looping the fluffy strands of her hair into a criss-cross plait. You look over and smile, leaning into the kiss he plants on your cheek.

"Hi," you coo.

"Hi, baby," he says with a lazy smile across his face. "My room?"

"In a sec."

El tuts, "she's braiding my hair." You chuckle, tying off the end of her braid with a sparkly, blue elastic you nabbed from the bottom of the bathroom drawer. He tips the straw of his juice to your lips, and you hum and pat the top of El's head just before hopping to your feet and fleeing the room with Jonathan's hand in yours.

"Thank you!" she calls, but you both know you'd do it for her anytime.

He falls back onto his springy mattress, and you straddle his hips, pry the decadent box from his grasp, and triumphantly fish out a strudel.

"I didn't know Mike was visiting this week," you mumble through a mouthful of pastry.

"Yeah, their spring breaks lined up." Jonathan chugs the rest of his fruit cocktail, crushing the pouch and setting it on his bedside table alongside the discarded pastry box. Then he recoils, nose scrunching: "You met mike?"

You nod, nibbling the strudel in half and pressing bite-sized piece to his mouth, swiping away the stray crumbs that sprinkle his shirt. "It's cinnamon," you whisper. He hums.

"Was he weird?" he worries.

"Only a little," you tease, sweeping his hair off his forehead and leaning down to press a damp kiss to the open space.

"He's a punk."

You shrug. "Only a little."

You split the last piece of pastry between you, making sure you get an even amount of filling and frosting before clinking the edges and popping them into your mouths.

"What were you and El listening to?" he asks.

"Make it big. You know Wham. 'I don't want your freeeeedom!'" you mock, squeaking out the iconic high note, "Mike got it for her."

"Sounded... contemporary," he chuckles, setting his palms into the curve of your hips, hooking his thumbs in the loops of your jeans.

"Yeah, I think she has a thing for George Michael. We've been listening to it on repeat." Your stretch your arms over your head with a yawn.

"He is pretty cute," Jonathan teases.

"Yeah, well," you say with all the casualty of a partly cloudy Wednesday afternoon, "Not as cute as you."

He scoffs, sitting up with you still balanced in his lap. “Shut up,” he huffs.

“No!” You grin and lean in close, mumbling, “heartthrob,” in a kiss to his lips. When you pull back he stares softly into your eyes.

“How long have you been here?”

“My shift ended at two so,” you say, “since then. Why? You tryin’ to send me home, Byers?”

“No,” he whispers, he wouldn’t dream of it, “No, I like that you’re here when I get home.”

You chuckle and drape your arm over his shoulder. “That’s very domestic of you.”

“God, I know”—he rolls his eyes, pressing his palms flat to your back and smiling coyly—“Wait ‘til uou hear how glad I am that everyone likes you so much. And that you like them, too. Even when they’re fucking crazy.”

You peck the corner of his mouth gently, willing a smile to creep across his face.

“I fit right in, don’t I?” you tease. But he doesn’t laugh, enamored by everything you say and do. His fingertips just graze your cheek and his eyes flick down to your mouth.

He sighs. “Like our missing puzzle piece.”

“Yeah,” you reason, “like the piece that gets knocked onto the floor to collect dust for ten years until someone's sweeping and randomly unwedges it from the floorboards only to realize it's from the puzzle they gave away last week.”

“No, more like,” he chuckles, “like the one stuck to the underside of the lid that you only find once youre putting the deconstructed puzzle away.”

You giggle, tilting your head back. Then you sigh, whipping your head back to stare into his eyes, foreheads pressed together.

“Maybe we’re all missing puzzle pieces,” he suggests. It’s whispered. Like it’s a secret and you two are the only ones who will ever know the truth.

You nod. “Oh, we definitely are. Five billion lonely little puzzle pieces waiting for our lost portrait.” Your fingers twirl a lock of his hair, and he holds back a splitting grin. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation sober.”

He cackles, holding your lower back as he leans slightly. “Wait,” he says, “you’re sober?” You smack his chest, chuckling when he hollers, “I’m kidding! I’m kidding, you're the only person worth getting high with anymore since Argyle's in Utah.”

You pout facetiously, sticking out your lower lip with your brows knitting. “Jonny! So romantic!”

“Yeah, yeah, natural as riding a bike,” he teases. You smile and lean in to kiss him, and he meets your lips sweetly. You pull away and peck the corner of his mouth then his cheek before your doe eyes flick up to his. Your mouth opens to say something, but Mike bursts into the room.

“Ew, gross, at least close the door if you’re going to suck face!”

You turn over your shoulder with a scowl. “You close the door, we’re obviously busy.”

“I don’t even know you!” Mike scoffs.

You hop up and jump to the door wildly, about to slam it just as you squint and say, “Then you’ve got a lot to learn, sonny.”

But before you can close it, Will peeks into the conversation and offers, “C’mon, let’s be diplomatic, people! Mom says come eat and watch Nightmare on Elm Street.”

“Mister Kreugs again?” you say, “Yes, please!” You high-five Will, and he shuffles down the stairs. Mike and El follow. You turn back to see Jonathan lounging back on his bed, eyes closed and just barely smiling to himself.

“Coming, heartthrob?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking awake, head lulling to gaze at you, “don’t wait up.”

But you run back anyway, grabbing his hand and tugging him to his feet.

“Too bad,” you whisper, giving him a consolation kiss. You get him to the bottom of the stairs before he pulls you back against him right on the last step. He kisses you sweetly and with a smile.

Will shouts from the living room, “Okay, I’m usually pretty tolerant, but please no making out during horror night!”

You chuckle, still holding Jonathan’s hand with his arm lazily around your waist. “Okay, fine. Only because you asked nicely.”

You look back to find Jonathan already staring at you. It still makes you nervous or excited or something. He’s holding you so close, and you can’t help but kiss him one last time.

stranger things masterlist

[jadeinretrogrde]

My Favorite Fantasy High Things

Lassos on Night Yorbs and straight British Kristen

Bitter Copperkettle and maximum legend

Complicated women podcasting

These are a few of my favorite things

Vultures with go-pros and oodles of strudels

Bad baby milk and tartar sauce in the pool

Goddesses with secret names

These are a few of my favorite things

Wanda Childa death scene productions

Buttered ramps and presidential shrimp jumpin’

Pirate ships that fly and dildo washing machines

These are a few of my favorite things

When the rage crystal bites

When Gertie’s bee stings

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don't feel so bad

Jace I don’t feel good and loser says what

See you at Basrar’s and honor the cock

It’s all love now and Lucy Frostblade

These are a few of my favorite things

Declarations of love written through time and space

The last stand exam and notify anyway

I don’t know if you heard me I said blimey

These are a few of my favorite things

Hey girlie and love exclusively to cats

There are no grounds and a flute for summoning rats

Four different dogs and you suck at pvp

These are a few of my favorite things

When the ancestral curse bites

When the stress token stings

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don't feel so bad

Do you have a fucking warrant and cold mango soda

Banks that give you your nemesis quota

Badidas and Zac Oyama DM-ing

These are a few of my favorite things

Fabian hit me and ice feast fiasco

Squeem with cortados and Riz chain-smoking tobacco

Ally Beardsly with a natural twenty

These are a few of my favorite things

Merry Moonar Yulnear and a barrel of diamonds

A ghostly rouge teacher and cowboy salsa hats for dining

Briefcase dimensions with your ex playing games

These are a few of my favorite things

When the spy's tongue curse bites

When the pride armor stings

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite fantasy high things

And then I don't feeeeeel soooo bad

[moineauz]

જ⁀ 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐂𝐀𝐊𝐄

synopsis: in which zhongli- a most doting partner- decides to not only surprise you, but personally bake you a cake for your birthday.

side comments: this is for @staarri 100 followers and birthday event! i hope you like it- can't wait for more events <3 hope i’m not too late 😅

extra: fluff, gn reader, inspired by spring and my love for baking, word count: roughly 786

Zhongli is- undoubtedly- knowledgeable and adept in various subjects; gliding over words with eloquence. Weaving the mundane and mediocre of every day into tales of raw human experience and tender adoration for the subtle moments of life.

Yet, when it comes to baking, he is quite frankly, doomed to fail in the most comical and disastrous ways.

He once attempted to bake your cultural dish- and burnt it... your apartment fire alarm went off. Not long after, he wanted to create a simple loaf of banana bread, however, when you took a bite, you held back a gag. Salty cookies, bread as hard as stone, tarts that crumble, undercooked muffins, and dough that won't rise. The list goes on.

However, Zhongli has seen the corners of your lips rise like bread as you knead dough with a tenderness and endearment unmistakable to him. Zhongli has seen you peck strawberry after strawberry when baking strudels: a loose childlike passion glowing in your iris like a flower blooming in the light of spring, each time you laugh and say "Just one more."

Flour fights and sticky syrup. Melted butter and vanilla extract. All of that made the struggles of baking sweeter for Zhongli.

Thus, Zhongli crossed his arms like a ladle of pie while his eyebrows knit together: the calendar's date echoed in his mind as does a timer.

There were exactly five months before your birthday and Zhongli desperately wanted to bake a cake.

A cake for you, of course.

That desire echoed through his head; bouncing off the walls of his mind and amplifying in longing as his fingers traced over the memory of your figure in the kitchen baking at night: dim lights, the warmth of cinnamon enveloping the soul, a wool sweater, and street jazz which gradually swayed and erupted in sweet rapture.

Five months, from start to finish, he'll make that cake no matter how much flour smears his face and icing that dots his arms.

Your apartment is serenely quiet, darkness blanketing the walls as the liminal coolness of a spring night ushers itself in like a friend through an open window.

You heave a sigh. Gradually slipping your shoes off; balancing the small gifts in your palms like gems. You don't bother to flick the lights on, opting for ambient lighting found in your living room. However, as your feet bare the face of your cool wooden floor, the living room light flickers on and so does the warmth growing in your chest; readily awaiting to break the moment you step out of your body, taking the new form of blossom.

"Oh, Zhongli..."

Zhongli smiles gently, poignancy and subtle fear arising in his body, "Hello love."

You set the gifts down, your steps deliberate and unhurried, as if you were walking on glass, or the space between reality and a dream, the aroma of strawberries, vanilla and lemon consuming you whole. However, not before leaving you longing for more and soothing the ache from the soles of your feet after a long day. Inviting you back again and again to the tender layers of cake and frosting.

"Zhongli how did you...?"

"Bake the cake?" finishes Zhongli with a humorous smile on his lips, the flame of the candle wavering slightly. "I can confidently say it tastes just as wonderfully as it looks."

You emit a lighthearted giggle, your cheeks aching from the extent of the grin brought to your face. "Love you- you didn't have to-"

"But I wanted to," he interjects, balancing the cake in one hand as his other gingerly caresses your cheek. "Because you deserve it and much, much more."

From there, silence stirs and the faint beating of hearts loosens your joints and time mellows with each passing minute. From there Zhongli lifts the cake, and with one simple breath, you blow the candle. A wisp of smoke a spirit of tender solace.

Zhongli places the cake down before opening his arms and the two of you interlock, becoming one; molding together into one languid breath of life, drawn together by sugar, flour, and butter. You bury yourself in his shoulder, your arms reaching out to run through the rivers of his deep brown hair. "Tell me," you begin in a mere mutter, "How exactly did you bake the cake?"

Zhongli laughs quietly his hands rubbing circles on your back, "We can touch on that later my dear."

You hum in response, the two of you standing there amidst the songs of the streets whisking itself through the air, amidst the electrifying touch of another breaking and spreading like the yolk of an egg kissing a mixture of sugar, butter, baking power and bliss. And amidst the warmth of the heart rising like that of an oven. Heart in hand; being kneaded together into one unified loaf of bread.

"Happy birthday, my dearest."

masterlist.

interact with a comment, it helps greatly! don’t be a silent reader 🤍

[ariadne-mouse]

the long wind down

Shadowgast, rated G, 1276 words. An ode to burnout.

-

"Of course I am not fine." 

Caleb's tone was waspish, and only their growing familiarity with each other told Essek that the sharpness was not meant for him, though he had catalyzed it.  Strudel the tawny longhair cat had no such wisdom, and leapt down from Caleb’s lap, offended. 

"We are in the final waiting period of the old man's sentencing, Beauregard has unearthed new dirt on the Martinet that we cannot pursue yet because of political bullshit, and Soltryce has changed the composition of their teaching offer four times.  I am not fine, Essek.  I am going insane."  Caleb clenched his hands in the air as though he could seize reality itself and shake it, then sagged back in his armchair, strings cut.  He rubbed his forehead.  "I am tired and wired at the same time, in equal and contradicting parts.  It has been nonstop for months."

"Caleb Widogast." Up close, the lines creasing Caleb's face were even more evident in the flickering candlelight.  Essek sat on the arm of the chair and rested his palm against Caleb's scruffy beard. "What can I do?"  His thumb soothed the cheekbone beneath it.

"Nothing," Caleb sighed, turning his face into the touch.

"I can distract you, if you wish." 

The offer earned him a faint flash of a grin. "I do enjoy your skills at distraction, Herr Thelyss."  But he did not move, his posture still slumped, the weight of him and the world on his shoulders pressing down into the chair, and so the question and its answer passed between them unspoken in that tender space of knowing.

Essek frowned. "And you cannot rest?"

"Nein," Caleb looked up at him wearily. "My mind wants something to chew.  It is hungry.  But as soon as I try, and pick up this or that, I get lost in the details or else make stupid mistakes like a schoolboy trying his hand at advanced magic.  I have been going for so long, I can't stop, but I have hit a point where I can’t string two coherent thoughts together either." His eyes drifted shut, but his continued unease was betrayed by the way he plucked at his sleeve in his lap, a precursor to his bad habit of scratching.

Essek’s mind was not fully refreshed either, such was his life of evasion these days, but his retreat from his Dynasty connections was also a retreat from the obligations and noise that came with them.  It was rather the reverse of Caleb’s plight — while his friend sought to put down roots in his home country and make change, Essek was pulling up his roots and casting himself into the wind.  But he remembered the years he’d spent climbing through the Dynasty, and with that recollection, he found he had a solution.  

He tilted his head.  "I have just the thing.  Perhaps."

"Do you?" Caleb straightened up fractionally, focusing on Essek once more.

“Perhaps.”  Essek drew away, but only to free his hands for casting.  “It is a trivial invention of mine from my early days at court, when I first achieved the rank of Shadowhand.  There was always a great deal to be done, many things happening at once, but each with their own restrictions and tediums and frustrations.  Politics.  At times waiting, able to do nothing while some goal became more and more urgent.  Interlacing plans, advancing at different paces.  I found it hard to rest, then, too.  The mind is reluctant to let go, once put to such… hm. Overclocking?”

He traced some symbols in the air, leaving a softly glowing indigo afterimage.  These symbols unspooled themselves and rearranged into a new display: a blank rectangular grid with notation at each row and column. “The numerals are in Undercommon, but I never envisioned an application for this outside of my own personal use.”  He then touched a square in the grid with a spark of magic, and it filled with a soothing blue-purple color.  “It is a simple logic puzzle.  There is an underlying pattern — I took pains for the spell to generate it at random, unknown to the caster — and can be solved by marking the squares to match it.  I will tell you no more of the rules.  Try it.”

Caleb leaned up, the light reflected in his eyes.  He tapped a square, and it lit up like Essek’s had.  Another: this one flashed red and then faded dull and grey.

“An incorrect choice?”

“Yes.”

His eyes flitting over the puzzle, Caleb tested a number of other squares in rapid succession, noting whether they glowed a successful blue or a failed grey.  And he did fail a number of times, his brow wrinkling, but he had about him that drive of experimentation they shared when inventing spellwork: failure was not failure, only information to be utilized in the pursuit of understanding.

“Hm. I think I have it.”

Essek inclined his head.  “Show me.”  He waved his hand and dispelled the game board, replacing it with a new one of larger dimensions.

Caleb indicated a row. “Here there are 10 squares, and it is marked with a 1, 3, and 2.   This means there are groupings of tiles in that composition, in that order, that are neighbors but do not touch.  You must cross-reference with other rows and columns to surmise where they can occur to be in harmony with the patterns of other rows and columns.  And you cannot always do it all at once.”  He tapped a few successful tiles.  Then, quickly engrossed, he continued on.

It was unsurprising that Caleb had quickly deduced the Undercommon numerals by their context, and that he had figured out the simple rules, but there was always pleasure in observing his mind work.  Essek watched Caleb’s face instead of the puzzle.

In the work of a few minutes, he was tapping the last tile of the pattern. The whole grid pulsed with faint light, and dissolved into stardust.

“Oh, pretty.” Caleb tilted his head back to smile at Essek. “You invented this?  It is a remarkable bit of spellwork.”

Essek preened. “It is useless except for this, of course.  A pastime, nothing more.  But when the need arises… I have always found it soothing.”

“May I copy it down?”  Caleb rubbed at his eyes and cast around for pen and ink from the nearby table where their research papers were cast about like autumn leaves.

“Tomorrow.” Essek stayed Caleb in his chair with a hand on his shoulder. “It will take an hour or two, and we have just established that you are in need of rest.  Please, allow me.  I will cast them until you wish to stop.  They require minimal arcane power.”

Caleb’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and drew Essek’s hand from his shoulder and kissed the palm of it.  “If you insist, dear.”

Essek smiled.  “I do.”

Nine and half puzzles later, Caleb was leaned on his elbow, dozing.  

With a flick of his wrist, Essek dispelled the half-finished puzzle and eased himself off the arm of the chair, found a throw blanket, and draped it over Caleb’s lap.  The sleek tabby cat Bartolomew was quick to follow, and Strudel — the earlier insult forgotten — joined soon after, but Caleb did not stir at the added weight, used to his cats making themselves comfortable anywhere at any hour. 

Essek’s feet made no sound as he floated to the kitchen and puttered about making tea.  He would have to leave in the morning, but for now, in the quiet broken only by the clank of the teapot and Caleb’s snoring, this was home.

-

This ficlet is based off of nonogram puzzles. If you'd like to try one online, I recommend this site!

[talesfrommedinastation]

My redneck neighbor Doug's predictions for The Bad Batch: Season 3

Well, the poll's in, kids: looks like we're getting a whole bunch of Doug-isms for the next while!

I did take a request from @amalthiaph, because heck, it made me wonder, too!

I texted Doug while I was waiting at the airport. Sure enough, Winter Storm Doug arrived with a whole bunch of texts on the finale season of Daddy Warcrimes 'n Friends.

Here's what Doug thinks will happen in Season 3 of The Bad Batch:

Daddy Warcrimes will learn what happened to Ryan-from-Accounting and spend a whole episode sobbing about it.

Ryan-from-Accounting comes back as Space Gandalf. Don’t know what Space Gandalf will be, but it’ll be him.

Stepsister Beth and Little Orphan Blondie will team up and save everyone in Jimmy-the-Scientist's lava lamps.

We will find out what’s in the lava lamps.

Toaster Strudel, Daddy Rambo, and Julio will find Damn-It-Jared* and take turns beating him with a tire iron they found in the trunk of the HMS Search Warrant. 

Houma-BBQ-Bitch will be killed by either Daddy Rambo or The Sons of Robocop**. Maybe Little Orphan Blondie, who knows.  

The freaky aliens running the mall on the ocean will attempt to rise up. They’ll get shot. 

Jimmy-the-Scientist will accidentally quote that robot cowboy show on HBO. 

Church Lady will use voodoo magic to resurrect her boyfriend, Sassy Park Ranger.

Nevermind. Church Lady will run into Ryan-from-Accounting-Who-Is-Now-Space-Gandalf and it’ll be written as sweet but it’ll come across as awkward. 

There will be mech suits. Maybe not, but I want mech suits, damn it! 

Princess Leia’s dad will show up with the Sonic Special.

Sonic Special will get zapped by the Emperor. 

The Emperor will show up and giggle. Why, hell if I know. 

Darth Vader shows up and mopes around before killing a bunch of people. 

The Sons of Robocop will start to be evil, but then be good, but then do evil things for good reasons. Daddy Warcrimes will follow suit.

*= Damn-It-Jared is Saw Guerrera. “We had this shitty new engineer that cost us half a million in bungled supplies and kept grabbing the CEO's executive assistant even when she told him to eff off. He was such a pain in the ass and this dope looks and talks just like him. Every time we saw his face we’d all say ‘DAMN IT, JARED!’ and that’s his name."

**= Scorch and the gang.

[daryascurse]

Chainsmoking His Love 13: The Thirteenth Homecoming

Zeke Jaeger x Reader // follow #CHLZeke for updates // n.s.fw mdni

POV: second person, AFAB reader, feminine pronouns Chapter tags: rough sex, dirty talk, begging, teasing, vaginaI fingerιng, choking, breathpIay, overstimulation, pull out method, toaster strudel Chapter length: 5.1k

Zeke, you’re hurting me, you’re prepared to draw back your lips and say. Only if you need to say it. But your lips are turning numb too. Your voice is trapped. You realize you can’t say it, say anything. Your pulse beats against the side of his hand. The thought shocks through you with an alarming clarity – that if it was too much, you couldn’t tell him that, if it was true. And you stare into his eyes, your gaze widening with some wild primal fear, and see something just as primal in the face looking down at you. Beastly.

♡ read more after the jump or on ao3 ♡ // ♡ spotify playlist♡

I have a very strict adult-only interaction policy. Ageless, blank, and clearly minor-run blogs that interact will be blocked. If you have questions about what that means, please read the byf in my pinned post.

Author's note: In which our monkey man husband finally comes home from the war.

It had rained the morning the Warriors came home, and the fog still hangs in thick grey eaves over the buildings and lampposts. The word had spread through the day, trickling down formally from command on high, and rushing gossip from the kitchens and streets, long before it had been officially announced. By the time you’d decided to fling down your rags, with shaking hands, and made your way to the plaza, the cobblestone square was crowded and humid with countless clammy breaths. Your back is to the building, shoulder blades scraping against the brick as you press your heels to the wall in an attempt to open up as much space around you as possible.

“It’s cold,” a child whines, and a mother shushes them.

The gloom is palpable in the crowd as well. Growing up, of course you’d been to your share of homecomings through the years. When the Warriors were sent to stand tall and remind unruly border nations of the might of Marley, all of Libero rang with euphoric celebration. The plaza would ring with applause like bells, and as a teenager you’d heard rumors of secret parties in attics you were never brave enough to ascend to. But as skirmishes turned to battles, turned now to wars, as the cold fist closed and cold shoulder turned further and further, the reunions slowly took on a more somber tone.

You fidget in wait, fingers grazing back and forth against the brick. As the minutes stretch on, the crowd slowly swelling, you wonder why you’re pressed amongst them. It’s not like Zeke could seek you out – or even that he would. They’ll go to their families first, enjoy a rare night of reprieve. And Zeke – yes, he does have a family. You’ve seen them before in this very crowd. The same way you’ve seen Zeke step through those gates, same as Pieck, as Porco. Same as these others you’ve somehow come to know as more than faces in the crowd. So you’ve done this before. It’s normal to do it again.

And yet, and yet. You squirm, involuntarily flexing your leg muscles in response to the internal shudder winking between your thighs. Something about it isn’t normal anymore.

The train approaches the same stealthy way the rain had this morning – a hint, a shift in the scent and very texture of the air, before the sound of it hammers at once unmistakable at your ears. It pulls up out of sight of the plaza, beyond the tall lattice of the iron gate at the end of the cobblestones. Aching wheels turn slowly to a stop with hisses of steam. Black smoke rushes to the clouds above. You can hear them, voices carrying on the wind as doors spill open. White cloaked figures emerge. They shrug bedrolls on their backs or pause by boxes of cargo to adjust their boots. The youngest are the loudest, still bursting at the seams with a strange energy reserved only for that age, thrilled at returning home.

What surprises you is how some of those figures’ postures speak to what must be an evolutionary instinct to recognize familiar creatures. Not the children, but behind them, you see Colt. You know it’s Colt by the slump of his shoulders, the weakness behind his knees, as he staggers and leans on Porco. You know what Colt looks like hungover, you’d seen it countless times. And you know it’s Porco from the slight duck footed angle to his steps. You’d followed them from the bar and seen those walks, committed them to memory without knowing it. And it’s how you see Zeke, too, a brief duck of his head to the moon-faced Pieck as she smiles serenely at them stumbling past. You can’t see that she’s smiling, but you feel she must be, just by the same way her head angles and hair waterfalls down her back as she does when rising from a dinner table. But there’s Zeke, walking tall, and you don’t know how you know it’s him. You simply do.

You feel yourself smile.

They fall in line before the gates open. It’s a beat. A pause, before Eldian warriors and Warriors cross the square and return home.

Some of the children are first, and they slice the silence with cries like knives. “Father! Mother!” It breaks the melancholy cast over the crowd in slow, cracking ripples, as people begin to shift forward and step back to let others through. You press the palm of your hands to the brick. People begin to stand on tip-toe to get a better look at the warriors in white, turn to each other in rising whisper.

“That’s – oh, that’s Christoph!”

“Lou? Lou? Excuse me, sorry. Lou?”

The warriors without blood or friends to welcome them turn, slipping silently through the crowd. A man with long jowls pushes past you with thin, sharp elbows, ducking into an alleyway. As ranks break, the tension of the square slowly relaxing, you begin to edge slowly forward, still close to the building besides you. People grasp forearms, reunited families shake in hugs of gratitude. Others still crane their necks, searching each face for the one they miss.

A familiar scene, even when the background and the players change.

You’ve seen these players before, even if they seem more wizened, more frail, each time they greet their grandson. You clutch your cloak close and almost lurch to a stop. Yes, you’ve seen them before, the same way Zeke’s passed in front of your eyes in these reunions before, as he’s doing now. He has a boisterous grin on his face as he calls to them, so wide the laugh lines behind his glasses must be deep. There’s something in the way he hugs his grandparents that carries the same childlike eagerness of the voices you’d heard yelping off the train. You can see the bristle of his lip, the way he mouths words you suddenly feel a yearning need to hear him say in your ear – “I’m home.”

It suddenly feels far too intimate for you to watch this familial greeting. You turn, raising the hood of your cloak to force a shield over your eyes. You nudge your way past a line of silent, shellshocked warriors queuing up to be taken to the hospital, to the plaza’s closest exit. Black smoke weaves up into the clouds. Slowly, the night will come. And sometime tomorrow, he’ll be back.

When you wake, the sudden alertness in your bones is disorienting. The sky is still dark through the window, but it must have been some internal clock to rise you before the morning bells. It’s not until the second knock comes banging, and in rapid succession, the third, fourth, fifth, that you realize what must have awoken you.

You fumble to strike a match. Your “just a moment!” is low and hoarse, and you clear your throat as you light the candle on the bedside table. The small room yawns in the flickering light. In your discombobulated, heavy mind, you can barely string together the realization that it’s only been an hour or two since you went to sleep.

“Coming, sorry,” you say. It comes out clearer.

Physically, you aren’t surprised when you unlatch the door to find Zeke. The concave swelling of your chest is one of longing, of desire, a magnet straining to snap to its other half. But you blink as if you can’t believe he’s here, and mentally, you reel for words. The sensations leave you wavering and speechless.

He’s silent too, staring down his narrow nose at you as he stands on your doorstep. You shiver in your thin nightgown.

“I thought you’d be with family tonight,” you say at last.

“Can’t sleep. I came back to headquarters early. Did I wake you up?”

“No. Well, no, yes. But I don’t think I was sleeping that long.”

Zeke bends his knee forward, as if to step through you, and you immediately pull the door open for him to enter. As you bolt it behind him again, it strikes you that this is the first time he’s been in your dingy servant chambers.

But he’s not casting a critical eye across the stained walls and uneven ceilings. Instead, he slouches to the end of your bed, sitting on the corner of the blanket you’d hastily thrown back.

Zeke raises his hand, fingers sliding below his glasses, and rubs his eyes. “Didn’t mean to get you up. I’ve kind of forgotten about real sleep. No one can ever actually rest on those cots we get out there.”

“I bet it takes some getting used to,” you say, and wonder if the reverse is true, that if after so many weeks of war and stone grounds, he finds a thick mattress unbearable.

He looks the same as when he left, if his hair a little more tousled now past midnight than it does normally. But he has a tension in his shoulders, some new exhaustion. Zeke had grunted some weary sound in response, and you cross back to your own bed to kneel besides him. Hesitantly, you raise a hand, and place it on his back. After a motionless moment, your fingers long, opaque shadows in the dim candlelight, you begin to gently rub. You’re not sure what to say. The questions that once sounded natural, the way you first spoke to him that very first night, seem so wrong.

“How was…”

“Don’t,” Zeke says, not unkindly. You rub his back in silence a moment longer.

“I remember that was the first sort of thing I asked you about,” you venture to say. “On the roof. I mean, the first time.”

Zeke doesn’t respond, and you bite your lips. You’ve never spoken to him like this. You’ve never reminisced about your past together – as short as it is, as long as it’s growing still. You never expected to have reason to. But you didn’t expect him to shrug through your door and collapse on your bed. A word comes to mind, as your hand moves higher up his back, to slowly, cautiously, play at the tufts of hair curling so slightly at the back of his neck. For the first time, Zeke seems so human.

“Do you want to try to sleep here?” you ask. “It’s late.”

“Maybe. Yeah. Just a few hours,” he says, and leans forward to unlace his shoes.

You almost didn’t expect the response. Even if it makes sense, even if there’s no other reason he would have come to your door so late. You’ve dozed off in his sheets, but you’ve never slept together. Never literally spent the night. Your hand is frozen in midair for a moment, and you shift, so aware of your body and every motion as Zeke slides off his pants, unbuttons his shirt. His glasses clink as they fold and he reaches behind you to put them on the bedside table next to the candle. He’s still wearing undershorts when he pulls back the blanket further, and you cross your arms over your chest for a moment, aware of the thin fabric around you. The bed creaks as he adjusts positions.

“Were you going to stay up?” he asks when you still don’t move. You shake your head and blow out the candle.

The smoke is sharp, flavorless in comparison to what floats from his cigarettes. The room is thrown back into black. Somehow, the large, warm body of Zeke in the bed makes those four walls seem even smaller. You delicately push your feet below the blanket, reaching forward to drag the blanket back up around the both of you.

“Good night,” you say. It comes out so quietly.

In the darkness, your breaths synchronize as two pairs of lungs settle into the bed. Your eyes haven’t adjusted yet; they may not even be open, so you don’t see Zeke’s hand reach to wrap around your waist, but it feels as clear as if you’d absorbed his motion through every sense. He smells faintly of tobacco as always, of an unfamiliar cinnamon soap that must have come from his grandparent’s bathtub.

His fingers drum at the small of your back – so you must be facing him. The hand wraps around you, tracing the shape of your body as Zeke hunts in the night to find your face. His palm is rough on your cheek, his fingertips at the edge of your temple, before he adjusts the overcorrection. He curls his thumb under your chin, and then his lips are on yours to devour a whimper you didn’t expect to burst from you.

Not for the first time today, you think of his letter, of his ravishing promises you committed to blushing memory. You twist your legs, already catching a corner of the sheet under your foot, and slide them around his thighs.

His fervent words. I miss you.

Zeke is over you with another groan of the bed, the kiss having swallowed you into him. You can barely break a muffled “ah -” from your lips. His hand is still pressed to the side of your face, fingers curled to press to the back of your head, thumb dragging your cheek and almost coaxing your lips open. He doesn’t seem to mind the sloppiness of the kiss. His other hand turns under the sheets, his knees turning with a painful knock into yours. Your brief groan of pain wisps into the air. Zeke’s knees come down again, and he’s rolled off his shorts.

The nightgown is rising up your body as you swim against him in the sheets. As he sits up, nudging your limbs to open for him, his hands reach for the hem to urge it higher still. You’re pulling it over your head now, another flash of darkness disorienting you. A shiver jolts through you as you fling it to the floor somewhere.

Your breath rises in the air, and he’s slowly taking form above you as your sight adjusts, beat by beat.

“You didn’t lift your skirt for anyone while I was gone?” Zeke rasps, and your lips part as you tilt your chin up.

“No,” you breathe.

He’s kneeling between your spread legs, blankets kicked far to the end. He’s grey in the light, color sapped from every inch of the room, the shadows curving around his biceps and cast long down the side of his neck making him feel so tall, towering above you.

“And why should I believe you?” Zeke says, and your eyes tighten. Your gaze glitters up at him in the dark.

“Because,” you say. You swallow, and he watches the strain of your throat. “I was waiting for you.”

His hands are on your thighs. His touch is warm, strong, pushing at your flesh as he draws down to your knees, innocuously leaving your hips untouched. Your muscles twitch in reflex, knees fluttering at either side of his bent legs.

“No closing your legs,” Zeke says. “Waiting?”

“Yes – I -”

You want to say, I got your letter, I read your letter, I read it and committed it to heart, I’ve been waiting for you – I went to find you –

The words tremble on your tongue.

“Then wait a little longer,” Zeke says.

His hands are at your knees, one urging at the back of your thighs. Your leg rises in response, and he’s grasping at you, cupping that strong hand below your knee. You make a wordless sound. It’s a pathetic whimper.

And you realize, as his other hand moves back up your thigh, reaching, silhouette of his beard wild in the half-light, you were wrong. Naïve. Again. He didn’t come here to your rooms to sleep. He didn’t come here exhausted. He came here hungry.

“Please,” you hear yourself say.

Zeke’s thumb strokes along the side of your thigh, and you almost twitch at the calluses rough against your sensitive skin.

“I remember,” Zeke says, and his voice is a little clearer, a little more thoughtful. “The first time.” He pauses, but you’re still thinking of words to string together, trying to think around the pounding of your heart and ache of your leg pushed high in a bend. “You remember our talk,” he continues with a sound of carelessness. “What I remember is how you begged. Over, and over.”

He presses his fingertips, light drumming motions against your hips.

“Do it again.”

“Zeke – ”

“What?” he says, and his teeth shine in the grey light. “What?”

“Please.”

“Please…?”

Zeke lets the question linger, his hand lifting from your hip, the other tightening, knuckles brushing at the back of your knee. Your muscles ache.

“Please, please… I want it.”

“You want what?”

“I want you,” you say, almost swallowing your tongue in anguished hurry. Your fingers are clasped, hesitantly twisting at the sheet stretched over the mattress, watching his hand hovering still so warm over the slope of your hip. “Please, I want you to touch me. Please, touch me.”

“You want what?”

“I want you to touch me – I want – need you to – fuck me.”

“You need that?” Zeke’s hand is down, pushing the mattress beneath you. His touch brushes at the side of your thigh. “Let me see, how much you need it.”

You’re wet, oh, sliding along the blunt pressure of Zeke’s finger as he pushes himself against you. He pushes, rubs rough against you and curves to find your entrance. You gasp, and something in his breath stiffens above you.

“Tight,” breaks out of him at last, and you tremble.

You have to adjust to the feel of him inside. It’s a foreign sensation. For even in the nights alone, anything you’ve done on your own, it simply paled in comparison to the heat, the softness, of another. It wasn’t enough. And the angle of his fingers too is something remembered, something known, as if you meld yourself against him.

A second finger, and it feels – oh – “Oh!” like a third.

“Feels like you’re telling the truth.”

“Zeke,” you moan. He bends them up. And you tense the thigh muscle he still pushes down with one hand, his other with wrist turned towards you, open and pale in the dim light, shaking with each pump of his fingers. “Z-Zeke, Zeke!”

He hooks his thumb up, smearing between your folds. You shriek his name again. You’re reaching, scrambling fingers up to grab at him. The blood rushes so hot under your tender skin where he’s urging desire from you.

“Z-mm…”

Zeke almost mimics your senseless words, mocking with a sneer of his lip, a silent voice. Curls damp with what must be the sweat beading across his forehead begin to swing, his lips parted. “Does that feel good?”

“Yes,” you almost cry. Your sprawled hips are burning, your leg pushed up under his hand. And his fingers – they stretch, they reach. But not reaching enough. “More, more, please.”

“You want more?” Zeke says, and it sounds heavy.

“Please, oh, please –”

The words tumble again and again. Zeke’s breath is hot. It’s as if you can feel him smiling in the dark, lips wet, drawn back.

“Is your pretty little cunt stretched out enough for me?” he says. You shudder, and shudder again with a weak cry as he pulls away, thumb pushing against you as his hand retreats. The grip on your bent thigh slacks.

“Oh…”

“You think you can take it?”

Zeke’s wild words are thick, if strained. He slides his fingers, shining in the grey light with your slick, down his cock. You push your hips into the bed, turning eagerly, as much as you can muster the focus to even move.

“Yes, oh… please, please…”

“You missed it?”

He moves forward, the thin twists of hair across the iron of his thigh muscles dusting at your legs. But Zeke cups your other leg, as pressure comes back under your knee, to force your legs high and hips up. You can feel it, the slight bead of precum smooth on the head of his cock as just that simple motion leans him closer to your entrance.

You swallow. Something loosens, even as your body tenses under his grasp; something deeper, some swollen place throbbing and aching for his fingers to return. Or more. “Need it,” you say in broken breath.

“Did you touch yourself? While you missed me?”

Zeke is teasing, his shoulders hunched and face down to you. You crane your neck forward, your chest sore, limbs folded and helpless to get him closer to you. The tip of his cock presses, and he lets out a sigh of breath, shifts his hips. The touch is gone.

You can barely whimper out the words. “Yes. But ‘s… it’s not enough.”

“No,” Zeke says. “Of course it’s not.”

“P-” you start again, ready to beg again and again, and he does it then.

Who cries out? Perhaps it’s both of you, as any coherent words melt from your tongue. Your hands, so awkwardly grasping at your own thighs as if to help him, bend under his fingers and almost clasping over his touch. His growls had been so right. It reels through your mind. It wasn’t enough, even his fingers hadn’t been enough. Nothing else.

“Better now?” Zeke says, and each word is accented with groaning breaths, echoed by your frantic “oh!”s. Your skin is hot, unbearable, every muscle flexing into him as much as you can.

“Yes – ”

“Thought so.”

Zeke has you down in this position that turns your vision white with each push of his cock to some place further, further than you’d known possible, further than your body remembers. You scramble, helpless, elbows losing feeling. Helpless – helpless.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, it’s so, it’s so…”

“It’s good?”

“Good...good, good…”

In this angle, you’re staring up at him, every word a fervent prayer. Good, so good, as good as the bronze furrow of his brows, the focused flare of his nostrils, the open part of his lips. You can only see his eyes in flashes of your jerking bodies letting your gaze catch the bare light there is, only getting momentary focus on the tempestuous depths.

“Oh!”

“Oh!”

Zeke’s breath is tumbling into moans the same way yours is. He’s holding the back of your thighs, your hips forced in place, pinned and curled up in near agony. And he’s going faster, pushing your legs back farther. The band of muscle in your thigh throbs below his touch, your feet shaking behind his shoulders.

“Z- Oh – oh god, Zeke- ”

You’re trying not to scream, your foot flexing, because holding your legs like that, applying his pressure as he almost collapses over you, is making him fuck even deeper into you. He’s fucking deep, fast, faster. Your mind is reeling, your vision shaking.

“Fuck, fuck!”

“Oh fuck,” Zeke says through his teeth, and you shriek. “Oh, you – fuck.”

He doesn’t say it, but you can hear it in his broken sentences – you feel so good.

You feel that internal shiver, the pulse inside you in eager response. He groans deep again, when he feels it through you.

“Zeke – ” and anything you could say breaks from you as he slows. His hands are off and your limbs are collapsing in response to the weight moving off your body. You shudder, moan, as he pulls out of you.

“N – no – why – ”

“Poor little pussy’s all empty again?” Zeke says, his voice heavy, and he’s somehow even taller over you again when he’s adjusting over your half-sprawled body to push his cock back in. He feels swollen, stretching and splitting you. “Poor – needy – little – cunt?”

“F-fuck -”

His shoulders are broad in the grey room, and you reach for him. Your fingers wind around his biceps, bringing yourself closer, closer to him. As close as you can have him.

“Zeke – ”

And one of his hands knocks your fingers free in a sudden motion, as those shoulders ripple and he’s reaching out to latch a hand around your neck.

“Ah, ah!”

The sounds are raspy. You try to swallow, force back a sudden need to cough. Thinking of breathing makes you need to. Your still-lingering hand feels numb on his other arm, yours that was shaken off fallen limp as the strength of his hand begins to harden. You try to squeeze back, expend your energy, your eagerness. Oh, oh, the way he’s holding you down is making the blood rush through you. Your head is swimming. Your hips are shaking.

Zeke, you’re hurting me, you’re prepared to draw back your lips and say. Only if you need to say it. But your lips are turning numb too. Your voice is trapped. You realize you can’t say it, say anything. Your pulse beats against the side of his hand.

The thought shocks through you with an alarming clarity – that if it was too much, you couldn’t tell him that, if it was true. And you stare into his eyes, your gaze widening with some wild primal fear, and see something just as primal in the face looking down at you. Beastly.

“Hurts?” he asks, and it’s so soft that he almost sounds kind.

You can barely shudder out a nod. He’s fucking you, he’s fucking you with no thought to the agony he can see in your eyes, feel

“I can tell,” Zeke says. His voice grates. “You get so tight when you’re in pain.”

Your throat trembles, vibrating weakly as you whimper in response. And the wild look doesn’t fade from Zeke’s eyes for a beat or two longer. He lets go when your hand falls completely free, his arm streaked with indents of your fingernails scraping lines of graphite in the night. Your sight is punctuated with sharp things like this as everything makes its way back into focus, slowly evening out.

And your inner thighs tense at that release, at the break of friction as the blood burns through you.

“Oh!” you gasp, and grab at him so suddenly. “I’m – I’m gonna…”

“You’re coming?”

Zeke’s panting, his voice weak for a moment, so weak that it’s just a groan without any sense of sardonicism or command. The last of your own strength is spent curling into him, shaking, nodding, fingernails making new marks as you grab at him.

“’m, I’m…coming!”

It rocks with urgency through you, and Zeke lets out a cry, so loud that for the first time you have a jolting fear of neighbors even if none have slammed a fist against the wall yet. But neither of you can help it, pent-up bodies frantic and unable to force through the masquerade of drawing it out any longer. The dramatic words and promises in his letter cut short, and you don’t care, you couldn’t bear any more and you know neither could Zeke. You come on his cock, muscles aching, mouth frozen and lips trembling.

“Mm… fuck, fuck!”

Zeke groans too, and something in the way his body presses into you changes in a way you instinctually remember.

He pulls out right as he comes, your thighs shaking and nonsense dribbling from your drooling lips. He’s kneeling, fist pumped over his cock, but it’s too late- you felt the first spurts fall fat over your folds, just as the last of yours pulse out. Zeke’s teeth are bared, his eyes dark, and his jaw parts to let out heavy breaths that turn into grunts. Your voice, so briefly faded out, joins him in lighter – “ah, ah” sounds, as it hits your skin.

Zeke falls back on his heels, spent over you. Your lips feel dry, and you whimper.

The bed creaks as he shifts on it.

“Pretty,” Zeke says, the scruff of beard wild off his chin as he swallows and reaches down for you again. He cups a hand around your thigh and you almost wail at the strength against your sensitive skin. What’s worse is when he pushes his thumb up, slick against the cum beating out of you and pearled across your folds. Your body twitches aggressively.

“Sensitive,” you whine, the word breaking into too many syllables.

“Fucked all open,” Zeke says in a raw voice, and runs his finger along you again. “I think this is when you’re at your prettiest after all.”

His touch lingers, and you think of his hand with some wild fervor. You wonder if he’ll slap you there, you wonder if you want him to. But he withdraws and sits up then, a stretch of his back and a sigh composing him. You have no strength to move yet, your head pounding, your cunt beating, your thighs covered in silver.

“Fuck,” you say, and he sighs again.

“Fuck.”

You watch the ocean of his back muscles flex in washing waves as he stretches again, and stands.

“Best homecoming I’ve ever had,” Zeke says, with a touch of that familiar, dry humor that takes any soul out of the words. “That reminds me,” he adds. His voice is heavier for a moment as he leans to pick up his shirt. “I saw you earlier.”

“You did?”

Your voice is still a little raw. You start to try to pull yourself to your elbows, careful of the cum across your legs.

“You came to the plaza,” Zeke says.

“I always do. Everyone does,” you say.

“Everyone comes to greet the warriors, but no one actually welcomes us,” Zeke says. He’s pulling his clothes back on, and his tone is as grey as the light. “Just our families, the ones who love and hate us, need us and hate that they do.”

“I didn’t know you’d seen me,” you say. “I saw your grandparents. I mean, that’s why I didn’t think you’d be here. I didn’t think you’d… I didn’t think I should intrude on anything.”

“No, no,” he says. “You’re right.”

You wait for him to say more, but his head is cast in the shadow as he reaches for his glasses.

“Are you not going to spend the night?” you ask.

“Maybe another time,” he says, in a way that makes you believe him. “I should probably give my grandparents a proper goodbye.”

He’s at the door, and you only nod. Your head is starting to spin, genuine exhaustion creeping into your bones. You don’t know how long you two have been up, because the light seems a little paler. You’ll have to think about all of this later.

“Besides, I think I’ll be able to fall asleep now,” Zeke says. His teeth flash in a grin. “Sweet dreams.”

chapter 14

[sirdindjarin]

Family and Kin - Joel Miller x Reader (Part Five / END)

Bitten, you wait out the night. Joel refuses to give up, and he may have good reason.

Masterlist ->

AO3 Link♥

RATING: Explicit, 18+

TAGS: *Holds up fingers*: TWO Smut Scenes, Words I Feel Funny Using, Age Gap, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Smut, P in V, Fingering, Oral (m!receiving), Happy Ending.

WC: 12.7k

___________________________________________

September 26th, 2003

“Pick one,” your seventeen-year-old voice excitedly tells six-year-old Ellie.

Her eyes bug from her head. The space-themed backpack bounces as she hops on the balls of her feet. The glass pastry counter allows the little girl to visually consume each one of the freshly-made donuts, scones, and strudels before ever choosing one.

“Mmm, that one!” She pokes her small finger at a Boston Creme.

You get the attention of the cashier and politely ask for a chocolate-filled scone along with Ellie’s choice. Catching your eye, you also ask for a can of the new Pepsi Vanilla soda.

“Let’s eat 'em at the park, okay?”

Ellie jumps up and down, beaming, “Okay!” 

Seated on a metal bench, you hold both pastries, grinning, as Ellie clambers over and up and inside and around the playground equipment. She shrieks happily as she slides down a firepole. 

The depression had been bad this morning. Guilt tugs at your stomach. You had no reason to be depressed. You were young, smart, you had a family who loved you, and all the hopes of entering a STEM field. But today, the empty despair had started to win, so you drove to Ellie’s elementary school and withdrew her from school for the day.

Your parents were unaware of your problem, and admitting that you had ditched your own classes was out of the question. But you needed someone. Ellie was your purest source of joy - it was a no-brainer.

“Mom and dad asked me to come get you,” you had told Ellie in front of the school administrator. It was typical of you to pick her up when the school day was over, and it was only an hour before the normal time; no one questions you. You're not sure why you lied to her.

But now, as you watch her scream with childish joy, you can’t find it in yourself to regret it. 

A woman stands on the edge of your peripheral vision. While your subconsciousness notices her, it takes a while longer to register the menacing quality she brings to the scene. The long, brown hair is loose and waves in the wind as the woman in the yellow dress stands perfectly still. 

It’s the matter of a moment before the woman is sprinting toward you, snarling. Too shocked to drop the pastries, you stand and face the woman, confusion twisting your features. As she quickly advances, you scream.

“Ellie! Car!”

Thank God, thank the Universe, thank everything that the parking lot was so close. She hears the fearful tone of your voice and retreats, crying herself, to the maroon car you’d bought yourself on your seventeenth birthday. 

You aren’t far behind her. Ellie, having climbed in the passenger seat, opens the driver’s side door for you. Hurling yourself into the seat, the pastries fall in Ellie’s lap. You slam your door shut and lock it. 

The brunette woman heaves against the car, rocking it in her crazed attempts to get at the humans inside. Ellie screams and so do you. You turn the key and rocket backward, thinking of nothing except escape. 

Driving down the street, people launch at other people on the sidewalk, tearing away at their flesh. You force Ellie into the floorboard, refusing to let her see. She cries and angrily yells at you for your parents. 

You turn onto your street, and the world forever alters. Two houses are on fire. One is yours. It’s five-thirty. Your parents are always home by five-fifteen. You pray that today is different. 

Drawing closer, the flames grow in size; and you see two figures, one male, one female, prostrate on the ground, and a third figure hunches over both of them, seemingly eating from the bodies. 

The female figure on the ground raises a hand, begging for help. Through your violent sobs, you recognize your mother's face as she dies from blood loss.

The single figure crouching above the bodies snaps its head to the moving car, and you look directly into the eyes of your father. 

______________________________________

Blearily, you blink into wakefulness the next morning to Ellie nibbling on her donut. She’s only eaten a single bite when you take it from her gently.

“W-we need to ration these. Get more food. And then we’ll go somewhere fun. How does that sound? Somewhere like…” you don’t know what to tell the terrified, confused child, being one yourself. She loves parks, maybe you’ll go see the National ones. Whatever you do, you won't be staying in this city.

“One bite a day. No more.”

Inside both of your brains, a weak strain of the virus begins to grow, but dies upon reaching a genetic, hereditary discrepancy passed down from your mother. As you microdose the next few bites over the course of several days, the fungus cycles through recognizing itself and ending its campaign, believing it has already won.

_____________________________________

Everything is brighter, more vivid. Each rock, tree, hill, and wavy grassland sticks out in your memory. Is this the last pine tree? The last rolling hill?

Every conflicted look Joel throws your way, every hard stare Ellie makes at the back of your head - you feel them as though they’re physical blows to your composure. 

Driving into the west, the sunset is incredible; hues of every color mix in an ever-darkening, ombre rainbow. Cast in the golden light, a rocky ridge to the south stands above a thick treeline. It’s magnificent.

“Pull over,” Joel’s voice is low. 

It’s a beautiful place to make your last moments, and he wants to make sure that whatever happens will be while you’re surrounded by the beauty and love you’d valued above all else.

Silent tears wash down your cheeks as you stop the car and get out. It’s a bright day. Spring is finally here. 

Two car doors shut simultaneously behind you, and Ellie runs and snags her arms around your waist, squeezing you painfully. 

“I don’t know how long -” you choke, desperately willing yourself to stop crying in front of your sister. 

Joel walks, limping, toward the trees, allowing you a goodbye with your sister. Whatever way this plays out, you won’t be doing it in front of her. 

“You’re immune,” Ellie asserts over and over. Her words trip over themselves in her haste. “You have to be. Why would I be and not you? That makes no fucking sense; you have to be.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” you lamely try to make light of a situation in which darkness supersedes all.

After several bittersweet minutes, Ellie begs, “Don’t go with him.” 

You shake your head, “I have to. It’s already been two hours.” 

Ellie squeezes harder, “Stay here.”

It’s then that the tears burst from you. Eight long years have you been this girl’s entire world. Dying this way - after failing to protect her, then failing to protect yourself - feels like a slap in the face to the years of hard choices, ruthlessness, and self-sacrifice. 

“I can’t, Ellie. You know I want to.” You hug her tight, pouring every ounce of love you have for her into her small frame. “I love you so much.”

Then you forcibly remove her arms from your waist and stride with determination toward the trees. For what remains of your sanity, you block out Ellie’s angry outburst as she kicks the car, sobbing.

Joel’s solemn form, leaning against a pine, comes into focus as you cross the treeline. He reaches for you, and hesitantly kisses the crown of your head.

It could take anywhere between two and eight hours for the cordyceps to work its way into your brain. It had already been two, and you feel no different. It looks as though you’ll be in for another long night. A night with no dawn.

Joel's steady fingers clasp your wrist. He takes you toward a fire flickering to life and two bedrolls. 

“I don't like leaving her alone.” 

“I’m gonna check on her every hour,” Joel assures you. 

“I don’t know if I can sit here all night... Waiting…” you whisper, sitting down on your sleeping bag.

“’m not letting you end it early,” he states with finality. 

You look sharply at him, “You - you’re saying I can’t kill myself? It’s my fucking life, I get to decide.”

“Not if that's your decision. Told you a long time ago I ain't a good man,” he replies to your outraged face. “And if there’s a chance you're like your sister, I won’t be lettin’ you do it. That little girl needs you too much, an’ I know you’re brave enough.” 

Too full of raw emotion to reply coherently, you look away, face quivering in anger and terror and sadness. 

“You can’t even touch me without flinching in disgust. Why do you get to decide how the last moments of my life go?”

Joel takes a moment, looking away. “I’m tryin’. I’m not losin’ you if I don’t have to.”

Sobs you had choked down come again to the top. Uncontrollably now, you bury your face in your hands. Grief for Ellie, for Joel, and for the life you could’ve had with them weighs on your devastated soul. 

Joel feels his heart reach for you. His need to soothe you outweighs his learned response to the virus, and he tugs you onto his bedroll and down with him. Your back fits into the plane of his chest, and his arm keeps you firm against him.

“’s not disgust. Never disgust. Don’t want you thinkin’ that. It’s -” he swallows. “I’m afraid. I think about what I’d do if you turned then, what you’d become, what it’d do to what’s left of me," he admits. “Told you before, I wouldn’t survive again. You hafta make it through the night." 

Like a switch, Joel realizes his mind has made a decision. It feels as though a final puzzle piece clicks firmly into place.

She’s going to.

"You're gonna be fine," his words, so confidently spoken, make you shut your eyes in a tumble of emotion. “Makes no sense for Ellie to be immune and you not. D’you remember the day you were shot?” 

Sputtering a laugh at the random question, you answer, “Yeah, Joel. I remember being fucking shot.”

“Not that exactly. You ‘member the man? He was bit.” 

Twisting your face to look up at Joel, you ask, “You saw it? I didn’t see anything. I looked.”

“After you passed out, I looked him over. Had one on his chest.”

“But he was human, and she hadn’t been a biter for years.”

“Right,” he pulls you closer; at your hip, his hand slides into the waistband of your jeans, tracing the skin just underneath. A shiver runs through you. “There’s others like you.”

‘Like you.’ He really believes it.

“Let me…” he sits up without finishing his sentence. He snatches your bag from beside the bedroll and removes the saline and a bandage. 

Rolling flat on your back, you pull your shirt over your head. It was nearly warm enough to be comfortable, but the evening air teases your exposed skin. You don’t want to get your shirt wet with the cleaning solution. 

Bless him for the fire, you think as the flame finds a particularly dry log.While the weather was temperate, your bone-deep dread has you shivering.

Joel goes about the task with quiet focus. The wound was neither large nor deep; no bigger than your little finger. He had shot the creature right as it touched you, and Ellie had fired right after. 

“It’ll heal well,” he approves, his hands smoothing the sticky bandage. 

Tears pool in your eyes at the rampant optimism this cynical man is bombarding you with. 

“And if you’re wrong?”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he gives you a knowing grin, “When’ve I been wrong?”

You can’t help but snort, “Not a single goddamn time to my very great frustration.” 

Joel leans over you, careful to put most of his weight on his left leg. Traces of his soft smile disappear as he lowers his head to kiss you. Automatically, you relax into him, sighing at his touch, until dawning horror has you pushing him away.

“Don’t!” You wail.

Joel lets you push him, but his face clouds with hurt and concern. He says nothing. 

Your fingers swipe along your mouth, making sure no saliva has crossed your lips. “You can’t kiss me.”

Joel looks relieved, “’s not how that works.” 

“Yeah? How’d you know that?” You demand, shaking. 

If I got him sick, too…

“People I used to,” he pauses, searching for the right word, “to work with knew some things. There aren’t a lotta facts, but that was one of ‘em. It carries through blood. Y’didn’t know that?” He asks, confirming something in his mind.

“No, hence my shoving you away.”

“As long as it’s not ‘cause you're comin’ to your senses,” he says as he crawls over top of you, caging you underneath him. 

“My senses?” Your eyes close involuntarily when his soft lips press against your jaw. "What're you doing?”

Joel’s perfect face hovers over yours, “You’re sleepin’ with a man old enough to be your father. I figure at some point you’ll see your mistake. An’ for your second question -” Joel captures your lips in a searing kiss reminiscent of the moment before you were bitten. 

It’s hard to deny him, but when his hand cups your breast, you try.

“Joel,” you whimper into his mouth, wanting this terribly but petrified to risk it. “You can’t.”

He doesn’t even answer you. Joel persuades you with the constant rhythm of his velvet mouth, hellbent on erasing your worries for as long as he is able. He’s no longer concerned about you turning, only about how long he can last. His deft fingers unbutton your jeans and lazily travel across your abdomen - in no hurry whatsoever. You twitch and gasp at his touch, embarrassed at the sounds he could draw from you so easily.

Your hands push weakly at his chest. At least try to resist him. But he pins them above you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“D’you want to?” His voice is husky, thick as the woods around you. Joel's eyes - perfect recreations of the twinkling, night sky - dance in earnest between yours. The fire flickers gold light across half of his face, highlighting his angular features.

Sighing, you surrender, “Since I fucking met you.” 

That earns you an affectionate, quiet laugh; his breath warms your cheeks. “Oh, I knew that.” 

Sighing, you grumble, “Ellie made it so obvious.” 

Joel shakes his head, “No. You were obvious. Fuckin' starin' holes in me. Always tryna take care of me.” He smirks, and his hand travels around to your ass; he almost laughs at how quickly he hardens.

“Ah. So, you only love me,” you blush at your bold use of the one word he’s never said, “because of what I do for you?”

“No,” Joel murmurs after a long, aching moment, “’s not why.” 

His hands slip underneath your bra and tug it over your head, careful to avoid the bandage on your shoulder. 

Exhaling sharply at his words, your fingers fumble with his flannel shirt, unbuttoning it but not removing it. Your hands splay across his wide chest as his calloused hands massage your breasts. His lips pull moans from you as if he’s drawing water from a well.

“Remember on the beach whe–”

“Course. Woulda had you right there on the sand.” 

You whine, pushing your thighs together, and he chuckles. One hand leaves your chest to push your jeans down to your thighs, and your stomach swoops as though you tipped a chair backward.

“That was when -” you gasp, arching as he roughly palms your heated mound, “- knew I was screwed,” you finish your scattered confession.

“Hmm. Was it now?” He drawls. “Pretty sure it was the moment you saw me. ‘s why you gave me that rabbit. My looks,” his cheek quirks.

“Mm - yeah, your look of hunger,” you reply, laughing.

The firelight allows you to see him frown playfully. You cup his jaw affectionately; slowly, he glides his fingers along the spot you want him most. Your eyebrows shoot up, then pull together; shamelessly, you rock against the hand he’s given you. He raises his chin a fraction, his hooded eyes looking down at you with aroused adoration. 

“Think it was when that stupid fuckin’ kid wanted you t’go with him.” 

From under the pleasurable haze Joel is creating, you confusedly ask, “What?”

“Never felt so goddamn jealous in my life,” Joel continues. “But then you back me up with Ellie. Follow me into the fuckin’ woods. Hit on me. Fuckin' christ, you looked at me that night like you wanted t-” Joel stops to curl two fingers inside you, eliciting his favorite gasped cry of yours. 

Joel’s fingers had been a frequent source of your daydreams, and you were right. Thick and ridged, they make you feel dirty and full. Unwilling to hurt you in any way, Joel waits until you tilt your pelvis in search of more friction before he slowly pumps his ring and middle finger. His thumb rubs just the way you need it.

Joel’s lips brush yours, but he’s far too focused on reading your cues. His mouth hangs just above, parted to catch your whimpering moans. He stiffens into solid rock at the obscenities coming from you. He eagerly soaks in your expressions, your little moans, cataloging each one. 

“C’mon, baby,” his raw baritone begs. 

He wants this to be about you, but between the adoration in your eyes, the sounds you graciously give him, and the wet clenching around his fingers, Joel struggles to remain altruistic.

After an embarrassingly short time, you fracture underneath him just as he wanted. Tightening your stomach and bearing down on his thick, hardworking fingers, your body goes taut as a wire. Pulsing electric fire races through you. 

Joel surges forward, kissing you sloppily. A bulge in his jeans presses against your hip, trying to find some relief, which has your eyes shooting open. He has much more to offer you.

“Joel,” you plead. “All of you.”

Wanting to give you just that, he unbuckles his jeans and begins to shimmy them down. Before his quickly-healing bullet wound, he slows. When he does, you come back to your senses and chide yourself for how selfish it is to make him hang above you on one good leg.

“Lay down,” you order.

His head jerks up, eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“Or, better yet,” you get to your knees and lay one of the sleeping bags against the base of a tree. Pine needles have collected underneath, providing a decent enough angle, you think. “Lay there,” you turn back to him.

“This was s’posed to be about you,” Joel objects, his voice unintentionally seductive.

“Yeah, well, this what I want to do,” you grab his uninjured shoulder and push him down gently onto the sloping, soft ground. 

If your stomach flipped earlier, it does a full-on carnival-ride drop at the holy image of Joel, flannel shirt open, hair mussed, and jeans around his lower hips, reclined and illuminated in the orange glow. 

“Damn,” you congratulate yourself. 

He scoffs again, rolling his eyes. “Jus’ fuckin’ get -” he mumbles as he reaches for you. 

Pulling his jeans down the rest of the way, you press a kiss to the firm muscle of his wounded thigh. Your mouth, so innocently close to his heavy erection, forces him to fight a shiver.

About her, about her, about her, he reminds himself.

Climbing on top of him, you smile a little shyly and position yourself. Eager to fit him inside you, but unable to resist the sensation, you tease him along your wetness, aching at the way he hungrily watches you use him. 

Joel had never thought that would turn him on so much, but you were excavating him from his cold, early grave so rapidly that he isn't surprised by anything anymore. 

He likes you needing him, wanting him, using him. He loves it.

Steadily, you ease down, whimpering at each intruding ridge and vein you feel, until your thighs kiss his hips. Joel groans as his eyes flutter closed. His large hands come to rest on your hips, desperately trying to keep himself grounded.

It’s different; somehow more intimate. Joel seems so vulnerable this way: laid out underneath you, his eyes shining and chest heaving. You move up and down carefully, afraid to hurt or spook him.

Leaning forward, you sweetly press your lips to his, savoring the way his plush lips make room for yours; but his sudden response is far stronger than you anticipate. His hands dig into your skin, thrusting you down on him faster; but his hips roll with yours, rubbing something deep. His pleased, strained groans mingle with your gasps.

Then your hair is a tangled mess in his hands. He holds your face to his, gifting you with panted, needy sounds that collect between your lips.

He gives you back the reins, and you keep the rolling pace he clearly wants.

You twist your fingers into his flannel for leverage and tuck your head into his pulsing neck, wanting to kiss every inch of his golden skin. 

But he wants to see your face as you ride him. One hand stays gripped in your hair and he pulls more roughly than he means to, and you whine. He presses his forehead to yours, watching you lose control on him. 

“Jus’ like that,” he praises. “Doin’ real good.”

"Oh, shit," you moan; Joel's approval sends a shiver from head to toe, making you squeeze him. He groans in surprise. 

“You like that?” He asks, slightly taken aback.

“Guess I do,” you sob a short laugh, too overwhelmed by everything he makes you feel to identify specifics.

Joel takes advantage of the position to feel you. His hands grasp at your ass, your flexing thighs, they skate up your waist until he lands on your breasts. Joel throbs inside you, and his eyes darken as he watches your body bounce on top of him.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he grunts quietly, sounding almost pissed off about it. 

His expressive eyes flick up to your face, wanting to see your reaction when he slips his fingers to your swollen center again.

“Mhm,” you encourage, wanting any and all touch he could give you.

Your thighs begin to burn with the unfamiliar movement and oncoming orgasm, and you feel your rhythm stutter for a moment. 

Joel is there. His inescapable arms brace around your middle, shifting for a better angle, and he thrusts upward harshly, removing your responsibility. His hot mouth pays blessed attention to your breasts.

One finger replaces his as you work yourself; your entire body feels like static shock as he drives up inside you. Joel feels your arm brush his, and he swallows dryly when sees what you’re doing.

He feels you begin to tremble, and your eyes slam shut.

“No, don’t,” he orders roughly. “Look at me. Yeah, fuck, that’s it. That's so good,” he praises once more. "Look so goddamn pretty.”

And as you cry out, as you writhe, as you come hard around his cock, his loose mouth continues. 

With each thrust, he confesses all three words you wanted most to hear. Over and over, Joel frees himself in you, gasping and reverent. 

Your euphoric orgasm is curtailed by his confession, by the shock of those words. Your hands cradle his face as his body relaxes underneath you. Joel’s relieved eyes meet your surprised stare. His brow wrinkles as he tries to read your mind.

Unable to, Joel tugs you down onto his chest, both of you still breathing heavily. 

“You do?” You have to ask.

His hand traces slow, soothing lines up and down your spine. 

Joel’s deep, scratchy lilt answers simply, “Yeah. I do.”

Crickets and frogs sing in the warm night air, heralding spring. Joel's heart thumps below your ear. He hums some long-forgotten, old country song you'd heard a lifetime ago. 

If it all ends here tonight, you’ll go to the reaper smiling.

__________________________________

A brightness glows inside your eyelids, bringing you to consciousness. The anticipation of knowing what you are now forces you to bolt upright. 

You touch your face, your arms, you squint at the trees. Nothing suspicious, but you’d never been a clicker before. Maybe those poor souls kept their consciousness as their bodies turned into monsters.

Your heart thunders in your chest with fear. You tended to be a lucky person, but a clicker bite was the end for everyone. 

Well.

Almost everyone.

"Mornin'," a Texan, familiar voice greets you. A voice that never failed to bring light to your soul.

The crackle of a fire and the smell of cooking meat wafts into your senses. When you stand, your back twinges. You take a deep breath, incrementally coming to the realization that you might’ve just escaped death.

"This ground is not fucking comfortable." 

Joel scoffs, "Come eat."

"Ellie?" You ask, knowing already that he would've kept his promise to you.

"Yeah. Just got back. She's happy as a pig in shit."

You snort at the expression, "Why?"

He hands you a tender strip of rabbit, which you obediently pop into your mouth.

"Well," he pauses to chew his own breakfast. "Call me a fuckin' optimist, but you don't look like a clicker." 

You raise your eyebrows in agreement. You feel… fine. Much better than fine, considering last night. 

"Complainin' about the poor ground doesn't seem much like clicker behavior, either," Joel speaks through chewing and you cringe with amusement.

"Anyone tell you not to talk with your mouth full, Miller?" 

"You liked it before," one eyebrow quirks up at you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

His words trigger a physical memory of his mouth on your skin.

"God, stop," you beg. 

You had things to do today now that you were going to live, and those things don't include Joel.

He laughs, so buoyant he feels like he might float away with a breeze. 

"It's been -"

"Fourteen hours," Joel finishes your sentence.

Blinking, your eyeline rises to the tree-framed sky in thought. 

Immune.

"One less thing to worry about," you awkwardly chuckle. 

How many people were immune and didn't know it? Fucking shitty that the only way to find out would get them killed. 

Joel's knees pop as he stands and brushes off his jeans. He saunters to you, placing his hands on either side of your face.

"Told ya." 

"Y'know, this is the first time I'm glad you were right." 

Joel's arms tug you into his chest. Happily, you inhale the smoky smell of him, and you feel his chin rest on the crown of your head, hair catching in his beard. 

"Told you, baby." 

___________________________________

Lack of oxygen has your temples throbbing. You wiggle your hands underneath the arms squeezing your ribs, loosening their grip.

"Ellie, I can't breathe." You bend to hug her back, anyway.

"Careful, kid. She's alive, don't change that," Joel comments. 

"That was fucking bullshit. Don't ever leave me again. I don't care -" she cuts off your protest, "I really don't. You always tell me it's for my own safety and shit but I don't fucking care. I had to spend the whole night wondering if you were okay."

"Ellie," Joel warns, protecting you from the guilt that threatens to swallow you. "I told you what was goin' on every fuckin' hour." His hands rest on his hips, and you could smile at how fatherly he looks.

Ellie's anger abates a bit. She would never tell you, but the first time Joel had come to check on her, she had run to him. He had collected her in his arms like she was running home. He had combed his fingers through her hair, promising her it was all going to be okay. The steadfast reassurance of a man so hardened had stirred hope inside her, just like it had you.

"There are some things you don't need to see. I know you hate it," you brush her cheek with your thumb, "But try to be a kid. Let us take the heavy shit." 

"Right, like I haven't had my share of heavy shit?"

"I didn't say that. I said to let us take it when we can." 

"You ain't ever been left out, kid." Joel intuits some of her concerns. "No one doubts you, either. I saw you break that guy's nose in Lincoln."

You flinch at the memory of your sister being dragged off, kicking and screaming.

"Alright. Enough, let's just get going."

"I've been thinking," Ellie starts.

"Great," Joel huffs dramatically, a smirk hiding behind his expression. 

"Don’t be jealous my brain works, Joel," she retorts, scrunching her nose at him. "There's two of us. What do we do? I mean, someone’s gonna wanna know that,” Ellie questions, looking between you and Joel.

Joel's gut sours. He doesn't want to tell a single fucking soul. You and Ellie are all that matter, and you’re both safe.

"I really don't know, El. If there's no one capable of doing anything about it, it's kind of a moot point." 

Happy at that idea, Joel plucks the car keys from your hand. 

"Think I feel like drivin' today." 

"It's not gonna bother you? Your leg?" 

"Can barely feel it," he blusters. His newfound lightheartedness wouldn't be defeated by something as lame as a bullet wound.

Counting backward, you roll your eyes at Joel's back. He'd been shot only a week ago, but far be it from you to rain on Joel's sunshine. 

________________________________

"But it's gotta be genetic, right?" You rhetorically ask.

"Dunno. We also eat the same things and live in the same environment. Maybe we inhaled a lot of radiation and we mutated," Ellie's voice rises.

"Radiation don't work like that, darlin'."

"How’s it work then?"

Eyes darting to you for help, Joel clears his throat and makes up his best bullshit, "Jus’ bein’ around it will kill ya. It rots your… cells. Makes 'em decay." 

You purse your bottom lip and give him two thumbs up in sarcastic approval. Joel shrugs, conceding it. 

"My guess is that we ate something that gave us immunity. We both had donuts that day."

Joel slams on the brakes, his right arm shooting out to brace you. Your neck whips forward, and Ellie, having slipped her seat belt off earlier, hugs the back of your seat. 

The car crunches, and the three of you lurch forward. Tense silence replaces the cheerful conversation.

An elk lies broken and unmoving in the road. It had tried to jump across the rural, two-lane highway, and while Joel had spotted it, he hadn't been quite fast enough. 

Joel shoves open his door and goes to the aid of the great beast, but it no longer needs help. His attention goes to the vehicle’s damage, and he sucks his teeth.

The car is totaled. The front end is completely smashed; a malfunctioning squeaking sound mocks Joel. 

"A'right, come on." Joel motions at the two of you. 

"We'll have to decide what to leave behind. Can't take everything," you frown, stepping out of the car.

Joel nods, walking to the trunk. 

"Joel," you ask gently, "are you able to walk the rest of the way?" 

"Gonna have to, aren't I?" He side-eyes you, then goads, "Unless you're wantin' to take the advice I been givin' you for a while." 

Arranging your face into an unamused mask, you don't give him the satisfaction of a reply. 

"Be fun. A nice, long, dangerous hike in the woods," he rubs your lower back with one hand. He pretends not to notice when his hand drifts lower.

"Stop getting your rocks off in front of me. It's so gross," Ellie fakes a gag, rounding the trunk to grab her stuff. 

"Gonna have to get used to it, kid," Joel shrugs. 

You hide your smile. Used to it. Used to him and me. Used to us. 

Ellie throws her head back and bemoans, "Auugh. Go back to wanting to kill each other. I've changed my mind." 

She leaves, ducking into the backseat to continue gathering her things.

You chew on your lip, fighting a laugh. Wrinkles next to Joel's eyes prominently feature as he grins close-mouthed. 

Ellie whirls around the trunk again, “You know she told me you were just a ‘new toy’?”

“Ellie!” You stare at her, open-mouthed.

“He would find out eventually!”

“How would he have found that out?” You yell. 

“A new toy?” Looking between the two girls in front of him, Joel’s hands find their home on his hips.

Ellie laughs, “I mean, when you’re not being a huge asshole, yeah, you’re fun, I guess.” 

“It wasn't meant as an insult, I was trying to explain -” you waiver, not wanting to flay open your heart right there over a months-old, throwaway comment. You turn to Joel, “I was trying to explain to her why I was… so interested in you so quickly. It was a -”

Ellie laughs loudly at the look on Joel’s face.

“God, Ellie, I’m gonna kill you.”

“Yeah, okay. Did I ruin the mood? Great.” She returns to the backseat, dragging items out.

"Don’t go thinkin’ I won’t get you back, Ellie,” Joel calls. 

A middle finger shoots out of the open car door.

“Maybe we should hide her pun book,” he begins plotting under his breath.

So different from who he was in the winter. Is this who he was before it all? The thought warms your chest and tightens your throat.

"It sounds so bad when she says it -" you start to apologize when he shakes his head. 

“’s probably the funniest thing I’ve ever been called.” He bends into the trunk.

“I was trying to get her to believe my crush was superficial and short-lived. I didn’t want her to think I was so… easy.”

“Easy?” Joel almost whacks his head on the trunk lid when he jerks upright. “Ain’t never once thought you were easy. More like a pain in my ass.” 

“Not that kind of easy. You said yourself that I was throwing myself at you!”

“An' didja hear me complaining?” 

“Yes, actually, I do believe you complained.”

Joel gives you a dirty look, “Think it’s pretty obvious why I might’ve resisted.”

You lean closer to him, slipping your fingers into the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. His skin is soft; little curls of chest hair brush your fingertips. 

“Because you were scared of me,” you murmur. “I’m very intimidating.”

The affection coloring your face, shimmering in your eyes, has yet to stop surprising Joel.

Still got no idea why it’s there. 

It still makes his nerves quake. Still makes him feel like he's being taken apart and put on display. But it's no longer something he’ll run from.

Joel's eyebrows pinch together, he closes the distance, and fits your lips between his.

Sighing as Joel leaves, a soft smile curves your mouth. Hopelessly smitten with him, you don't look away as he cranes his neck around the trunk, then chuckles.

"She ain’t waiting for us. Already started walkin'," he laughs. 

_________________________________

The electric blue lake is a near-perfect oval. Craggy mountains frame it on two sides, and the forest covers all but the water. From the raised path the three of you stand on, the view is incredible. The air is so clean up here. Thinner than you’d ever experienced, though, and that made the hike even more strenuous. 

It had been slow going with Joel’s injuries. He hadn’t made a single comment, but both you and Ellie had kept slower paces to stay by his side. 

“God, it’s so fucking gorgeous,” you exhale. “Look at it, El.”

“Yeah,” she says noncommittally. When you turn sharply to look at her, she makes a greater effort, “It is nice.”

Your eyes narrow as though you’re trying to read her mind. She steps to the edge of the trail, quiet. Turning to see Joel’s assessment, he shrugs and presses his lips in concern.

“Ellie, you’ll be comin’ hunting with me later,” he says casually, slipping his rifle off his shoulder. 

That gets her attention, “Really?”

Damn, he is so good at that.

“Yeah, y'need to learn.”

“Cool,” she bobs her head, then returns to staring over the vista.

“Let’s go up ahead, see if there’s a better overlook. Come on,” you tap Ellie’s arm, striding quickly. 

Obediently, she follows you. The forest to your right is so dense that you can only see a few feet at a time, and the vertigo-inducing natural wonder to your left makes you feel slightly uneasy. It was truly beautiful, but inherently dangerous.

Around a curve in the landscape, Joel disappears from view. Awkward silence stretches as you try to think of what to say. She stops to pluck a dandelion, then continues beside you, picking the petals off.

“Isn’t there something special about these?” She asks absentmindedly.

Raising your eyebrows in sudden memory, you laugh once. “Wow. Yeah, I had forgotten. Yeah, when I was a kid, they said that if you held it up to your chin - like this - and it reflected yellow onto your skin, then you like butter.” 

“You… like butter? What the fuck.” She snorts, her eyebrows drawn in amusement. 

“Children are weird,” you laugh. “I never even questioned it.”

Ellie doesn’t say anything further, so you begin bluntly.

“Are you okay?” You don’t look at her as you two walk, knowing she felt easier about speaking her feelings when prying eyes were averted.

“Mhm,” she responds. 

Okay, guess I’ll take a slightly more subtle route.

“I picked you up from school because I missed you,” you find yourself admitting. 

Ellie stops in her tracks, “What?” 

“I think I told you that day that mom and dad had asked me to get you early, but that wasn’t true. I was sad and you always made me feel better. I came and got you because you’re the brightest, happiest person I know and the most important thing in my life.”

Ellie’s eyes turn glassy, and she looks at you, nodding. 

“You’ve been through hell. Talk to me when you want to. Shit, talk to Joel.”

Ellie makes a pfft sound, faintly smiling, “I can’t tell him anything; he’ll tell you the very next breath he breathes.” But she remembers that that’s not quite true. He’d only ever broken his promise about her bite - nothing else.

“He cares about you, Ellie. So much,” you insist. “And I don’t even need to say it, but obviously, I do, too.”

She nods again, looking away. It was clear that she wasn’t ready to talk about whatever was bothering her, but as long as she knew that you and Joel were ready to listen, you could be satisfied for now.

“Shh!” Ellie freezes, grabbing your wrist. “You hear that?”

Rhythmic thumping echoes in the trees, and before long, the ground seems to vibrate. You pull Ellie behind a tree, but it’s far too small.

Thundering around a bend, three horses and their riders come galloping. Terror runs like cold water down your spine, and you straighten, hoping to make yourself and Ellie as small as possible.

It doesn’t work.

“There's two right there. Hey! Come out,” a man’s voice orders. 

“Go!” You shove Ellie, sprinting in the direction you came. 

Ever the smart one, Ellie cuts further into the tree line, weaving amongst the trees, hoping to lose the large horses in the undergrowth. 

You can’t remember how far you walked, but Joel can’t be more than a hundred yards when the first horse gains enough distance to allow its rider to hit you with the butt of their rifle. 

Sprawling, you scream for Ellie to keep going, and you roll onto your back, wanting to face your death. The horseman jumps down, pointing the barrel at you, but advancing no further. 

From far too close, you hear Ellie yell. Snapping your head up, you see your sister bearhugged from behind by a woman. As your sister is dragged back, you make eye contact with her, reassuring her as best you can. 

The third horseman, still on his mount, trots alongside you. His shiny black curls bounce with the movement of the animal.

He says, “We’re going to place bags over your heads. Don’t fight, we won't hurt you.”

Twigs and leaves crunch as Joel Miller appears through the trees. His rifle is pointed at the woman holding Ellie.

“Let go of ‘em,” he demands angrily. The canyon between his eyes is deep.

“Joel?” The black-haired man slides off his horse and walks slowly, yet confidently toward Joel.

Fully expecting Joel to shoot the man, you’re blindsided when Joel’s face relaxes, “Tommy? Holy shit.” 

As the two men embrace, you start to feel resentful. “Can I fucking stand up?”

Joel lets go of his brother, his face returning to seriousness. Closer to you than Ellie, he moves to you first, hauling you to your feet.

“You know them, Joel?” Tommy questions.

“They’re with me,” he starts toward the woman holding Ellie. 

“Back up,” the woman yells, but Tommy speaks first.

“Loretta, let go of the girl. They’re no danger to us.”

Ellie wrenches herself from the woman’s loosening grip, and stumbles to Joel, glaring. 

“Fucking assholes,” she spits. 

Tommy holds up his hands apologetically, “We have to be strict when we patrol this area.” 

“Doin’ a great job runnin’ down women and little girls.” 

“Joel,” Tommy starts, then decides it isn’t worth it. Something registers about Joel’s demeanor that Tommy can’t quite believe yet. He changes track, “I’m sorry we got off on the worst foot imaginable; let’s go back to town and talk.” 

Tommy gets back on his horse, offering a hand to you or Ellie. Neither of you take it. 

"There's three of you and three horses. It'll go a lot faster if you ride with us." 

"Thanks. I'll walk." You give the man a tight smile, wanting to be polite for Joel's sake but still seriously pissed off.

"We'll follow you," Joel suggests. "Or you can walk with us," he adds to Tommy.

"We don't leave people on patrol," the other man in the group pipes up for the first time. "Not even for wayward family members." 

Joel faces the man, broadening his shoulders. He doesn't get a chance to escalate before Tommy speaks.

"Hey, it's fine. You two go on ahead a ways; I'll follow with them."

"Maria won't like that."

"Maria will understand." 

__________________________________

“So, how the hell’d you find me all the way out here?” Tommy begins, smiling and clasping the reins as he walks beside his horse.

“Found your note,” Joel claps his brother’s shoulder. “Wildest thing.” 

Tommy walks beside his older sibling, shaking his head, “Didn’t think you’d actually see that shit. And I wrote it so fucking long ago. Probably two years ago,” his voice ticks upward like a question at the end.

“I wouldn’t have found it without them,” Joel tilts his head as you and Ellie silently walk behind the two men. He tells Tommy how he met you - the second time. He makes no mention of the first. 

“Shit, wow. I remember that. There was this massive group of farmers that had come togethe-” 

“Yeah, we met most of them. Great group of people,” you sarcastically cut in.

“Ah,” Tommy frowns, “Well, I gave someone that map hoping to trade with ‘em at some point.” 

“Yeah, tha’s what I reckoned,”  Joel replies.

Tommy half-turns back toward you and your sister, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your names yet.”

You answer him with both of your names. Ellie gives him the same forced smile you did. 

“An’ what made you wanna hitch your wagon to my brother’s?” He laughs. “Joel ain't the type to pick up strays.” Tommy says this with familiarity, meaning no harm.

But you don’t see it that way.

“Joel is a good man. He literally took a bullet for my sister,” you wave at his leg.

“Been meanin’ to ask, how’d that happen? Must be painful if you’re limping,” Tommy’s attention instantly shifts to his brother. 

“‘s gettin’ better. We,” Joel’s hand indicates you, “rushed a building gettin’ Ellie back from some bastards in Lincoln.” 

Tommy has nothing to say to that, and he tries to keep the shock off his face. No, not shock, concern. These two girls don’t know what Joel has lost; why he’s so attached to them. But is that bad? He looks like himself again…

“Joel could use a real doctor,” you put aside your anger, “I patched him up as best as I could, but I’d feel better if he saw someone who knows what they’re doing.” 

“‘m fine. The other ones I don’t even feel.” 

“Oh, that’s great! Definitely normal,” you huff, exasperated at his stubbornness.

He snorts with amusement, “Really. Promise you, ‘m okay.” 

Oh shit. Somethin’ else is goin’ on. Tommy starts to wonder if it’s entirely platonic between the two of you. The look in Joel’s eyes is not the same one he looks at Ellie with, though with no less strength.

“There is a doctor. We’re about an hour’s walk from the front gate, and the doc is right inside. We keep him close for just that reason.”

“Tell us about this place,” you encourage. “Spent a lot of time and blood getting here.”

Without hesitation, Tommy launches into a spiel about Jackson. Everyone works together; everyone shares resources; everyone is generally happy, safe. You get your black sheeps who can’t live without a little chaos, but they sober up in the lock-up and chaos is paused for another week. 

“Infected?” 

“They were cleared out long ago, and none ever venture up here. Far too remote.” 

“Shit, you guys got it made out here,” Ellie mutters. 

“Y’all are gonna love it,” Tommy sneaks a glance at his brother. 

If any of them don’t, it’ll be Joel.

“Where does everyone sleep?” Ellie inquires.

“There’s plenty of houses. Real nice ones, too. Old and sturdy for the harsh winters. Everyone gets their own place.”

“Shit, you guys really do have it made,” you echo Ellie’s sentiment.

“It’s hard work to keep it. Everyone pitches in,” Tommy warns. “If you stay, we expect you to pull your weight.”

__________________________________

As the massive gates swing wide, the dusty street unfolds before you. Then, on either side, wooden buildings reminiscent of a wild-west town. People go about their business - and that’s the most bizarre part.

People with cloth bags full of groceries, carrying lumber, or just walking down the street leisurely. There’s no oppressive, ominous government, no natural monster waiting to assimilate you. It’s a town out of time. 

Ellie doesn’t even know she’s smiling until she sees yours. You bend your head over her, saying, “This is crazy.” 

A woman in khaki, canvas pants and a denim shirt rubs her hands on a stained rag before walking up to your group of four. She smiles, and you notice that it’s only slightly warmer than the one you first gave Tommy.

“Loretta told me you’d found him,” she tells Tommy, then turns to Joel. “Welcome. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She offers her outstretched hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Joel shakes it once. 

“This is Maria,” Tommy introduces with warmth. He tells Maria your names, adding, “They got him here in one piece.” 

“Nice to meet you both,” Maria smiles much more kindly at you and Ellie.

Tommy turns to Joel, “The doctor’s over there. Maria, you want to…?” He tilts his chin at you and Ellie.

“Sure,” she nods her head down the street. “I’m sure you’re probably starvi-”

“God, yes,” Ellie cries. “I don’t want to eat another fucking rabbit ever again.”

Maria laughs, a little shocked. “I hate to break it to you, but rabbit is a frequent flyer here. We probably have something else for now, though. There’s a whole kitchen for everyone and you’re welcome to it. This way.” 

The “kitchen” is an old pub, and you’re grateful it looks nothing like the chrome soup kitchen in Lincoln. Your stomach roils thinking about the teenager’s blood and brain matter. Suddenly not hungry, you choke down the stew you’re given out of politeness. 

Ellie, however, eats it as though it’ll be taken away from her. Slurping loudly, she attracts the attention of a few other patrons who stare at her.

“What’s up?” She calls. The patrons turn back to their own bowls. 

“Ellie,” you whisper. “Just try to fit in for now. We can go wild later when they trust us,” you exhale a laugh. 

“Yuh goddit, boss,” she nearly spits soup as she talks.

“Joel did that shit to me a few days ago,” you scowl. “You’re starting to take after him and I’m getting concerned.” 

Maria, waiting for your two to finish so she could assign you a house, perks up at your last sentence. 

“I’ve heard a lot about Joel,” she begins carefully. “Tommy and him did a lot. To survive, I mean.” 

Disliking her tone, you say, “Haven’t we all?” 

A grimace crosses Maria’s face. “Not like Joel did.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t you just say that Tommy and Joel did a lot?” Ellie tilts her head like a curious animal. 

Maria takes a deep breath and sighs. “I just want to make sure you two girls know what Joel’s like.” 

Ellie laughs, and you snort derisively. 

“And you do? That’s quite a statement considering we just spent the past several months with him.”

“Tommy has told me everything,” Maria says, and you realize her relationship to Joel’s brother is likely far more than friends.

 “Look, I guess you mean well? But Joel saved my ass more than I care to count and he almost died getting -” you stop, not wanting to re-traumatize Ellie. You regroup, “He’s… he’s different than he was.” 

That piques Maria’s interest, but Ellie hits your arm. She doesn’t think it’s necessary for this busybody of a woman to know anything about Joel.

But you want to make it clear he’s not a threat. You don’t want him followed or put on a damn watchlist. You’d rather they underestimate him. 

“When we met him, he was the Joel Tommy must’ve told you about. But the past few months have really… taken a toll on him.” You leave it to her imagination what you mean, but try to heavily imply that he’s no danger. 

He’s not less dangerous. He’s probably more dangerous. Because he has a good reason again. Something to fight for, like I told him all those months ago on the beach.

Maria sits back in her chair, trying to read your face. It’s convincingly innocent, and the dark-haired woman accepts your statement with a nod. 

“I guess that Joel probably wouldn’t have let two kids tag along.”

You swallow down the unintended insult. That Joel did, actually; and I’m not a kid; and we weren’t fucking tag-alongs. 

“You know he had a daughter?” Maria asks boldly, challenging you. 

“What?” Ellie nearly chokes on her soup. “He did?”

Your jaw ticks to the side, clenching your fist. You’re tempted to hit this woman. 

Ellie looks to see your reaction, and she gasps, “You fucking knew? You knew about Joel’s daughter and didn’t tell me?” 

“Thanks, Maria. I’m glad you feel so comfortable sharing extremely sensitive information.”

“This is for your own good. You need to be aware.”

“Clearly, he had told me,” you give her a cruel, insincere smile.

“Why didn’t I know?” Ellie badgers. 

“I’ll tell you later. Promise.” You have to now.

“Alright. Well, if you’re done…?” Maria looks at Ellie, then you. “I’ll show you around, and we’ll end with where you’ll be staying.” 

An hour later, Maria stops in front of an old, forest green, Victorian-style house with white trim around the decorative eaves and a front porch that wraps around the right side. 

“You’re fucking with us,” Ellie turns to Maria, her hands on her hips.

God, she really is turning into Joel.

Maria smiles and swivels her head once, “Nope. This is on the edge of town, so it’s less desirable to most of the people here. But I figure you and your sister will want a place to retreat to when we all become too overbearing.” She shrugs and her face is open, honest. 

You can’t decide if you like this woman or not. Your biggest hang-up is her opinion and dislike of Joel, but, considering her source of information, you let it pass for the meantime. You smile at her with more sincerity than before.

“Thank you. That’s thoughtful. We appreciate it.” 

Looking down at your sister, you feel a burn behind your eyes. Ellie has a home. 

“Is Joel inside already?” Ellie wonders.

“No. Why would he be?” Maria reacts in confusion. She looks at you like she missed some kind of information.

When you keep your face carefully blank, she fills the awkward silence. “Joel is assigned right over there.” Maria points at a red house across the street and several houses down, similar in style but smaller in size. She squints and blocks the sun with her hand. “I see boots on the front porch. Tommy must’ve moved him in already.”

She turns back to the two of you, “There’s a movie tonight right after sundown. It’s in the center of town. You won’t be able to miss it everyone millin’ about. You’re welcome to come.” 

Maria smiles again, and waves goodbye as she heads back to town.

“Dude, we have our own fucking house?” Ellie looks up at you, pure elation spreading over her face. Her face falls slightly, "But why didn't they put Joel with us?"

“Let’s go see it. Last one in loses,” you shout, laughing and racing up the front yard. Ellie yells about unfair advantages as she trails you. 

____________________________________

Though the house was huge, and mostly untouched, much of the furniture had been reallocated to other houses. As it was, two bedrooms have beds and dressers and lamps, and the dining room has a massive oak table. It was clear why no one had tried to remove the heavy chunk of wood. 

Ellie had chosen a room filled with posters and detritus of a past childhood. It made you sad, but she beamed at it all - interested in an era of humanity of which she had very little memory. 

A very short conversation was held about Joel’s daughter. He hadn’t told you much himself, only that she existed and her name was Sarah. You told Ellie that it hadn’t been your place to share the information, which she understood better than anyone. She wondered why Joel hadn’t told her but accepted it when you’d relayed how painful the memory still was for him.

Leaving her to her new room, you wander the rest of the house. In the living room, a moth-eaten couch is the focal point of the circular space. You lie on the comfortable cushions, feeling heavier by the moment. You gaze, unseeing, at the smooth ceiling, fully awed by what you could now call yours. 

It feels hollow, though.

Joel has been out of your sight for four hours, and it’s interminable. More than once have you thought about knocking on his door, but the old insecurities keep you back. He had been so open, so different out there, but maybe now that he had real family in here, he would drift away again. 

His not coming over seemed to confirm that.

Shadows grow longer through the tall, paned glass windows in the front room. You startle when a light flickers on in the red house Maria had designated as Joel’s. You hadn’t noticed you could see his place from here, but now that the knowledge is present, you can’t tear your eyes away. 

That’s it. Joel told you he loved you, nearly died twice for you or Ellie, for god’s sake. Why wouldn’t you be able to visit him?

You fling open the front door and stride down the street. You’re nervous and pissed off about it. Stepping into his yard, you hear a murmur of voices. 

As you ascend the front steps, the windows of his living room are perfectly clear. They allow you to see Joel, naked as far as you can tell, with a long-haired woman. The woman faces away from you, but her head and hands move around Joel's midsection.

Shock has you ducking away, and in the extremely short time you were looking, you didn’t see Joel’s face. 

You sprint away, feeling nauseous, and head back into the safety of your new home.

Having not experienced jealousy in a decade, you audibly sob when it rears its painful, green head. No wonder he hadn’t come to see you and Ellie. He had been busy. 

Did Tommy suggest this? I knew he didn't like me.

No. No fucking way. Even if Tommy didn’t like it, Joel wouldn’t do this to you. You know him better than that - you know him better than anyone. 

But the visual evidence is gut wrenching. What the fuck else was that? That asshole was already getting handjobs from other people? What the fuck is happening?

Trying not to panic, you find yourself back at the window. The white front door of Joel’s house opens, and a woman appears. She runs her fingers through her hair and steps off of the porch without a backward glance. 

A breath later, Joel opens his door, buttoning his shirt.

“Oh, shit,” you hiss through your tears as Joel makes a bee-line for your front door. 

Some part of you, a very strong part of you, doesn’t want to see him. His heavy boots clunk up the wooden stairs, across the porch, and go silent. Three gentle knocks. 

You close your eyes and violently rub the tears away, numbing yourself to whatever he’s about to say. You float to the door, unlocking it, and open it slowly. 

“Yeah?” You ask in a monotone. 

Joel’s face pinches into worry lines, “’s wrong? Y’okay?” His accented words shorten even further with quick concern.

Though you had barely opened the door, Joel doesn’t wait to be invited in. He grabs your shoulders, then your cheeks, visually inspecting you. It’s obvious you’ve been crying.

“Hey, talk to me.” 

“What do you want me to say?” You fake a smile and walk away from him, moving toward the dining room. “There’s a manual coffee grinder in here. Might be able to make some.” 

“What the fuck are y’doin’?” He doesn’t beat around the bush.

“Trying to be normal.” 

“About what?” Joel follows you, growing impatient. 

Stopping at the edge of the table, you take a fortifying breath, “I guess things might change since you’ve got Tommy now.” 

“Change?” Joel looks bewildered. “The hell would that change anything?”

“I don’t think he likes… this,” you motion your first finger between the two of you.

Joel’s laugh is acerbic, “An’ you think I’d give ya up because my baby brother don’t approve?” His cheek pulls up in a disbelieving scoff. 

“Okay. Well, how about the woman in your house?” You try to say it calmly, but your voice quivers and tears glaze your eyes.

Joel freezes for a moment, and in that moment, your worst fears are confirmed. 

“What’d you see, baby?” 

“Don’t fucking call me ‘baby’. Are you fucking serious?” You try to leave, but Joel is standing in the doorway. You drop your head in your hands and fall back against the table. 

“Did you see her touchin’ me? ‘s that whatcha saw?” Joel moves forward, his face grim. His hands reach for yours.

“What the fuck are you doing - don’t touch me.” You remember at the last moment that Ellie is upstairs, but you nearly shriek your warning anyway. 

Joel starts to get angry again. He stops, swallowing hard. 

“Listen to me. Look at me.” He waits until you do, so you can see the honesty when he says, “She was the nurse.” 

He jerks his shirt up. His wounds are clean and covered in sterile bandages. 

“She had to restitch my leg. I opened it runnin’ this mornin’.”  

Your heart is racing. “Tommy said the doctor was a man so I didn't think- I couldn’t believe you’d do that to me, but I didn’t know what else to think.” And in a small voice, you say, “I’m sorry. Should’ve trusted you.” 

Joel takes a single stride and he’s there.

He holds you to him, “I’d never, ever do that. All I think of is you and the kid upstairs.” His voice gets so low that it breaks at one point. 

You curl into him, letting him hold you. 

“I get it though,” he chuckles darkly. “Reckon I’d lose my mind at the same sight. ‘m sorry that looked so bad.” 

“Felt terrible,” you mumble into his shirt. “Wanted to scream.” 

Joel leans, his nose touching yours, and he kisses you gently. 

"It's never gonna happen. I've been waitin' all day, thinkin' about you. First chance I got, I came over here." 

Looking down at you so earnestly, you give him a small nod. It was so reassuring to know he felt as detached as you did when he was gone. Like something was missing. 

You wriggle out of his hold and grab his hand. 

“You wanna see my new bed? Help me break it in?” You pull him toward the stairs.

His brown eyes widen and he follows you up the staircase. At the top, he spins you and catches your lips. He backs you up against the wall with a thump, and you break the kiss to laugh, “Ellie doesn’t want to hear this.”

He pauses and says seriously, “My house? Wanna hear you.” 

“I can’t wait that long. My room’s at the other end, she won’t hear from there.”

“You can’t wait the ten-second walk down the road?” It’s rhetorical. He can’t, either. 

You pull him again along the hallway, but once outside your door, he repeats the move: backing you up against the solid wood and kissing you with abandon. 

Joel’s lips are heady, impatient. His hands sculpt your body, and you groan as he ruts against you. 

“Jus’ wanna fuck you senseless,” he murmurs.

“Please,” you ask of him, unbuttoning his flannel. 

You start to fall backward with the sudden opening of the door, but Joel catches you with the hand he hadn’t used to turn the knob. He drags you forcefully back to him.

He surges into your mouth, and you moan in delight. Joel’s rough hands strip you of your shirt and your jeans, and you shed his shirt. Joel is startled when you drop to your knees on the hardwood floor. 

“What’re you doin’?” He pants for breath. 

Frantically, your hands scramble to unbuckle his belt, “Wanted to do this since I met you.” 

His hand snatches yours, stopping you. You look up at him, and a memory of the first time he fantasized about you looking exactly like this sends his blood pumping.

“You don’t gotta do th-”

You cut him off with a soft, “Please, Joel,” widening your eyes to show your eagerness. 

The graying, wavy-haired man grows visibly hard underneath his jeans. “Fuckin’ christ.” 

His grip on your hand loosens, and you tug his pants down at this implicit permission. You hum with excitement as his cock bounces free.

“Never told you, but it’s so pretty,” you stroke his length, looking up at him again; Joel digs his fingernails into his palms to prevent ejaculating here and now. A vein in his neck pulses.

It’s so frustratingly poetic. You’re an equal balance of pleasure and torture for him. Something he both does and does not deserve.

His right hand automatically plunges into your hair when you lick a stripe from base to tip. 

“Fucking god damn,” he enunciates every word as though he’s in pain, and you want to laugh at the lack of an accent. 

You lick him again, and when you reach the tip, you lean forward, taking him in your mouth. Joel tosses his head back, his right hand fisting in your hair, but he’s careful not to pull it. The control you have over him is as exciting and erotic as the location of his cock. 

Making up for your lack of experience is your enthusiasm. How frequently you dreamed of him this way: moaning, rigid, and overcome by your touch. This brutal, protective killer who had tortured a man in front of you - for you. Hollowing your cheeks, you gag as he hits the back of your throat. You press harder, swirling your tongue around his base.  

Joel groans louder than he has yet, and tilts his head to watch you make a mess of him. He grimaces as your mouth fucks him in a particularly sensational way, and Joel knows he’s not going to last much longer this way. 

His eyes roll back as he briefly loses himself in your ministrations, then he musters all the earthly will he has left and pulls your hair backward.

Whining quietly at his removal from your lips, you ask self-consciously, “No good?” 

Joel helps you stand, and mutters with black lust, “On the bed.” 

You listen. Joel crawls over you, and you plant a kiss to his nearest bicep. His strong, fuzzy legs send shivers up your spine when they brush your calves. 

“No good?” His lips part yours, and his tongue dips inside, feeling like a rabid dog at the taste of himself on your tongue. “Had to stop you, or you would’ve been gettin’ just my fingers tonight.” 

“Oh, no, whatever would I have done?” You smirk a little at the memory of those fingers. 

Joel flips you over, angling your hips upward slightly. Your body is pressed into the mattress, and you wait breathlessly, grabbing the sheets underneath, as he slides himself between your soaking folds. 

“Y’ready?” His chest welds against your back. 

His cock pushes a moan from your trembling lips as he enters you. Joel curses loudly, dropping his head on your shoulder blade when his hip bones touch your ass. 

Joel wraps an arm underneath your waist, and pulls himself out slowly, letting you feel each ridge you'd just had in your mouth. Your moans turn to a sharp gasp when he shoves himself back inside. 

"'m sorry," his deep voice mocks, not sorry at all. 

You shake your head as if he had meant it, “I want you closer.” 

Joel gently kicks your leg out and thrusts into you with long strokes; he skims a spongy part of you, and you cry out. The pulsing of his cock drives you wild. He rubs the pads of his fingers over your clit.

“Fuck, Joel. Fuck.” 

His arm holds you still as he picks up the pace, careful to alternate between deep and hard thrusts. But his concentration begins to fail.

Missing how you look when he fucks you, Joel pulls out and rolls you over with urgency. 

He ruts against you again, catching your clit, and you whimper as you drag him down for a filthy kiss. His right hand suddenly grips the left side of your face, his thumb forcing your chin up. 

“Look,” he pants. 

As Joel fits himself inside you, his cheek twitches, his pupils blow out in his already-dark eyes, and his teeth clench. You keen slightly when he sits flush against your skin, and your fingers caress his plush bottom lip. Another hand trails along his hard-lived skin, blessing it for existing. Your worship of him makes him groan gutturally, and he begins to pump his hips. The sounds of wet slapping and mutual gasps and moans fill the sparse room. 

He slides his hand down the column of your throat and squeezes the sides. His other hand rubs your clit in the pattern he’s found you love.

“You’re gonna come on me. You’re gonna say my name when you do it,” his voice is pure sin.

“Joel,” you moan, just because you can.

“Jus’ like that. ‘m right here,” he encourages. His soft, gray hair moves in time with his hips.

Joel concentrates, eyes boring into you, as you begin to tighten around and underneath him. He feels it building in you, but he doesn’t let his excitement ruin the pace you’re enjoying. He’s steady, like always. 

Your hair spreads on the sheets, your breasts bounce as he rocks into you, and your lips form his name. His fingers hit the right combination, and the hand around your throat moves to your hair, and he tilts his forehead to yours.

“'m right here,” he groans again, and when his lips plant on your forehead, your soul shatters.

Your thighs shake, body wracking with waves of euphoria - and Joel feels it all with vicious pride. 

He did that to you.

His release is right behind yours, and he pulls out to come on your stomach with a protracted, growled sound. 

He still can’t believe he came inside you the night you were bitten, but you’d had your cycle since then, so that had become a non-issue. 

Joel lies down on the bed next to you, wiping his semen off with a cloth he sees on the nightstand. 

You curl onto his chest and throw your leg over his wide thigh. Joel settles his shoulder underneath your head, and trails his fingers down your arm.

The room is growing darker. The sun is on the far side of the house now, though there’s still an hour or two before sunset. Joel kisses the top of your head, then leans his cheek against the same place. Peaceful sleep takes you both.

_________________________________

Bang, bang, bang. “The movie starts in like twenty minutes. Let’s go!” Ellie yells. 

Your eyes fly open, staring with full frustration at the wall. Joel chuckles behind you, his breath tickling your neck. 

“Where are my clothes?” You ask the man curled around you. 

“Mmm. I think your jeans are outside.” He fights a laugh at that. 

“Thanks,” you playfully elbow his arm. “For the record, I was going to allow you to stay with me tonight. I don’t think I will now.” 

"Hilarious.”

You turn to look at him, and your heart fails at the sight. His hair is entirely fucked, standing at all ends, and his big brown eyes indicate happiness even more than his curved, swollen lips do. 

You can’t help it - you’re only a woman. You quickly lean across the space, curling your hands in his hair and kissing him again. Then again. Once more for good measure. 

“Wha’ was that for?” He asks, semi-dazed. 

You don’t answer, standing from the bed and picking up the strewn clothes. You hand him his clothes, but he grabs your wrist as you turn away.

“What was that about?” He looks worried again.

You look at the ceiling to save you, but it won’t.

“I don’t want to lose you.” You tell the ceiling, but it provides no reassurance. 

Joel does, though. His biceps flex as he grabs your face, tilting it down to meet his.

“You ain’t ever gettin’ rid of me.” 

“What about your brother?”

“He’s got his own family now.” Joel raises an eyebrow, confirming your suspicion about Maria. “An’ so do I.” 

___________________________________

You and Ellie walk behind Joel in the fading light, but Ellie begins to speed up, excited and interested.

"Have I ever been to a movie?" Ellie asks you.

You nod, "We all went to see Lilo & Stitch in ‘02. You were so little.” A sad smile touches your lips. 

"I don't remember," Ellie frowns. 

“It was fun. You wouldn’t sit still,” you laugh, remembering the boisterous, untameable child bouncing around a movie theater seat. “You haven’t changed a whole lot.” 

“Sometimes y’really remind me of Sarah,” Joel chuckles, entirely forgetting that he’s never told Ellie about his daughter. 

Your mouth drops open in shock, now-grateful that Maria had been so invasive. Joel, somewhat ahead of you, can’t see you or Ellie, so you signal with your eyes to Ellie to be cool.

“Like how?” Ellie asks, genuinely curious.

“Always goin’ somewhere. The sarcasm,” Joel turns his head and pins Ellie with an exasperated grin. “Excited by everything. Course you’re completely different, but sometimes you remind me of ‘er.” 

A little, acknowledging smile curves Ellie’s mouth, and she nods at Joel, who turns back around. 

You grab Ellie’s hand as the three of you hit the end of the side street and turn onto the main road. Hundreds of people walk by, but it’s clear that many of them have the same destination, so Ellie drops your hand and jogs ahead. 

You sidle up to Joel and kiss his clothed shoulder. He tosses a hidden smirk down at you, and holds his arm out.

“Oh, my gentleman cowboy is back?” You tease. 

“I’ll drop it,” he threatens, so you laughingly loop your arm through his. 

As you head into the crowd, snatches of conversation can be heard. It’s all still so new, so weird, that you try to listen to everyone. Nearing the entrance to the makeshift theater, a high-pitched voice stands out to both you and Joel.

A group stands next to the entrance, chatting before heading inside. 

“That’s what I heard, too. Heard they repaired it.”

“Really? That hospital was fucked up the last time I saw it.”

“Shh, don’t curse. There’s kids around, you idiot.”

“Yes. They s’posed to be looking for a cure.”

“FEDRA?” It’s said in disbelief.

The group collectively laughs. 

“Good luck to ‘em. They can’t even keep infected out.”  

“They’re not gonna do it. I’m not even crossin’ my fingers.”

Joel’s hold on you tightens as you brush past the group. Once inside, you find his eyes: they’re afraid.

Joel slowly shakes his head ‘no.’ You clutch his arm and nod in agreement.

_______________________________________

“Hey!” A man’s voice echoes down the alleyway.

You, Joel, and Ellie are nearly to the street you’ll call home, but turn to greet the man. 

It’s Tommy, and behind him, catching up to his jog, is Maria.

“Just wanted to see how your first day was,” Tommy beams at you and Ellie. 

“I ate something that wasn’t rabbit,” Ellie snarks as if that’s explanation enough. 

“It’s been awesome to see everything. Bizarre,” you add. “Thanks again for the food and the house,” you tell both of them. 

“We’ll assign you jobs on Monday,” Maria says. 

“Monday. What’s today? You guys keep track of the days?” You ask somewhat incredulously. 

“It’s Friday. Movies are every Friday night.” 

“A real weekend, huh?” Joel says. “What else’s there to do?” 

“There’s a bar,” Tommy raises a conspiratorial eyebrow. 

“No shit? It real?” 

“‘s real.” Tommy beams again. “We can head over, if you wanna.” 

“Naw, I’ll pass tonight. Pretty tired,” Joel declines to your surprise. 

Tommy’s too quick. His eyes dart to your face and back before Joel even notices.

“A’right, well, whenever you wanna. Y’all have a good night.” 

“Night,” Maria raises her hand once in a wave.

The three of you continue down your street, the sound of frogs and crickets once again filling the night air. The lull of town quiets behind you as Joel’s looming, brick house comes up first. 

You slow as you near it, wondering what he was going to do. 

“Why you stoppin’?” 

“You’re not staying here?” Ellie asks hopefully.

“Why would I do that?” Joel’s accent drawls the sentence out as he pulls you down the road, you laugh. 

“To get away from us finally?” Ellie jokes. Her voice deepens into a mock of his, “To drop off the cargo?” 

“Ellie, don’t you got a joke book? Those are much better than yours.” 

Ellie smacks him with the very book she whips from her backpack.

“You’re asking for this,” she tells him. 

_____________________________________________

Tagging:

@sexygaypalpatine

[waltwhitmansbeard]

~ It's been a while ~

May I ask number 7 of the Trust prompt list: giving them their personal space, for Shadowgast, please? :D

7. giving them their personal space

Essek Thelyss is an observant man. It is a skill borne out of necessity, honed by years, now, on the run from his own people, his own country. He clocks every pair of eyes in a room before they can find him first, is always aware of his exits, has Teleport and Greater Invisibility prepared at all times, ready to cast either at a moment's notice.

It is how he sees Caleb's bad days coming before Caleb himself does. There is the old adage about waking up on the wrong side of the bed, but Essek, who trances for only a few hours each night and gets to watch this human man twitch and sigh in his sleep, knows that there is truth to it. He knows when the frown settles deep into the creases around Caleb's mouth, when his arms and legs curl in around his torso protectively, when his eyes jump and dart beneath his closed lids, that the morning will bring storm clouds instead of sunshine.

On these mornings, he makes sure Caleb's favorite tea, black with honey from their neighbor's hives, is ready with a strudel, so that he wakes up to something sweet and warm. Essek combs his fingers through his hair, shaggy and streaked with gray, and lets his eyes flicker open, look around, assess the situation.

"Guten morgen," he says quietly. Essek's accent is still terrible, even after all these years, but he tries. "How did you sleep?"

Caleb rises slowly, one arm pushing up, then the other. He takes the tea from the bedside table, brings it beneath nose, and breathes. When he answers, his voice is small and rough, like shattered glass. "Not well."

He already knows this. Essek pulls his hand away. "Would it be helpful for me to be here, or would you rather have some space?"

He asks. He always asks. Nothing is more important than Caleb making this choice for himself. Caleb takes a long pull from the teacup, lets his eyes drift closed. "I think...I think I need some time this morning, Liebling."

Essek gently rests his hands against Caleb's scruff; it is one of his favorite sensations, the coarse hair beneath his soft palm. "Of course, my dear." He stands, walks to the door, and says, "I will be out here whenever you're ready. Should I send the cats in?"

Caleb nods, and Essek creaks open the door to let a pair of slinking orange and white cats into the room. They jump onto the mess of sheets and curl up against Caleb's legs. Essek slips out of the bedroom, and just as the door is about to close, he hears a whispered, "Danke, mein liebe."

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "A Little Change"

Thanks for the prompt, @captmickey!

“How much for the strudel twists?” asked the traveller with the broken nose.

Graham flipped hurriedly through the notebook Jerry had left. “Um, one sec. Just let me check. We’re just watching the cart while he’s at lunch. Aaaand that’s the last page. Hey, Ginger, strudel twists! Do you remember what they cost?”

His sister poked her head up from the Crackers’ vegetable stall two spaces over. “Should be two silver ladybirds, a throne, and a bronze hawk. I think.”

“I’ve got a pouch full of thrones. Can you give me change?”

“Uh, change?” asked Graham, uncertainly.

“I give you three thrones, you keep the cost, and you give me the rest in smaller coins?”

Graham and Ginger made eye contact. “I’m guessing you’re not from nearby?” Graham said.

The traveller sighed, dodging the old healer lady as she passed with a wheelbarrow full of something that made Graham’s eyes water. “No, not from nearby,” he said, coughing and dabbing at his face. “Haven’t you people ever heard of plain, old, shiny gold coins? Just pick a number of them and that’s what the thing’s worth?”

Graham fidgeted his fingers in the money basket, making it jingle. Even though he was the knowledgeable one in this situation, it nevertheless made him feel a bit country bumpkinish - like their way of handling money was behind the times. And there was something about the tall stranger.  Though his clothes were weather beaten, they were of good wear, his speech was proper, and he carried himself in a soldierly sort of way. But no use delaying. Graham smiled and shrugged his best customer service shrug. “Jerry’s also good with sliced thrones, if you haven’t got the exact coins. There’s a guy down at the south end of the market who’ll cut them up for you, if you want.”

The man rolled his eyes in frustration, and looked like he might be about to turn away. But his glance fell on the basket of hot strudels again, and something melted. He leaned over and took a deep whiff. Graham couldn’t help breathing in along with him, taking in cinnamon, pumpkin, and spiced butter. Minding Jerry’s cart was the best.

Unslinging his pack from his back, the man began fiddling with a button on one of the outer pouches. “Hold on. I think I’ve got a few small coins in here. Fell to the bottom. Might be easier - oof!”

He pitched forward as the boys from the mill jostled past - Graham hadn’t quite seen, but he suspected one of them had given the traveller a shove. Graham gasped and grabbed the cart’s handles to pull it back before the traveller could fall face first into the baked goods. But the man caught himself, regaining his balance with a strange little ankle flourish, one that looked strangely rehearsed. The pack, however, did not fare so well. The button popped free. What spilled out were not coins, but about a million over-sized papers. The wind grabbed them, like an over-hyped toddler, and scattered them to the wind. The stranger reached out to snatch them from the air, but it was far too late. They were flying everywhere over the market, landing on market stalls, in puddles, in people’s baskets, and in the branches of oak trees.

One blew into Graham’s face. He grabbed at it, and pulled it back to look at it. His heart skipped a beat. Blazoned in glorious colours was a picture of a castle. A castle he had never seen, but which his heart knew well. He had pored over sketches of that castle in the pages of his beloved travel guidebooks by morning light, firelight, and candlelight. As a younger boy he had made a model of it from paper, and it had figured in many games. He had dreamed of the day when the world would be his to explore, and he’d walk over that drawbridge and see if his imagination had been right at all.

And beneath the castle, in enormous letters, were the words, HELP WANTED.

His eyes flew over it so fast he couldn’t even read the words in order. Only the best. The knighthood theatre. Daventry. 

Graham stared up at the traveller, who was apologizing profusely to the vendor across the way (a poster had fallen into her sample punch bowl.)  “What… are these?” called Graham, only just loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“What’s it look like?” called the man, stooping to pick up several papers from the ground. “It’s a poster for the annual knighthood tournament next month!”

Graham gulped. “In Daventry?”

The man nodded. “Yeah - we’re trying to get the word out farther afield this year. Look here, lad. If you want to be really helpful, forget the strudel. Help me gather these up, quick as you can. Of course, let anybody keep one who wants. You give me a hand with this, you can have a whole handful of thrones, and you and the baker can work it out later.”

“Can -” Graham gripped the poster tightly. “Can you pay me in gold coins instead?”

The man looked confused. “But you can’t use them around here.”

Graham nodded. “I know.”