#And he rode in on a pale horse

[big-blue-dino]

I've just realised I can post anything on here. But I feel like if I pour my heart and soul and all the thoughts in my head into the little sight, you'll all be like this:

[peachessndreamss]

Wolfswood

Summery : Cregan receives an injury while out hunting, his wife cares for him

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Cannon typical injury and first aid/wound care, cannon typical hunting

Word count : 4k

A/N : Cregan Stark I love yooou. Also, apologies in advance if this is the most boring thing you've ever read.

Winter had arrived with devastating speed and brutality in the North. The first heavy snowfall had destroyed the last remaining crops left out in the fields and the woodpiles stacked as high as two men and just as wide had looked like enough to see them through two winters but soon began to deplete at an alarming rate. 

And when a great boar had been sighted at the edge of the Wolfswood, Lord Cregan Stark quickly called the men of his house to a hunt, knowing it was better to find the creature now and make use of it rather than let it be starved by the winter. 

They had set out in the pre-dawn, 10 men of House Stark, wrapped in layers of leather, wool and fur, mounted on the most surefooted horses the Winterfell stables had to offer. Lord Stark rode at the front of the group, his steward and close friend Martyn Snow riding beside him, the two of them talking as they disappeared from sight. 

Once in the Wolfswood Lord Stark had led the hunt, first on horseback as they tracked the creature deeper into the cover of the dense wood and then on foot, when the terrain had become too dangerous for the horses and the boar needed to be harried out of its hiding place.

Cregan had been moving slowly north, stepping over tangles of brambles and avoiding tree roots thicker than his thighs, the men of the group formed a large crescent shape as they moved slowly, hopefully driving the animal toward a clearing. One of the men at the end of the line gave a sharp whistle to indicate the group should stop, instinctively his head moved toward the sound and in that split second of distraction Cregan missed the rustling of dead leaves and the heavy breathing of an animal charging. 

The great tusk of the boar gored his left thigh. Cutting deeply through the skin to the muscle beneath, bright red blood immediately falling to the leaves at his feet. The power of the blow from the animal knocked him off his feet and sent him slamming into the cold ground, the back of his head knocking hard against a tree root. The metallic stink of blood filled his nose as shouts went up from the men of the household, they abandoned the hunt and gathered around their injured lord. 

“Get the beast,” was all he managed to say before the wintery sunlight faded from his view and he wasn't aware of pain or cold anymore. 

Lady Stark watched the hunting party return from the covered walkway between the Great Keep and the Armory. She expected to see Cregan leading the party, a triumphant smile on his cold reddened face with the great beast slung over the back of his stallion. 

Instead it was Cregan's steward, Martyn, who galloped in at the front of the procession, his horse wet with sweat, its nostrils flaring as it snorted. The animals rider didn’t look much better, the steward’s face was fearful and the same colour as the bark of the weirwood tree, his pale brown leather jerkin was darkened with blood. 

“My lady,” he called when he saw her watching, “Lord Stark’s been hur’, cut by the boar. Please send for the maester,” 

His words caused a lump of ice to form in her stomach, chilling her from her heart outward. There was always a risk when the men went hunting, and more often than not her husband returned home with some small injury or another but this had to have been serious. As she dashed into the Great Keep she caught sight of a wagon being drawn by two great horses, on the bed of the wagon a tangle of fur and blood, she fought a wave of nausea at the sight and ducked inside the keep. 

Her feet were light and silent as she reached the maester’s chambers, not bothering to knock on the old man’s door she threw it open with a crash. 

The maester was startled by her sudden interruption, jumping up from his stool at the desk with surprising speed and agility for a man who was nearing 70. He opened his mouth, ready to scold whoever had so rudely burst into his rooms, but his words died on his lips. 

“Lord Stark’s been injured in the hunt,” she said, praying her voice didn't waver and give away the fear that was gripping her throat like a claw. 

“Injured how?” The maester replied, moving toward the large wooden sideboard that dominated the room. On the shelves were jars, bottles and boxes containing every substance needed by a maester, and probably a few they didn’t need as well. 

“Gored, I don't know where, they've just arrived back, please come now,” she said firmly, not willing to keep Cregan waiting. 

The maester nodded and gathered his heavy leather case from the side, the bag was filled with sharp tools and simple herbs and mixtures for most every day healing.  He followed behind Lady Stark as she led them to the undercroft of the Great Keep, where there was a great deal of noise and disruption. 

The undercroft was a dark, cool, enclosed space usually used for storage, most days it would only see one or two visitors but now it was alive as men lit torches around the walls while others heaved Cregan’s limp form onto the huge oak table that sat in the centre of the space. They stripped him out of his blood soaked outer clothes and left him lying in his linen shirt and woollen trousers. 

The left leg of his trousers was ripped open at the mid thigh, revealing a 5 inch gash, skin and muscle had been torn apart and glistened dark red. A tourniquet above the wound had stopped most of the bleeding but his face was ghostly pale and his lips an unhealthy shade of blue. 

Lady Stark moved slowly toward the head of the table where Cregan’s closed eyes made him look almost peaceful, the maester went straight to the wound and began cutting away at his trousers. 

“Has he been talking?” he asked as he began to inspect the wound more closely. 

“A little, but he was unconscious for a minute or so after it happened,” the steward replied, standing by Cregran’s right hip, wringing his hands together. 

“Hello my love,” Lady Stark said softly, brushing her hand over his forehead, willing herself not to fall to her knees and weep when she felt how cold his skin was. 

His grey eyes fluttered open and blinked slowly, trying to bring his wife’s face into focus, the world around him seemed to shift violently, left and right, up and down but her warm hand on top of his head held him steady. 

“Now, what have you been up to?” she asked softly, as if addressing one of their children. 

Cregan’s whole left leg throbbed painfully and his stomach roiled with nausea, he swallowed once, finding his mouth and throat dry. 

“It's barely a scratch,” he croaked. Lady Stark gave a small huff that might have been out of amusement and stroked her fingers over the crown of his head. 

“‘Tis a dreadful looking scratch,” she replied, “still, the maester’s here now,”. 

Cregan hissed with the pain as the maester applied a green tinged ointment to the wound. Sweat broke out all over his body and he felt his hands start to tremble. 

“Did they get the beast?” Cregan asked, once the initial wave of pain had passed and faded back into a constant throb. 

Lady Stark glanced at Martyn who gave a small nod of his head. 

“Of course, and you shall have the beast's head for your chambers if you want”. 

He gave what appeared to be a weak nod before closing his eyes again and taking a deep breath. Cregan had known pain before but dislocated shoulders, broken bones and the sharp bite of Valyrian steel were nothing compared to this. 

At his thigh the maester had soaked a small piece of linen in a clear, strong smelling substance that he placed over the wound before tightly wrapping a clean bandage before removing the tourniquet tied high up his thigh. As the blood was allowed to flow back into the lower leg the colour returned to the skin but there were no signs of excessive bleeding at the wound. The maeester turned his attention to Lady Stark. 

“It’s as clean a cut as we can expect from a tusk, most importantly there’s no sign of dirt within, I have great faith that it will heal well,” the maester explained, wiping his hands on a clean piece of linen that was tucked into the belt at his waist. 

“I'll go to my rooms now and make a poultice to fight infection and in the meantime he can be moved to his rooms to ensure he's comfortable,” he added. 

With a small nod from Lady Stark the men still standing around the room went into action, they brought a stretcher and carefully moved Cregan from the table to the stretcher. He was then carried slowly through the Keep and up to his rooms. The masters chambers were the largest but the least used within the Great Keep, Cregan and his wife favoured the smaller but warmer Lady’s chambers, especially as they were the closest rooms to the children’s rooms. 

Once he was settled on the bed she sent for two bowls of water and a cloth before stripping him of the last remaining pieces of clothing. Unable to lift him from the bed to get his shirt over his head she cut the fabric straight up the middle with a small knife, pushing the two halves over his chest and cutting the sleeves apart to expose his arms. She also had to cut away what was left of his trousers, finding some of the material stuck to his skin with blood. 

Once he was as bare as the day he’d been born she soaked the cloth in warm water and set about washing him. Somehow the blood had managed to get up to his neck and down to the bottom of his left foot. She started at his neck, watching as droplets of reddened water ran down onto his chest and collected in the dark mess of curls that started at his collar bone, completely covered his chest and then funnelled into a thick strip that ran all the way down his stomach to the apex of his thighs.  

“I swear you're more beast than man sometimes,” she said softly as she dabbed at his chest, lifting the blood from his skin and hair. 

“It's the wolf in me,” he replied softly. 

Her head snapped towards his face, she’d had no idea he was awake and seeing his soft gaze on her face brought a wave of emotion flooding through her body. The usual surge of love she felt whenever she looked at him, intense relief at seeing his cheeks a healthy flushed colour after how deathly pale he’d looked before and bubbling anger brought on by the extreme fear that still sat in her stomach like a block of ice. 

“The wolf couldn't smell the boar sneaking up on you?” She asked as she felt tears burn her eyes. Cregan offered her a small, reassuring smile. 

“The wolf is more,” he paused a second while he thought, “passive...”. 

Unable to resist him, Lady Stark felt herself smiling and the two of them shared a laugh before she continued to wash him, revealing the pale skin under the dark curls and dried blood. 

“You're lucky it wasn’t more serious,” she said softly as she wrung the red water out of the cloth into a mostly empty bowl before dipping the cloth back into clean water, “if it’d caught on the inside of your leg you'd have been dead before they got you home,” she added, an icy edge to her voice as the fear that had gripped her throat now throbbed behind her eyes. 

“But I wasn't,” he placated gently, reaching out and taking hold of her wrist as she dabbed at his stomach.

“I'm fine,” he added when he noticed the tears gathering in her eyes and the angry wobble of her bottom lip. 

She snatched the hand from his, throwing the cloth into the bowl of clean water at her feet. The water splashed up, catching the skirt of her dress. 

“And what if you weren't? What if you weren’t fine?  Your son is barely 9 months old Cregan, do you expect me to hold the entire North until he comes of age? Fighting off every grasping lord from The Wall to Dorne trying to get to him and steal his birthright?” An angry tear tracked down her cheek.

“I cannot be regent, Cregan, I cannot be here without you,”. 

He reached out again and took hold of her balled first at the wrist, bringing her hand towards his face, pressing a soft kiss to her curled fingers. 

“And nor will you be,” he said softly, his lips still touching her fingers, “you and I are going to grow very old together, so old they write songs about us when we're all but turned to dust,”. 

She gave a small, watery laugh through her tears and pulled her hand out of his again. 

“Now you're just placating me,” she said, reaching into the bowl for the cloth and ringing it out. 

“Of course I am,” he replied with a smile, stretching his right arm up and settling it behind his head, the bend in his arm causing his muscle to flex and bulge under his skin. Were it not for the bandage around his leg he would have looked as if he was just relaxing for the evening. 

“I understand well that my most important duty is keeping you happy,”. 

Lady Stark scoffed at him and returned to the gentle washing of his stomach. A small smile tugging up the corners of his lips as he watched her tending to him so carefully. He'd been in a fair few scrapes before this one and was always happy to be tended to by his wife, the mixture of her gentle hand and sharp words always made him feel better. 

“Am I permitted to say how I'm enjoying your undivided attention?” He asked. 

“You may not say it” she replied, flicking her eyes to his face and catching him grinning at her. 

“I shall just think it then,”. 

They both fell into a tense silence as her cloth inched closer to the bandaged wound. The maester had said he would come by later that day to stitch the wound closed once it had time to dry and he could be certain there was no rot. Sweat broke out across his body as her gentle touch began to feel like needles piercing his skin, he kept his jaw firmly shut, unwilling to let a single sound of pain pass his lips.

“Would you take something for the pain?” She asked, not needing to hear him cry out to know he was in great discomfort, she wrang the cloth out again wetted it with clean water again. 

“I would rather keep my wits,” he replied, his voice strained. 

“Then perhaps a little when we’re finished and you can rest?” She pressed. She knew he disliked the effects of milk of the poppy but seeing him in such pain made her heart ache. 

“Perhaps,” he nodded before pressing his lips tightly closed, redoubling his efforts to stay silent.

She finished his bed bath at his left foot, cleaning the dried blood from the bottom of his toes and the ball of his foot. And all the pain that had passed before paled in comparison to the agony he felt as her hands gently tended the most ticklish part of his body. He fought with every ounce of willpower to stay still and not curl his toes and kick his foot out of her hands. 

Once finished she rung the cloth out one final time before standing and carrying the two bowls of water across the room and setting them aside to be cleared away later. 

“Will you sleep for a while? She asked him, moving back toward him and running her hand over his forehead before drawing a soft woollen blanket over his nakedness. 

Cregan nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted and wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep until the dawn of the summer. 

“Alright, will you take a little milk of the poppy?” she asked.

He nodded again, opening one of his eyes to peek at her face. 

“And a kiss to sweeten it?” He asked, letting the corners of his lips quirk up just a touch. 

She laughed softly, taking the small bottle of white milky liquid from the table beside their bed. She unstopped it and helped him lift his head off the pillow, she held the bottle to his lips while he took a small swallow before dropping his head back onto the pillow with his eyes closed. 

“And to make it sweet,” she said, bending and pressing her lips to his. 

As she stood he opened his eyes again although she could already see he was fighting the effects of the milk of the poppy. 

“Kiss the babies for me as well?” he asked. 

“Of course,” she replied, stroking his forehead again and watching his eyes close as he finally gave in and allowed himself to be dragged into a dreamless sleep. 

She watched him for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the steady ride and fall of his broad chest. In sleep he always appeared to be younger, his features softened as sleep took away the worries and the duties he carried on his shoulders every day. 

Once she was happy he would sleep for a while and there was nothing else she could do for him, Lady Stark went in search of Martyn the steward, she knew he would be worried and was waiting for news of his lord and friend. 

She found him outside the stables, running a brush over Cregan’s stallion. 

“Is he alright?” Martyn asked as she approached him. There was a panicked edge to his voice and his face betrayed his worries. 

“He'll be fine,” she soothed with a nod, “he's made of strong stuff,” she added as she placed a comforting hand on his forearm. 

“I'm sorry he was hurt, my lady,” he said, already looking lighter knowing Cregan was alright. 

“You've nothing to be sorry for, he's a man grown and it's his own fault if he doesn't hear a boar sneaking up on him,” she said, making her voice playful and teasing. 

“I'll pray for him,” the steward said, returning to brushing the huge grey horse that stood patiently in front of him.

“Thank you, I know he'll appreciate that,”. 

She stayed talking to the steward a little longer, the two of them discussing how to make the best of the creature that’d been killed that morning. The sky was quickly darkening and the air turning colder by the minute, although no new snow had fallen that day there was a crisp smell of it on the air and dark, heavy clouds covered the sky, threatening a heavy snowfall that night. 

She left Martyn to his final tasks for the day and returned to The Great Keep, she went first to the nursery to look in on their children. The eldest, Aly, was playing on the floor with her nurse, the two of them racing carved wooden animals across the floor. She paid no attention to her mother when she entered the room, too caught up in her game, while their son slept in his cradle. 

She lifted the boy from his crib and carried him to a chair beside the fire where she sat, focusing on nothing other than the small sound of his breathing and the tiny movements as his chest expanded and contracted with every breath. 

After a few minutes Aly got up from her spot on the carpet, her wooden horse still clutched tightly in her small hand as she walked toward her mother. 

“Where's papa?” She asked, coming to stand beside the chair, reaching out her own empty hand to take her mothers. 

“Resting, the men went hunting this morning, do you remember?”. 

“Will he put me to bed?” Aly asked, letting the toy horse drop from her hand with a small thud. 

“Not tonight, I can do it tonight,” Lady Stark replied. 

The girl sighed heavily, like she'd received some truly dreadful news, her small shoulders slumping. 

“But Papa tells the best bedtime stories,”. 

“I know he does, and I’m sure he’ll have a very special one for you tomorrow night,”. 

After another heavy sigh Aly climbed up into the chair with her mother and younger brother, curling into Lady Starks chest and closing her eyes. The girl found a loose thread on the bodice of her mothers dress and begin to twist it around her finger, in a few minutes she too has slipped off to sleep. 

The warm weight of her children soothed the Lady’s fractured nerves, this wasn't the first time her husband had returned home injured, his body was a tapestry of scars, each one she'd lovingly touched and kissed in turn, learning his scars as closely as a traveller learns a map. 

When she heard the first spatterings of wet snow from the nursery window Lady Stark decided it was time for her to look in on her patient. Calling the nurse over and letting the young woman take the sleeping girl from her lap. 

“Let her sleep a few more minutes, then wake her or she’ll never sleep tonight,” Lady Stark instructed as she stood and carried her small son back to his crib. 

“And I'll be back to feed this one once I've looked in on Lord Stark,” she added, lowering him into the cradle and watching as he settled. 

The nurse nodded and smiled softly as she lowered Aly onto her day bed, covering the girl with a soft embroidered blanket. 

Cregan didn’t stir when the heavy oak doors of his chambers were opened and his lady wife stepped inside, she paused, watching him for a few moments to see that his condition was unchanged, the only difference was that he’d thrown the blanket off his body and was now lying naked, his whole body exposed to the cool air. Moving toward him she noticed his breathing was still easy and his cheeks were a healthy colour. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek and then his forehead. 

At her touch his eyes flicked open and he blinked slowly as the world around him came into focus. He made a small sound of approval that rumbled up deep from his chest as his eyes focused on his wife. 

“How are you feeling?” She asked softly. 

“Better for seeing you,” he replied, his voice gravelly. 

“You're a dreadful flirt Cregen,” she replied with a smile, knowing his ability to flirt was a far better indication he was on the mend than anything else would be. 

“Come lie with me,” he said, choosing to ignore his wife's chastisement.

“Only for a few minutes,” she replied, moving to the other side of the bed and climbing on it, settling herself beside him and placing her head on his shoulder. 

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and encouraged her to roll onto her side, tightening her body to his in a familiar and comfortable way and she sighed contentedly. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers pushing and playing with the dark curls of hair. Cregan turned his head and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, feeling the warmth of her body sink into his own flesh and bones. 

“I should ban you from future hunts,” she said, her voice muffled by having her face squashed on his shoulder, “make you take an oath never to put yourself in such danger again,”

“Even for you, I could not swear such an oath,” he replied, kissing her forehead again and keeping his lips pressed to her skin, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent from her hair. 

The two lay in silence for several minutes, Lady Stark listening to the steady and deep drum beat of his heart, the thumping sound reminding her that he was still alive, injured but alive and home with her and in their private moment it was easy for her to believe that was the only thing that mattered in all the known world. 

“But I can swear, it will only be death that keeps me from you,”.

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐒

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader

genre: smut, jakcson era, mutual pining, strangers to lovers, minors dni

word count: 15k

summary: joel saves you and brings you to jackson, after healing you become the local librarian of the community.

warnings: some angst with happy ending, mutual pining, female masturbation, slow burn, reader's name is Ash + bisexual, oral (both receiving), heavy petting, piv, dirty talk, soft dom!joel, submissive!reader, reader enjoys bands and books, blood mention, canon typical violence, some spoilers for part 2 (for ellie)

a/n: this was commissioned by @ashleyfilm 💜 thank you so much for being patient with me and supporting me!

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the rugged terrain of Wyoming. Joel rode slowly, his horse's hooves crunching softly on the gravel path. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and earth, a refreshing change from the stale, musty confines of Jackson’s walls. Tall trees bordered the path, their leaves rustling gently in the mild breeze, creating a soothing symphony that mingled with the distant calls of birds. The sky stretched wide above, a brilliant canvas of blues and pinks, with streaks of orange signaling the approach of dusk.

In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the mountains loomed majestically, their silent, steadfast presence a reminder of nature's unyielding power. The grass swayed gently in the wind, patches of wildflowers adding bursts of color to the verdant landscape. Joel could hear the faint trickle of a stream nearby, its clear waters winding through the forest, a lifeline in this vast, untamed wilderness. The tranquility of the scene was deceptive, masking the dangers that lurked just beyond the tree line.

Joel’s eyes scanned the surroundings with practiced precision, taking in every detail. The gnarled bark of ancient trees, the glint of sunlight on the surface of the stream, the fleeting shadows cast by birds overhead – everything was noted, cataloged, filed away in his mind. The world outside Jackson was a place of both breathtaking beauty and constant peril, and Joel knew better than to let his guard down. Still, in moments like this, it was hard not to appreciate the raw, untouched splendor of the land around him.

Joel dismounted from his horse, the reins held loosely in his hand as he walked the rest of the way on foot. He preferred the quiet that walking afforded, the ability to move silently through the underbrush, alert to every rustle and crack in the woods around him. The air was filled with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the fading light painted long shadows across the forest floor.

As he moved deeper into the trees, a noise caught his attention – the low murmur of voices, urgent and panicked. Joel’s instincts kicked in, and he crouched low, moving stealthily toward the source of the commotion. Each step was measured, his boots barely making a sound on the soft ground. The voices grew louder, more distinct, and he could make out the gruff tones of men in distress.

Joel reached the edge of a small clearing and paused, hidden behind a thick oak tree. He peered around the trunk, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene before him. Three men stood in a loose circle, their backs to him, all focused on something on the ground. Their postures were tense, movements agitated. Joel’s gaze shifted, and he saw what held their attention – a woman, unconscious and sprawled in the grass, her dark hair matted with blood.

Nearby, the bodies of two raiders lay crumpled, their lifeless forms testament to a recent struggle. Blood stained the ground around them, dark and viscous. The men standing over her seemed distraught, their faces pale and drawn. One of them knelt beside her, checking for a pulse, while the others scanned the perimeter, their eyes darting nervously.

Joel crept closer, using the trees and underbrush for cover. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a reminder of the danger that could erupt at any moment. He could hear the men speaking now, their words sharp and anxious.

"Fucking bitch went feral," one of them hissed, his voice trembling.

"Yeah, these types are the worst," the man kneeling beside the girl replied. "They’ll do anything to survive, even when they’re outnumbered."

"Well, it’ll be easier to make use of her now," another said, his voice filled with anger and fear. "But look at them. She took them out, or at least put up one hell of a fight."

Joel's eyes lingered on the unconscious woman. She was small, curvy even in her battered state, and dressed in dark clothing. Despite the blood and grime, there was a fierceness about her that spoke of resilience and strength. He felt a pang of something – concern, perhaps, or admiration for her courage. But then he noticed something else: one of the men standing over her had drawn a knife.

"Let’s not take a chance and kill her now," the man with the knife said, his voice hard. "Then we can make use of her."

Joel’s jaw tightened. He knew these types – survivors who looked out for themselves first, willing to abandon those in need if it meant their own safety. Normally, he might have looked the other way, rationalizing it as the harsh reality of their world. But something about the girl struck a chord deep within him, a fierce need to protect her that he couldn’t explain.

Without another thought, Joel acted. He slipped his revolver from its holster, the weight familiar and comforting in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from his hiding place, weapon raised. "Put the knife down," he commanded, his voice cold and authoritative.

The men spun around, eyes wide with shock and fear. The one with the knife hesitated, then lunged at Joel. In a swift, practiced motion, Joel fired, the shot echoing through the trees. The man fell, clutching his chest, his knife clattering to the ground.

The other two men reacted, one drawing a gun while the other tried to grab the girl. Joel moved quickly, taking aim and firing again. The second man dropped, blood blooming on his shirt. The last man, realizing the fight was lost, turned and fled into the woods.

Joel lowered his gun, breathing heavily, and approached the girl. She was still unconscious, her pulse weak and erratic. He felt that strange pull again, a fierce need to protect her. He quickly checked her for any serious injuries, then lifted her gently in his arms. 

He carried her back to his horse, securing her in front of him. With a final glance at the clearing, he urged his horse forward, heading back towards Jackson. The girl’s head lolled against his chest, and he could feel the faint rise and fall of her breath. He didn’t know who she was or what had happened to her, but he was determined to get her to safety. As the forest closed in around them, Joel’s thoughts were a swirl of concern, determination, and a growing sense of responsibility for the woman in his arms.

Joel rode through the thickening twilight, the girl's limp body held securely in his arms. The rhythmic motion of the horse and the steady beat of her faint pulse against his chest did little to calm his racing thoughts. He found himself plagued by a storm of emotions he couldn’t quite name. Usually, the sight of another person in peril would elicit a practiced detachment, a necessary survival mechanism in this brutal world. But this time, something was different.

As they neared Jackson, Joel’s mind kept returning to the clearing – the dead raiders, the unconscious girl, the inexplicable urge to save her. He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts, but they clung to him, persistent and unyielding. His grip on the reins tightened as he urged his horse faster, the town’s gates coming into view, the welcoming lights a stark contrast to the darkness encroaching on the forest.

The gates creaked open as he approached, familiar faces of the night guards registering surprise at the sight of Joel carrying an injured woman. He gave them a brief nod, too focused on his task to engage in any explanations. He directed his horse towards the infirmary, the only place in Jackson equipped to handle such emergencies.

"Doc! Get the doc!" he shouted as he dismounted, carefully cradling the girl in his arms. A flurry of movement followed as people rushed to help. The infirmary door swung open, and Joel stepped inside, the warm, sterile smell a sharp contrast to the cold, earthy scent of the woods.

"Over here!" Dr. Allen called, clearing a space on one of the cots. Joel laid the girl down gently, stepping back as the medical team sprang into action. His hands, now free, trembled slightly. He clenched them into fists, trying to steady himself.

Dr. Allen, a middle-aged woman with keen eyes and a calm demeanor, began her examination immediately. She worked with swift precision, checking the girl’s vitals, assessing her injuries. Joel watched from a distance, every muscle in his body taut with worry.

"She’s stable, but barely," Dr. Allen said, glancing up at Joel. "What happened out there?"

Joel exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Found her out near the old logging road. Raiders got to her, but she fought back. Took down a couple of them before I got there."

Dr. Allen nodded, focusing back on her patient. "She’s got a strong will to survive. That’s good. She’s going to need it."

Joel hovered near the doorway, his eyes never leaving the girl. He felt an intense, inexplicable need to ensure she was safe, to see her through this. The room buzzed with activity as the medical team cleaned her wounds, administered fluids, and worked to stabilize her condition. Joel’s worry gnawed at him, an unfamiliar sensation that left him feeling exposed and raw.

Hours seemed to feel like days as he waited, the minutes ticking by with agonizing slowness. Tommy appeared at some point, a concerned look on his face as he approached Joel.

"Hey," Tommy said softly, placing a hand on Joel’s shoulder. "You okay?"

Joel nodded stiffly. "Yeah, just… worried about her."

Tommy glanced at the girl, then back at Joel. "You don’t even know her."

"I know," Joel replied, his voice low. "But I couldn’t just leave her there."

Tommy gave him a knowing look, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You did the right thing. She’s in good hands now."

The night wore on, the medical team’s efforts began to show results. The girl’s breathing steadied, her pulse grew stronger. Dr. Allen finally stepped back, wiping her brow.

"She’s going to make it," she announced, and the tension in the room visibly lessened. Joel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over him.

"Thank you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Dr. Allen nodded. "She’ll need rest and care, but she’s a fighter. She’ll pull through."

Joel settled into a chair by her bedside, watching over her as she slept. The worry that had plagued him since he found her eased slightly, replaced by a determined resolve. He didn’t understand why he felt such a connection to this stranger, but he knew one thing for certain: he would be there for her, whatever it took.

As dawn broke over Jackson, casting a soft glow through the infirmary windows, Joel remained by her side, haunted by thoughts he couldn’t quite comprehend but resolute in his newfound purpose.

He remained by her side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion but unwilling to leave her alone. The infirmary had quieted down, the initial rush of activity giving way to a more subdued atmosphere. 

When the first light of dawn seeped through the windows, casting long shadows across the room, Joel's thoughts drifted to the moments before he found her. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind: the woman lying unconscious, the dead raiders around her, the way she had fought so fiercely to survive. There was something about her, a strength and determination that resonated with him deeply.

Tommy returned, bringing a steaming cup of coffee. He handed it to Joel, who accepted it gratefully. "How's she doing?" Tommy asked, his voice hushed.

"Better," Joel replied, his eyes never leaving the girl. "Dr. Allen said she’s going to make it, but she needs rest."

Tommy nodded, pulling up a chair next to Joel. "You should get some rest too, brother. You’ve been up all night."

Joel shook his head. "I’ll rest when I know she’s out of the woods. Until then, I’m staying right here."

Tommy sighed but didn’t argue. He knew better than to try and change Joel’s mind once it was made up. Instead, he settled into his chair, offering silent support. The two brothers sat in companionable silence, the weight of the night’s events hanging heavily between them.

A while later, the infirmary door opened again, and Maria walked in, her face a mix of concern and curiosity. "Heard you had quite the night," she said, her gaze shifting from Joel to the woman on the bed.

"Yeah," Joel replied, taking a sip of his coffee. "Found her just in time. She’s a fighter, though."

Maria smiled softly and approached the bedside, looking at the unconscious girl. "Seems like she’ll fit right in around here. We could use more fighters."

Joel nodded, a sense of agreement settling over him. He didn’t know what lay ahead for her, but he was certain she had a place in Jackson. Maria turned to Joel, her eyes searching his face.

"You’ve been here all night?" she asked gently.

"Yeah," Joel admitted, his voice low. "Couldn’t leave her alone."

Maria exchanged a glance with Tommy, a silent understanding passing between them. "You’ve done enough for now, Joel. Let us take over for a bit. You need some rest."

Joel hesitated, his eyes lingering. "I can’t. Not yet."

Maria sighed, but there was no frustration in her expression, only compassion. "Alright, but at least sit down. We’ll stay with you."

Joel nodded and He settled back into his chair, his eyes never straying far from her face. Tommy and Maria took seats nearby, their presence a comforting reminder that he wasn’t alone in this.

At one point, Maria leaned over to Tommy and whispered, "I’ve never seen Joel this concerned about a stranger before."

Tommy nodded, his eyes on Joel. "Yeah, it’s unusual. But I think she means something to him, even if he doesn’t fully realize it yet."

Maria glanced at the girl, then back at Joel. "Maybe she’s what he needs. Someone to remind him that there’s still good worth fighting for."

Tommy squeezed Maria’s hand, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Let’s just hope she pulls through."

As evening approached, she began to stir, her eyelids fluttering as she fought to wake up. Joel leaned forward, his heart pounding in his chest.

Slowly, her eyes opened, dark and filled with confusion. She blinked several times, trying to focus on her surroundings. When her gaze finally landed on Joel, there was a flicker of recognition, followed by a mix of relief and apprehension.

"Hey there," Joel said softly, his voice gentle. "You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson."

She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who…?"

"My name’s Joel," he replied. "I found you out there. Brought you back here to get some help. You’re going to be okay."

She nodded weakly, her eyes drifting shut again. She was still exhausted, her body demanding more rest. Joel felt a sense of relief wash over him. She was awake, and she knew she was safe.

Tommy and Maria watched the exchange with quiet interest, noting the tenderness in Joel’s voice and the protective way he watched over the girl.

"Looks like she’s in good hands," Maria said softly, her eyes meeting Joel’s. "You did good, Joel."

Joel nodded, his expression resolute. "Just want to make sure she’s okay."

As night fell, Joel remained, his thoughts a swirl of concern, determination, and a growing sense of responsibility for the woman in his care. Tommy and Maria eventually left, their reassurances lingering in the air.

Joel knew that whatever the future held, he was committed to seeing this through. He didn’t fully understand the connection he felt to this stranger, but he knew one thing for certain: he would protect her, no matter what.

***

You drifted in and out of consciousness, your mind a haze of pain and confusion. Each time you woke, the world around you shifted in and out of focus, as if you were seeing it through frosted glass. Your body ached with a deep, relentless throb that seemed to come from every part of you.

Voices echoed around you, muffled and distant, as though they were coming from underwater. You could barely make out the words, but you remembered men shouting, the sharp crack of gunfire, and the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground. The memories came in fragments, each one more disjointed than the last.

Amidst the chaos, there was a moment of clarity, a fleeting glimpse of a man with a hard, weathered face, his eyes filled with a mix of determination and something else—concern, maybe? His face blurred as your vision faded, and you slipped back into the darkness.

The next time you woke, it was to a different sensation. You were being carried, held tightly against a warm chest. The rhythmic motion of walking jostled you gently, and you could hear the steady beat of a heart beneath your ear. The scent of sweat, leather, and something comforting enveloped you, grounding you in the moment.

You tried to open your eyes, to see who was carrying you, but your eyelids felt like they were made of lead. All you could do was rest your head against the warmth, feeling a strange sense of safety despite the pain that racked your body.

The world shifted again, and you found yourself lying on something soft—a bed, maybe? There were more voices now, urgent but less panicked than before. Hands touched you, checking your injuries, and you flinched at the pain. You heard someone speaking close by, their voice low and soothing, but the words were lost to you.

***

You slipped in and out of consciousness, each time catching fleeting glimpses of your surroundings. The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls. Sometimes, you saw the man from before, sitting close by, his eyes never leaving you. Other times, you saw different faces—concerned, caring, but always strangers.

Pain flared up again, pulling you under, and you felt yourself drifting away once more. The last thing you remembered before the darkness claimed you was the feeling of a rough hand gently brushing your hair back, the touch surprisingly tender.

***

As the days passed, those glimpses began to clear. The man was always there, watching over you, his presence a constant in your fractured reality. You didn’t know who he was, but in your moments of lucidity, you felt a strange connection to him, as if he were a lifeline pulling you back from the brink.

Eventually, the pain started to recede, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that clung to your bones. You were still weak, but the moments of consciousness grew longer, and the world around you began to make more sense. You could hear conversations now, snippets of words that pieced together a picture of where you were and what had happened.

"... found her just in time," someone said.

"She’s a fighter," another voice replied, filled with a warmth that made your chest tighten.

You opened your eyes fully for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and the man’s face came into focus. He was sitting beside your bed, his expression a mixture of relief and weariness.

"Hey there," he said softly, his voice gentle. "You’re safe now. You’re in Jackson."

You tried to speak, but your voice came out as a hoarse whisper. "Who...?"

"My name’s Joel," he replied. "I found you out there. Brought you back here to get some help. You’re gonna be okay."

You nodded weakly, your eyes drifting shut again. You were still exhausted, your body demanding more rest. But for the first time since the attack, you felt a flicker of hope. You were safe, and someone was looking out for you.

And as you slipped back into sleep, you held onto that thought, letting it anchor you against the darkness.

***

The faces of Tommy, Maria, and Ellie became familiar presences around you. Each time you woke, they were there, offering quiet reassurances and gentle smiles that helped ease the lingering fear in your chest. They treated you with a kindness that felt foreign yet comforting, their presence a stark contrast to the violence and chaos you vaguely remembered.

Tommy, with his calm demeanor and steady voice, sat by your bedside, occasionally sharing stories about life in Jackson and cracking jokes that brought fleeting smiles to your lips. Maria, whose warmth and strength seemed to radiate from her, checked on you with a motherly concern, ensuring you had everything you needed. And Ellie, vibrant and spirited, chattered away about books, movies, and the world beyond Jackson, her enthusiasm infectious.

Their support made you feel less like an outsider and more like a welcomed part of their community. They didn’t pry into your past or demand answers to questions you weren’t ready to answer. Instead, they simply offered their friendship and a sense of belonging that you hadn’t realized you were searching for.

One afternoon, as you were well enough to sit up in bed, Joel walked in carrying a stack of books he found in the makeshift library of Jackson. He placed the books on the bedside table and offered you a small, reassuring smile.

"Thought you might like these," he said, his voice gentle yet tinged with a hint of concern. "Heard you were into movies and books."

You nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Joel. It means a lot."

He nodded in return, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. "Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable while you were healin’."

You appreciated his care, sensing there was more behind his actions than mere kindness. But before you could dwell on it further, Joel began to explain what happened, piecing together the fragments of your memory with the events he witnessed.

"You were out there, near the outskirts," Joel began, his voice steady. "A group of raiders attacked you. They... they were about to... but I showed up just in time."

You swallowed hard, the pieces starting to fit together in your mind. The shouts, the gunfire, the overwhelming sense of fear—all of it began to make sense now, though the details were still murky.

"You saved my life," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his actions settled heavily on your shoulders, mixing gratitude with a profound sense of vulnerability.

Joel shook his head, a hint of discomfort crossing his features. "Just did what anyone would have done."

But you knew better. Not everyone would have risked their own safety to intervene, especially in a world where survival often meant turning a blind eye. Joel chose differently, and his decision brought you here, to safety and healing.

As Joel stood there, his presence a reassuring anchor in the storm of your thoughts, you felt a surge of gratitude and something else—a growing connection that went beyond words. It was as if fate had brought you together, intertwining your lives in ways neither of you fully understood.

***

Slowly regaining strength each day, Joel’s visits became a steady rhythm in your recovery. It started with small gestures—him checking in on you, bringing fresh bandages or a cup of tea. But it was the mornings that stood out the most.

Every morning without fail, Joel arrived with a small bouquet of wildflowers he had gathered from the outskirts of Jackson. He placed them in a makeshift vase by the window, the delicate blooms adding a splash of color to the sterile hospital room. The gesture was simple yet meaningful, a reminder of life and beauty amidst the harshness of your world.

You watched him silently as he arranged the flowers with care, his hands gentle yet purposeful. There was a quiet intensity about him in those moments, a vulnerability he rarely showed to others. And as he turned to you with a soft smile, you felt a flutter of something deeper than gratitude—an unspoken connection that grew stronger with each passing day.

You began to talk more during his visits, sharing stories and snippets of your pasts. Joel spoke sparingly about Sarah, his daughter, and the pain of losing her. You listened attentively, offering words of comfort when the memories threatened to overwhelm him. In turn, you shared glimpses of your own life before the outbreak—memories of family, friends, and a world that now seemed like a distant dream.

Your conversations flowed easily, punctuated by moments of shared laughter and quiet understanding. There was a comfort in Joel’s presence, a familiarity that eased the ache of loneliness you had carried for so long. And in those stolen moments between nurse visits and medical checks, you began to see Joel not just as a protector, but as someone who had quietly slipped into the spaces of your heart.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and cast a golden glow across the room, Joel lingered by your bedside longer than usual. The air between you seemed charged with unspoken words, a tension that crackled beneath the surface.

"You know," Joel began, his voice low and rough with emotion, "I’ve never been one for… for flowers."

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze with a gentle smile. "I’ve noticed," you replied softly, your heart beating a little faster in your chest.

"Guess I’m makin’ an exception for you."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You reached out tentatively, placing your hand over his where it rested on the edge of the bed. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

"I’m glad you did," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s expression softened, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your hand. "Me too."

In that moment, the distance between you dissolved, replaced by an undeniable pull that drew you closer together. It was as if you had been circling each other, hesitating on the edge of something profound. And now, with your hands intertwined and your hearts laid bare, there was no turning back.

***

One evening, as you sat together in the fading light, Joel’s hand found yours once more. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. You turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest, and found him already looking at you with an intensity that stole your breath away.

"Joel," you whispered, the word a prayer on your lips.

He didn’t speak, but his eyes held yours captive, searching for any hesitation or doubt. And when he leaned in, closing the distance between you, you thought the world would finally fall away, leaving only the warmth of his lips.

But what you expected never happened. Instead, he stilled, his eyes dropping to your lips and then back to meet your eyes over and over. He pulled away, swallowed thickly, and got up from his seat. He left without saying another word.

But, through it all, Joel continued to bring you flowers every morning—a silent reminder of the love and hope that had blossomed between you amidst the ruins of your world.

***

Several months passed in Jackson, and with each day of recovery, you found yourself drawn more deeply into the rhythm of life within the fortified walls. The once unfamiliar faces of Tommy, Maria, Ellie, and Joel became your steadfast companions, their presence weaving a tapestry of belonging that you hadn't felt since before the outbreak.

As you regained your strength, you sought out ways to contribute to the community that had welcomed you with open arms. It was during one of Joel's visits that he suggested you spend time at the local library, knowing your love for books and movies from your earlier conversations. The idea resonated deeply with you, igniting a spark of excitement and purpose.

The library itself was a refuge—a haven of knowledge and imagination nestled within the sturdy walls of Jackson. Its shelves were lined with dusty books of every genre imaginable, their spines worn and weathered from years of use. The air was infused with the comforting scent of paper and ink, a familiar aroma that brought back memories of lazy afternoons spent lost in fictional worlds.

Occasionally, patrons would wander in, seeking recommendations or browsing the latest arrivals. You greeted them warmly, offering assistance with finding books or answering questions about library programs. Some were regular visitors, their faces becoming familiar over time, while others were newcomers, drawn in by the promise of a quiet corner and a good book.

During breaks, you would steal moments for yourself—a cup of tea, a brief pause to admire the view from the library windows. The town of Jackson spread out before you, a patchwork of rooftops and winding streets, framed by the majestic peaks of the surrounding mountains.

Joel's visits were a highlight of your day, his footsteps echoing softly on the library floor as he approached. Sometimes, he would linger near the front desk, watching you with a quiet intensity that sent a flutter of warmth through you. Other times, he would join you in the stacks, his presence a steady comfort as you exchanged snippets of conversation between the rows of books.

As you meticulously arranged a display of newly arrived mystery novels near the entrance of the library, the familiar sound of footsteps approached from behind you. You turned to see Joel entering with Ellie at his side, their presence instantly brightening the quiet atmosphere of the library.

"Hey," Joel greeted with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your heart skip a beat. "How's the day treatin’ you?"

You returned his smile, feeling a rush of warmth at his presence. "It's going well. Just getting things in order here."

Ellie darted off towards the fiction section, her eyes scanning the shelves with eager anticipation. "I'm looking for that new sci-fi book Tommy mentioned," she called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing softly through the library.

Joel chuckled fondly, his gaze lingering on Ellie for a moment before returning to you. "She's been itchin’ to read that one for weeks now."

"She's got great taste."

Joel moved closer, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. "You know, Ellie's been talking about you," he admitted, his voice low and intimate. "Says you've been a lifesaver with those book recommendations."

"Well, I'm glad I could help."

"You do more than just help, you know." 

Before you could say anything his gaze, usually steady and composed, softened as he noticed the small cut on your wrist. Without a word, he gently took your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring against your skin.

You held your breath, feeling a rush of warmth spread through you at his proximity. His fingers traced the delicate line of the cut, his touch gentle yet firm as he inspected it. "What happened?" he asked quietly, concern etched in the lines of his face.

You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. "I... I got a splinter earlier," you managed to explain, your words coming out in a breathless rush. "It's nothing, really. I took it out, but..."

Ignoring you, he continued to examine your palm, his brow furrowed in concentration. His thumb brushed lightly over the area where you had removed the splinter, and then he paused, his expression changing subtly.

"There's still a small piece in there." 

"I thought I got it all out," you admitted, a hint of frustration coloring your tone.

Joel met your eyes, his gaze steady and reassuring. "It happens," he murmured, his focus shifting back to your hand. "Let me take care of it."

With practiced ease, Joel reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pair of tweezers. He positioned himself beside you, his touch careful and precise as he gently extracted the remaining splinter from your palm. You held your breath, watching as Joel worked with steady hands and unwavering focus. The sensation was more comforting than painful.

"There," Joel said softly, finally withdrawing the tweezers and inspecting his handiwork. "All done."

You exhaled a sigh of relief, "Thank you," you murmured.

Joel nodded, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "Anytime," he replied quietly, his voice rough with unspoken emotions.

Then, without a word, he leaned in and pressed his warm lips against the throbbing patch of skin. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart beating a mile per minute. It didn’t last. It felt like a drizzle of rain, leaving your skin as soon as it touched it. He let go of your hand and took a quick step back, he looked remorseful like he regretted his action almost immediately. 

His look made you feel guilty. Your heart aching even though you knew you’d done nothing wrong. 

***

In the weeks and months that followed, you and Joel found yourselves drawn closer together, your bond deepening with each shared moment and whispered conversation. The library remained a sanctuary where your friendship blossomed amidst the pages of beloved stories and the quiet hum of everyday life in Jackson.

With Joel heading out on patrol, the library felt unusually quiet that day. Ellie had arrived earlier, her energy and curiosity filling the space as she browsed through the shelves with a voracious appetite for new stories.

You greeted her with a warm smile as she approached the front desk, her arms already filled with a diverse stack of books ranging from graphic novels to classic literature. 

"Hey, Ellie," you greeted cheerfully, taking note of her eclectic choices. "Finding everything okay?"

"Definitely! You've got so many cool books here," she exclaimed, carefully setting down her stack on the counter. "Mind if I borrow these?"

"Of course not," you replied with a chuckle, scanning the books one by one and checking them out for her. "I'm glad you're enjoying the selection. Anything specific you're in the mood for?"

As Ellie launched into animated descriptions of her favorite genres and characters, you found yourself drawn into her infectious enthusiasm. You bonded over shared interests—sci-fi novels that explored distant galaxies, fantasy epics filled with magic and adventure, and even a few graphic novels that blurred the lines between reality and imagination.

In between discussions about your favorite books, Ellie shared stories of her experiences growing up in the post-outbreak world. You reciprocated by opening up about your own journey—memories of a life before the outbreak, your love for books and movies, and the challenges of finding a new sense of normalcy in Jackson.

The hours slipped by unnoticed as you lost yourselves in conversation and exploration, your laughter echoing through the library aisles. It was easy to forget the outside world for a while, immersed in the camaraderie and shared passion for storytelling that bound you together.

As the afternoon sun began to cast long shadows through the library windows, Ellie glanced at the clock with a playful grin. "I should probably head back before Joel starts worrying," she teased, gathering up her books and preparing to leave.

You nodded in understanding, grateful for the unexpected bond that had formed between you in Joel's absence. "Thanks for keeping me company, Ellie," you said sincerely, touched by her presence and the genuine connection you had forged.

Ellie flashed you a bright smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anytime, Ash," she replied, using Joel's nickname for you with a knowing glint in her eye. "You're pretty cool, you know?"

Before you could respond, she was already halfway out the door, her laughter trailing behind her. You watched her go with a fond smile, feeling a warmth in your heart that lingered long after she had gone.

In that quiet moment, surrounded by the comforting embrace of books and stories, you reflected on the unexpected friendships that had blossomed in the wake of devastation. Joel's departure had brought you and Ellie closer together, reminding you once again of the resilience and strength that could be found in the bonds you forged and the stories you shared.

***

You lay on your bed, the soft sheets cradling your body as you closed your eyes. Your mind wandered to him, your crush, Joel. The mere thought of his name sent a shiver down your spine and a warm sensation between your legs.

You couldn't help but imagine his hands on you, his gentle touch igniting a fire within you. You pictured him hovering over you, his lips inches away from yours, his breath hot against your skin. Your fingers instinctively began to trail down your body, following the curves and dips, imagining it was his hands exploring every inch of you.

The thought of his strong, calloused hands caressing your skin made you shiver. You remembered the way his eyes lit up when he smiled, the depth in them that always seemed to draw you in. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze, intense and burning, as he looked at you with a desire that mirrored your own.

As your hand found its way between your thighs, you could almost feel his touch. Your body responded eagerly, your hips arching off the bed. You let out a soft gasp, imagining it was Joel's name tumbling from your lips. The fantasy deepened, and you could see his face more clearly now, his features etched in your mind with perfect clarity.

Your mind played out various scenarios, each one more intense and intimate than the last. You imagined him leaning in to kiss you, his lips soft and insistent against yours. The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring your mouth with a slow, tantalizing rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, tracing patterns on your skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

You pictured his lips on your neck, his soft whispers in your ear, his strong arms holding you close. His voice was low and husky, filled with a need that matched your own. He told you how much he wanted you, how he couldn't stop thinking about you, and every word sent a jolt of pleasure through your body.

The pleasure built and built, and you could feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. You imagined him whispering your name, his breath hot against your ear, his hands guiding you, teasing you, bringing you to the brink of ecstasy.

As you reached your peak, you allowed yourself to fully indulge in the fantasy of Joel. Every touch, every kiss, every whisper, it was all in your head but it felt so real. You could almost hear his voice, feel the warmth of his body against yours, the weight of him pressing down on you, grounding you in the moment.

The waves of pleasure crashed over you, and you cried out, your body trembling with the force of your release. For a few blissful moments, everything else faded away, and it was just you and Joel, lost in the throes of passion.

And as you came down from the high, you couldn’t help but wish that it was more than just a fantasy. That one day, Joel would make all your desires and daydreams a reality. You imagined the two of you together, sharing moments of intimacy and connection, building a relationship that went beyond your wildest dreams.

But for now, you settled for this moment of sensual bliss, enjoying every second of it. You lay there, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure, your mind filled with thoughts of Joel. You let yourself linger in the fantasy a little longer, savoring the feeling of being close to him, even if it was just in your imagination. And as you drifted off to sleep, you carried the hope that one day, your fantasies would become a reality.

Feeling sticky and aching, you slowly peeled yourself off the bed and headed for a quick shower. The cool water cascaded over your skin, washing away the remnants of your fantasy and providing a refreshing contrast to the heat that had consumed you moments ago. As the water soothed your body, your mind remained restless, thoughts of Joel still swirling in your head.

You felt a bittersweet twinge in your chest as you thought about him. The warmth and intensity of your fantasies clashed with the cold reality that nothing would ever happen between you and Joel. Despite how often he was around, how his presence always seemed to light up the room, he never took that next step. He never crossed the line from friendship into something more.

You replayed your interactions with him, searching for signs, any indication that he might feel the same way. There were moments that made your heart flutter—a lingering glance, a touch that felt too intimate to be merely friendly, words that seemed to carry a hidden meaning. But just as quickly, doubts crept in, and you reminded yourself that it was probably just your wishful thinking, seeing what you wanted to see.

The ache in your heart deepened as you accepted this reality. You knew that despite your longing, Joel remained just out of reach, a constant presence in your life but never quite yours. The shower water mingled with your tears as you silently mourned the unfulfilled dreams and desires that seemed destined to remain in your imagination.

As you stepped out of the shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel, feeling the softness against your skin. You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the melancholy that had settled over you. You reminded yourself that life went on, and you couldn’t stay lost in your fantasies forever.

Instead of getting dressed, you find yourself drawn back to your bed. The sheets were cool now, a stark contrast to the heat of your earlier thoughts. You climbed back in, pulling the covers around you, seeking comfort in their familiar embrace.

Your mind drifted back to Joel, to his warm brown eyes that always seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words. You pictured his smile, the way it lit up his entire face, and the sound of his laugh, so genuine and infectious. You couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to have him here with you, to feel his arms around you, to share these quiet moments together.

You lay there, your heart heavy with longing, and allowed yourself to imagine just a little longer. Even though you knew it was just a fantasy, it brought a small measure of comfort. His presence in your thoughts was a bittersweet solace, a reminder of what you yearned for but also what you could not have.

Eventually, your eyes grew heavy, and you let the thoughts of Joel lull you into a dream-filled sleep. You knew that reality awaited you when you woke, but for now, you let yourself drift, holding onto the image of his warm brown eyes and the hope that one day, you would find the love you deserved.

***

Joel sat on his horse, patrolling the outskirts of Jackson with a heavy heart. The familiar landscape, with its rugged terrain and dense forests, usually offered a sense of solace and routine. Today, however, his thoughts were far from the patrol at hand. They kept drifting back to the library, to the warmth of her smile and the depth of her eyes.

He'd felt an inexplicable pull towards her since the moment he found her. Her tenacity and spirit had captivated him. She fought like hell to survive, just like he had so many times before. It was more than just attraction—it was a connection he didn't fully understand and certainly didn't know how to handle.

"Get your head in the game, Joel," he muttered to himself, trying to shake off the distraction. But the more he tried to focus on the patrol, the more his mind wandered back to her. He remembered how her breath had caught when he held her hand to inspect her cut. There was something about her that drew him in, despite every instinct telling him to keep his distance.

Back in Jackson, she was sucesfully becoming a part of the community. Tommy and Maria had taken to her quickly. Tommy often spoke highly of her, appreciating her wit and the way she didn't suffer fools. Maria admired her resilience and found in her a kindred spirit. Ellie was perhaps the closest to her, their shared love for books and movies creating a bond that seemed to grow stronger by the day.

Joel watched from the sidelines, a mix of pride and something else he couldn't quite name filling his chest. Seeing her interact with Tommy and Maria, laughing at Ellie's jokes, and bringing a new light to the community was both heartwarming and painful. He wanted to be closer to her, to let down his guard and allow himself to feel. But the fear of loss, the weight of his past, kept him from stepping into the light she offered.

One evening, Joel found himself standing outside the library, watching through the window as she and Ellie animatedly discussed a book. Her laughter rang out, clear and joyous, and it struck him deeply. He turned away, the internal struggle gnawing at him. He wanted to protect her, to be there for her, but he didn't think he deserved that kind of happiness.

Every interaction was charged with a mix of emotions—hope, fear, desire, and self-doubt. When he brought her fresh flowers each morning, her eyes would light up with a gratitude that made his heartache. Yet, he always found an excuse to leave quickly, afraid that lingering too long would reveal too much.

They found themselves alone in the library more often than not. She would be shelving books, and he would walk in, their eyes meeting across the room. Words felt inadequate, and yet the silence between them spoke volumes. She began to notice his frequent visits, the way he seemed to hover just on the edge of their interactions, always present but never fully engaging.

One afternoon, Joel found her struggling with a particularly heavy stack of books. Without thinking, he moved to help, their hands brushing as they both reached for the top book. The contact sent a jolt through him, and he saw the same spark in her eyes. She bit her lip, a small, nervous habit he'd come to recognize, and his resolve wavered.

"You don't have to do this alone," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for answers he wasn't ready to give.

"Neither do you," she replied, her voice equally soft but filled with a strength that shook him.

They stood there, the library fading into the background as the weight of their unspoken words hung between them. Joel's heart pounded in his chest, the magnetic pull towards her stronger than ever. He wanted to reach out, to close the distance and let her in, but the fear of losing her, of not being enough, held him back.

Finally, he stepped away, the moment broken by his retreat. She watched him go, a mix of sadness and understanding in her eyes. Joel walked out of the library, the internal battle raging on. He didn't know how long he could keep this up, but for now, he would protect her the only way he knew how—by keeping his distance, even if it tore him apart inside.

***

The library was your sanctuary, a place where you could lose yourself in the comforting embrace of books and the soothing rhythm of routine. You were deep in thought, rearranging a shelf of classic novels when you heard the door creak open. Turning, you saw Ellie standing there, her usual bright energy replaced by a troubled expression.

"Hey, Ellie," you greeted her warmly, trying to read her mood. "What's up?"

Ellie hesitated at the entrance, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She looked around the empty library as if making sure you were alone. "Hey, Ash," she said softly, her voice lacking its usual spark. "Can we talk?"

"Of course," you replied, setting the book you were holding aside and walking over to her. "What's on your mind?"

Ellie bit her lip, her eyes downcast. "It's... kind of personal," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your heart going out to her. "Let's sit down," you suggested, guiding her to a cozy corner of the library where a couple of armchairs were nestled by a large window. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the room, creating a safe, intimate space for your conversation.

You settled into the chairs, and you waited patiently, giving Ellie the time she needed to gather her thoughts. She looked at her hands, her fingers nervously tracing patterns on the armrest.

"I've been feeling really confused lately," Ellie began. "There's this girl... Dina. She's amazing. Funny, smart, and just... so cool. I think I have a crush on her."

"Dina sounds wonderful," you said encouragingly. "It's okay to have feelings for someone."

Ellie looked up at you, her eyes filled with uncertainty. "But... it's more than that. I think... I know I'm not into guys. I like girls. And it scares me. I don't know how people will react, especially Joel."

Her vulnerability tugged at your heartstrings. You reached out and placed a reassuring hand on hers. "Ellie, thank you for sharing this with me," you said softly. "It's a big step, and I want you to know that it's perfectly okay to feel the way you do."

Ellie swallowed hard, her eyes searching yours for any hint of judgment. "You really think so?" she asked, her voice fragile.

"I know so," you replied firmly. "And you're not alone in this. I'm bisexual."

Ellie's eyes widened in surprise. "Really?"

You nodded, offering her a comforting smile. "Yes. I've been where you are, feeling scared and unsure. But the important thing to remember is that your feelings are valid. Who you love doesn't define your worth; it's just a part of who you are."

Ellie took a deep breath, her eyes fixed on the floor as if the words she was about to say were too heavy to lift. "I'm really scared to tell Joel," she confessed, her voice trembling. "What if he doesn't accept me? What if he thinks less of me?"

You leaned forward, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "Ellie, I know Joel can be a bit... gruff and guarded, but he cares about you more than anything. You mean the world to him. He's been through a lot, and he's seen more than most. If there's one thing I know about Joel, it's that he values the people he loves for who they are."

Ellie's eyes flicked up to meet yours, a glimmer of hope in their depths. "You really think so?"

"I know so," you said with conviction. "I've seen the way he looks at you, the way he worries about you. He might have his rough edges, but his heart is in the right place. And if you need someone to be there with you when you tell him, I'll be right by your side."

Ellie bit her lip, her expression softening as she considered your words. "It's just... he's been like a father to me. I don't want to disappoint him."

"You won't," you assured her. "Joel loves you unconditionally. He might be surprised at first, but that won't change how much he cares about you. He'll want you to be happy, and being true to yourself is a big part of that."

Ellie nodded slowly, the fear in her eyes giving way to a cautious optimism. "I hope you're right. I just don't want to lose him."

"You won't lose him," you repeated gently. "Joel's been through too much to let something like this come between you. He'll need time to process, but he'll come around. And remember, you have a whole community here who supports you, including me."

"Thanks, Ash. It means a lot to hear that."

"Anytime, Ellie," you said, giving her a reassuring smile. "You're not alone in this. We'll face it together."

Ellie took a deep breath, nodding as if steeling herself for the conversation ahead. "Okay. I'll tell him. But... can you really be there with me when I do?"

"Of course," you replied without hesitation. "I'll be right there with you, every step of the way."

You sat in silence for a few moments, the weight of the conversation settling between you. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the library. It felt like a moment of quiet reflection, a brief respite before the next step in Ellie's journey.

Finally, Ellie broke the silence, her voice stronger and more determined. "I've got to tell Dina too. I think she might feel the same way, but I've been too scared to say anything."

You smiled, proud of her courage. "That's a good idea. Being honest with her will help you both figure out where you stand."

Ellie nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Yeah, I think so too. Thanks, Ash. For everything."

"You're welcome," you said warmly. "Remember, I'm always here if you need to talk or just need a friend."

Ellie stood up, her shoulders a little straighter than before. "I'll see you later, Ash. And... thanks again."

As she walked out of the library, you watched her go with a sense of pride and hope. Ellie was on the brink of a significant moment in her life, and you were honored to be a part of it. The bond you had forged in that quiet corner of the library was a testament to the power of empathy, understanding, and unconditional support.

And as you returned to your work, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. Helping Ellie find her way was just the beginning. In a world filled with uncertainty and hardship, moments like these remind you of the strength and resilience that lay within each of us. You were not alone, and together, you could face whatever challenges came your way.

***

You were on patrol, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the dense forest as you walked. The air was crisp, the smell of pine and earth strong around you. Normally, you would have found the setting peaceful, but today there was an uncomfortable silence hanging between Joel and you. No matter how hard you tried to make conversation, he remained stoically quiet, his eyes scanning the surroundings with a focused intensity.

"So, Joel," you started for what felt like the tenth time, trying to break through the barrier of silence. "How's Ellie doing with all those books she borrowed? She mentioned she really liked the one about the ancient Greek heroes."

Joel grunted in response, his gaze never leaving the path ahead. "She liked it," he said shortly.

You bit your lip, feeling the awkwardness grow. It wasn't like Joel to be this distant, especially after everything you had been through. You wondered if something had happened, if he was angry or upset with you. You tried again, your voice a bit more tentative this time. "I hope she's doing okay. She's really taken a liking to the library."

"She's fine," Joel replied, his tone clipped.

A heavy silence fell over you once more. You could hear the crunch of leaves beneath your boots, the distant chirping of birds, and the occasional rustle of a small animal scurrying through the underbrush. It was a stark contrast to the usual camaraderie you shared, and it was unsettling.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore. You stopped walking, forcing Joel to stop as well. "Joel, what's going on?" you asked, your voice firmer than you felt. "You've been quiet all day, and it's making me feel like I did something wrong."

Joel turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at you with those intense, deep-set eyes. Then he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture of frustration. "It's not you," he finally said, his voice softer. "It's me. I've got a lot on my mind."

"Do you want to talk about it?" you asked, taking a step closer to him.

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to the ground. "It's complicated," he muttered. "I just... I don't want to mess things up."

You frowned, not understanding. "Mess what up? Joel, you've been a good friend to me. If there's something bothering you, you can tell me. Maybe I can help."

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with turmoil that took your breath away. "That's just it," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't know how to handle what I'm feelin’. I've been trying to keep my distance because I don't want to hurt you. But seein’ you, bein’ near you... it's drivin’ me crazy."

Your heart pounded in your chest as his words sank in. "Joel," you whispered, taking another step closer until you were almost touching. "You don't have to protect me from yourself. Whatever it is, we can face it together."

He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. "You don't understand, Ash. I've done things, terrible things. I don't deserve... this. You. I don't deserve you."

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Joel, we all have our pasts. We all have things we're not proud of. But that doesn't mean we don't deserve happiness, or love. You've been there for me when I needed it most. Let me be there for you."

He looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and longing. "I want to believe that," he said quietly. "I really do."

"Then believe it," you urged, your voice soft but insistent. "We can take it one step at a time. You don't have to face everything alone."

For a long moment, Joel didn't move. Then, slowly, he reached up and covered your hand with his, his grip strong and reassuring. You stood there, the forest around you silent and still, a world away from the chaos and danger that usually surrounded you. At that moment, it was just the two of you, facing your fears and uncertainties together. He didn’t say a word, then, slowly, he let you go and pressed forward. 

The atmosphere between Joel and you remained tense as you continued your patrol. The silence was thick, each step through the forest feeling heavier than the last. Your thoughts were a whirlwind, circling around the complexities of your unspoken emotions. You couldn't help but imagine how it would feel to be embraced by him, to feel his strong arms around you, offering comfort and security.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you didn’t see the tree root protruding from the ground. Your foot caught on it, and before you knew it, you were falling. You landed hard, a sharp pain shooting through your arm as you scraped it against a jagged rock.

"Damn it," you muttered, wincing as you cradled your arm. Blood seeped from a cut just below your elbow, the wound stinging in the cool air.

Joel was at your side in an instant, his expression shifting from distant to concerned. "You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff but laced with worry.

"I'm fine," you snapped, though your voice was tight with pain. "Just a cut."

Joel ignored your words, gently taking your arm to inspect the wound. His touch was surprisingly tender, and despite the pain, you felt a shiver run down your spine. His brow furrowed as he examined the cut, his fingers carefully avoiding the worst of it.

"We need to clean this up," he said, his voice authoritative. "You got any water left?"

"Don't," you interrupted, pulling your arm away from him and trying to push him back. "Why do you even care? You've been distant all day."

Joel looked taken aback, his hand frozen in mid-air. "I'm just tryin’ to help." 

"Yeah, well, it’s a little too late for that," you muttered, your back against a tree as you tried to compose yourself. The pain in your arm was nothing compared to the frustration bubbling inside you.

Joel knelt in front of you, his brows tightly drawn together. "I know I’ve been an ass but. . .” 

You looked away, trying to ignore the sting of tears in your eyes. "Whatever. Just go away, Joel. It hurts more when you show softness only to take it away."

For a moment, he didn't move, his gaze searching your face for something. Then, with a sigh, he sat back on his heels, clearly conflicted. 

Joel’s hand shot out and caught your wrist as you tried to push him away again. His grip was like iron, firm yet not painful. You struggled against him, frustration mounting, but he didn’t let go. His eyes bored into yours.

"Joel, let go," you demanded, your voice shaky.

He didn't budge, his grip unwavering. "Not until you listen," he said, his tone firm.

You tried to pull away, but it was futile. "Listen to what? More silence?"

His eyes flashed with something you couldn't quite decipher. "Listen to this," he said quietly before leaning in.

You barely had time to register his words before his lips were on yours. The kiss was unexpected, a collision of emotions that took your breath away. You stiffened, caught off guard, but Joel’s hand moved to the back of your neck, holding you gently but securely as his fingers worked the muscles.

For a moment, you were frozen, your mind reeling from the sudden intimacy. Then, slowly, you began to respond, your resistance melting away. The kiss deepened, a raw and desperate exchange of everything you had been holding back. Your free hand found its way to his shoulder, gripping tightly as if anchoring yourself in the storm of emotions.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard. Joel’s forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed as he whispered, "I'm sorry. I didn’t know how else to show you how much you mean to me."

You swallowed, your heart pounding. "Joel, you can’t just... kiss me to make everything better," you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

"I know," he replied softly, his grip on your wrist loosening but not releasing you entirely. "But I had to do somethin’. I can’t keep pushin’ you away. Not when I feel this way."

"Then stop pushing me away," you whispered, your voice trembling. "We can figure this out together."

Joel nodded, his thumb gently brushing over your wrist. "Together," he agreed, his voice resolute.

Joel's touch shifted from your wrist to the cut on your arm, his movements careful and precise. His fingers traced the edges of the wound, assessing the damage with a quiet intensity that belied his usual stoicism. You watched him closely, feeling the warmth of his hands against your skin, a stark contrast to the coolness of the forest around you.

Using the water from your bottle, Joel cleaned the cut gently, his touch light yet firm. The sting of the water made you flinch, but he continued his ministrations without hesitation. His focus was solely on you, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked to ensure the wound was thoroughly cleansed.

Once satisfied that the wound was clean, Joel reached into his pack and retrieved a small first aid kit. With practiced movements, he carefully applied antiseptic ointment to the cut, his touch gentle despite the efficiency of his actions. You winced again at the sting of the ointment, but Joel's reassuring presence kept you grounded.

Next, he unfolded a sterile bandage from the kit and began to wrap it around your arm, securing it in place with medical tape. His hands moved with a steady rhythm, his focus unwavering as he ensured the bandage was snug but not constricting. Each touch sent a wave of comfort through you, a silent reassurance that he was there, taking care of you.

As he finished securing the bandage, Joel looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of relief and concern. "There," he said softly. "That should do for now."

"Thank you, Joel," you murmured.

He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer before he slowly withdrew, giving you space. 

You sat there for a while longer, the forest around you settling into an evening hush. As you made your way back from your patrol, the tension that had gripped both of you seemed to ease with every step. The forest was bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows on the familiar path to Jackson. Joel walked beside you, his presence a silent comfort.

You stole glances at him from the corner of your eye, unsure of what to say after everything. His hand, rough and calloused from years of survival, brushed against yours as you walked, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down your spine. To your surprise, Joel’s fingers interlaced with yours, his grip firm yet gentle, as if afraid you might slip away.

Finally reaching the outskirts of Jackson, you hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. Joel slowed his pace slightly, as if sensing your uncertainty. As you approached your house, you turned to him, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Joel," you began, your voice barely above a whisper, "would you like to come in?"

His gaze met yours, searching for something in the depths of your eyes. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I'd like that." 

You led him inside, the familiar warmth of home enveloping both of you as you stepped through the door. Joel followed you into the living room, his presence filling the space.

As you settled on the couch, Joel’s hand found yours once more, his touch grounding and reassuring. The weight of everything you had shared that day hung in the air, a fragile bridge between friendship and something more. His thumb brushed against the bandage, the wound still stinging underneath. He leaned closer, lips brushing your temple, you leaned in and as you did, you slowly turned your face, meeting his lips with your own. 

He tasted sweet like a gentle summer breeze, that subtle wind that feels like a caress from the sun. You were bolder than him, parting your lips with a greed you thought you didn’t have anymore. He parted his lips with a groan, the deep sound made you tremble. Suddenly you were on top of him, your legs parted over his lap as you placed soft, rushed kisses all across his face. You felt him smile and it made your lips curl up, your heart skipping a beat. 

His hips jerked up as he parted away, his breath warm when he spoke, “Your arm, darlin’. . .” 

You felt yourself leaning in, wanting more—needing more. Joel’s lips softly brushed against yours, causing electricity to surge through your body. His hand trails up your arm, gently caressing the bandage where he had tended to your wound earlier.

"My arm feels...better now," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady as Joel’s hand lingers on your skin.

He leans in closer, his lips now only a fraction of an inch away from yours. "Good," he muttered, his voice low and husky. "I'm glad."

Slowly, almost hesitantly, your lips brushed against his. The sensation was electric, igniting a fire within you. You felt the warmth of Joel’s breath against your face as he deepened the kiss, his hand now cupping your cheek tenderly.

Lost in the moment, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. It felt like time had stopped and you never wanted this moment to end. As your lips parted, your foreheads rested against each other, both of you breathing heavily.

"I've wanted to do that for a long time," Joel said.

"Me too," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel leaned in for another kiss, but this time it was slow. His tongue explored your mouth, tasting you, moaning whenever you tease him with a flick of your own.  

You felt a rush of excitement as Joel’s hands explored your body, his touch igniting a burning desire within you. You let out a small gasp as he removed your shirt, revealing your now bare chest.

Joel’s eyes roamed over your body, his gaze dark as the bark of the oldest tree in Jackson.  

His lips trailed down your neck, sending shivers down your spine. You ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to you. 

“Impatient one, aren’t you?” he rasped. “Gonna have to teach you some patience while we’re at it.” 

Without breaking the kiss, Joel’s hands moved to your bra, unclasping it with practiced ease. You felt a rush of excitement and nervousness as he removed it, leaving your chest exposed to him.

He pulls away slightly, now gazing at you in awe. "God, you're beautiful," 

His lips moved down to your breasts, his touch gentle and tender. You gasp as he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, his other hand cupping your other breast. He twisted one nipple while pampering the other with his tongue, a soft whimper escaped your throat. You eagerly grind your hips down, feeling the hard outline of his cock. Sweat beaded at the curve of your spine, your body was blissfully being burned from the inside out. 

You buried your hand in Joel’s hair, the sensations he’s causing you almost overwhelming. As he continued to kiss and caress you, your body responded eagerly, your arousal building with each passing moment.

You moaned softly as Joel moved his hands lower, his fingers expertly teasing and exploring your most sensitive parts. You couldn’t believe how good he made you feel.

“You like that huh?” he muttered. “Can’t wait for me to devour that sweet pussy of yours?” 

You feel yourself getting lost in the moment, forgetting about everything else except for the two of you.

“Yes,” you breathed, your chest caving in on itself. “Please, Joel, you have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this.” 

“And how long would that be, sweetheart?” 

“A damned long time,” you smiled. “Way too long.” 

You grabbed Joel’s hand and promptly stood up, leading him to the bedroom. You felt his hand grip yours tighter, letting you know that he was just as eager as you are.

When you entered the room, you turned to face Joel, your eyes locking with his. Without a word, you slowly started to undress him, your hands running over his defined chest and down his softened torso.

Once he’s completely naked, you step back and admire his body, feeling a surge of want course through you. 

“You brought me here just to ogle me?” he grinned. “That’s not very polite you know.” 

You took a step closer, your hand resting on his chest as you pressed against him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. Your lips met in a passionate kiss, your bodies pressing closer together in unison. You felt the length of his cock, your hand wrapping around it without second thought. His chest rattled with a groan, cock twitching in your palm. You slowly brought him to the bed, allowing yourself to fall, you pulled him down with you. 

You felt his lips trailing down your neck, his tongue leaving a trail of wetness as he moved lower. Your breathing became heavier, your anticipation building with every passing second.

Joel’s mouth found its way to your most sensitive area, his tongue expertly teasing and flicking against your clit. You let out a gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as waves of pleasure coursed through you.

“Mine,” he groaned, pressing his mouth harder against you. “This pussy is all mine, say it or I’ll stop.” 

“Yours,” you replied almost immediately. “Every inch of me is yours, I belong to you, every bit of me.” 

He hummed his approval as he sucked your clit between his lips, teeth gently nibbling the sensitive flesh. Your upper body jolted, hands finding the back of his head. 

But you’re not content with just lying back and enjoying his touch. You wanted to reciprocate the pleasure, to make him feel just as good as he’s making you feel.

You pushed Joel onto his back and straddled him, your hands roaming over his chest as you kissed him. Your hips grind against his, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through you.

With an innate sense of what he likes, you took him in your hand, stroking him slowly but firmly. You felt him grow harder as precome slid down his throbbing cock, you moved lower, taking him into your mouth.

You used your tongue and lips to pleasure him, feeling him writhe beneath you. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. He tasted bittersweet, cock pulsing against your tongue. Your cunt throbbed as you took him deeper down your throat, he groaned, hips thrusting forward. When you choked, he pulled you off and touched the corner of your lips with the pad of his thumb. 

“Later,” he muttered, his eyes dropped down to witness your pouty lips, only to smile when he met your gaze again. “Don’t worry, we’ll have plenty of time to use that smart mouth.” 

With that he flipped you over onto your back, his eyes full of need as he positioned himself between your legs. You spread them eagerly, welcoming him into you.

With one swift movement, he slipped inside of you, both of you letting out a moan. He started to move, his hips thrusting against yours in a rhythm that became more and more intense. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer to you as your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. You felt yourself getting lost, your mind consumed by the pleasure each thrust brings.

Joel’s hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing your hips against him, you feel slick dripping down and staining the sheets.  Your entire body writhed against him, your eyes rolling all the way to the back of your skull as his cock stretched you over and over again. 

With one final push, you both reached your climax, your bodies trembling as waves of pleasure washed over you. You collapsed onto the bed, gasping and panting as you tried to catch your breath.

As you laid there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for this moment. You’ve never felt so connected to someone before, and you know that you want to experience this feeling again and again with Joel by your side.

***

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the window, casting a gentle warmth across the room where you and Joel lay nestled close together. The quiet morning wrapped around both of you like a comforting blanket. As you stirred awake, you felt Joel's arm around you, his presence steady and reassuring.

"Mornin’," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep but filled with tenderness.

You shifted slightly, turning to face him with a soft smile. "Morning," you replied softly, feeling a rush of warmth at the closeness between you.

Joel brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle. "How's your arm feelin’?" he asked, his concern evident.

"It's better," you assured him, leaning into his touch. "Thank you for taking care of me yesterday."

His gaze softened, a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. "Always," he said quietly, his hand resting against yours.

You and Joel lingered in the soft embrace of the morning light, your whispered conversation carrying a weight of unspoken understanding. As you shared your thoughts, a mutual agreement emerged between you—a decision to keep your burgeoning relationship private, shielded from the complexities that often accompanied deeper connections in your fragile world.

"I think it's best if we keep this between us," Joel murmured, his voice low and earnest. "We've both been through enough already."

You nodded. "Yeah, it's just... I don't want anything to jeopardize what we have," you admitted quietly, your fingers tracing patterns on the blanket draped over you both.

Joel's gaze softened, his hand finding yours and intertwining your fingers. "Neither do I," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "But being with you... it feels right."

A swell of warmth filled your chest at his words, a silent reassurance that echoed your own sentiments. Despite the uncertainties that lay ahead, you couldn't deny the growing connection between you, a bond forged through shared experiences and unspoken emotions.

You lingered a while longer in the quiet sanctuary of the morning, each moment steeped in the gentle intimacy of newfound understanding. As the world outside stirred with its own rhythms, you and Joel found solace in the simple promise of each other's company, silently vowing to protect what you had found amidst the uncertainties of your lives.

In that fleeting moment of shared vulnerability, you knew that your decision to keep your relationship a secret was not just a shield against potential complications—it was a testament to the fragile hope that had bloomed between you, a hope that dared to whisper of a future where you could navigate the challenges together, one quiet morning at a time.

***

“On your knees, sweetheart. Now.” 

Head completely empty, you did as you were told. The small shed at Tommy and Maria’s place was secluded enough for no one to see either of you. The leaves of a nearby tree blocked the window, the gentle scrapes making you feel safe. 

It had been a month since you and Joel started your relationship together. He was a tentative man, both in public and behind closed doors. He would remember what you told him and bring you small gifts from whenever he went on patrol. It warmed your heart and for the first time, you genuinely felt happy. 

You leaned into his touch, his palm cupping the side of your cheek. Smiling, you unzipped his pants and took him into your palm. He was hard already, eager to feel the warmth of your tongue on the sensitive skin. You gave the tip a soft kiss, smiling wider as he shuddered. His hand slid to the back of your head. He thrust forward, the length of his cock sliding against your lips. You parted them, tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you took him deep down your throat. 

“Fuck, just like that,” he groaned, head thrown back. “Show me how much you want me, darlin’.” You looked up and blinked rapidly. “I bet you're soaked right now. . . With all those people outside havin’ fun, aren’t you ashamed?” 

Your stomach bottomed out, excitement growing in your gut. You attempted to make a sound that would convey disagreement, but he only smiled, pushing himself further down. 

“Take it,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Take all of it.” 

Your eyes widened as he began to fuck your throat with earnest, precome coating your tongue. He was impatient, which was something he rarely was. Maybe it was because of the barbecue outside, or the fact that this was his baby brother’s shed���Whatever it was, you enjoyed it. 

You could barely breathe, saliva and spit dripping down the corners of your outstretched mouth. His balls laid heavy against your chin, smacking you every time he snapped his hips forward. Your eyes rolled, tears pricking the sides. You thought you heard him shushing you, a soothing sound, at least, that’s why you assumed he was shushing you. To soothe you. You had missed the fact that your moans had grown obscenely loud despite his cock sliding between your lips—

“Hey Joel, you guys good in—” Both of you stilled at the sound, the creak of the door, the familiar soft voice. Your cunt clenched, slick dripping between your thighs. You so badly wanted to touch yourself, to soothe the pain, but that seemed like an impossible thing to do. 

Joel cleared his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he slowly pulled out his cock. It glistened with spit and precome, the sight of it making you whimper. Your head felt like it was floating, that none of this was really and all you could focus on was the throbbing between your legs. 

He prevented you from looking back towards Tommy. He held his hand firm on your neck, massaging it to keep you calm. 

“We’ll be out in a second,” he said, voice strained. “Sorry.” 

The younger Miller said nothing else, you only realized it was the two of you again when you heard the door closing. Joel let out a deep breath, “So much for keepin’ it a secret,” he muttered. “I won’t be hearin’ the end of it.” 

“Sorry,” you said, looking up, eyes teary. “I. . . I didn’t realize I was being so loud.” 

He promptly knelt down, holding your face between rough hands, he kissed your forehead and smiled. “Nothin’ to apologize for. I’m the one who got us into this mess, you don’t need to worry about nothin’. It ain’t the first time he caught me indecent. Now, let’s get you home.” 

“Okay,” you muttered, heart feeling light and head still feeling dizzy. “Let’s go home.” 

***

Joel sat in the dimly lit kitchen of Tommy’s and Maria’s home. The evening shadows danced across the walls, painting the room with muted hues of twilight.Tommy had walked in on them—caught them in a moment of vulnerability and intimacy.

Tommy's initial shock had given way to a steady calm as he sat across from Joel at the small wooden table, the lines of his face etched with doubt. Joel’s hands were clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white with the strain. He stared at the worn surface of the table, struggling to find the right words.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Joel finally said, his voice rough with emotion. “It just... things got complicated. I know how it looks, Tommy. I know I’ve got no business...”

Tommy held up a hand, cutting him off. His gaze was steady, full of an unspoken empathy. “Joel, I’m not here to judge you,” he said firmly. “You’re my brother. And whatever’s going on between you and Ash, I support it. I’ve seen how she makes you feel. Hell, I’ve seen how you look at her. I want you to be happy.”

Joel’s eyes lifted to meet Tommy’s, a mixture of surprise and relief flickering across his features. “I know I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, Tommy. I’m not the man I used to be. I don’t know why she’d want anything to do with me.”

Tommy shook his head, his expression one of deep, abiding concern. “Look, Joel, none of us are perfect. We all have our demons. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a little happiness now and then. Ash’s been through her share of shit too. She’s not here because she thinks you’re some perfect hero. She’s here because she sees somethin’ in you that maybe you don’t see yourself.”

Joel’s gaze dropped again, the weight of Tommy’s words sinking in. “I just don’t want to mess it up,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m afraid that something’s gonna come along and ruin it.”

Tommy leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “You’re not alone in this, Joel. None of us are. You’ve got to trust that maybe you’re worthy of something good. Maybe you’re worthy of her. And if you’re worried about messin’ things up, then do somethin’ about it. Fight for it. But don’t keep it a secret from everyone who cares about you. It’s not a burden to bear alone.”

Joel nodded, the knot of tension in his chest loosening just a bit. “Thanks, Tommy. I appreciate it. I just... I needed to hear that.”

Tommy clapped Joel on the shoulder, a gesture of solidarity and support. “Anytime. Just remember, if you need anything, if you need to talk, I’m here. For both of you.”

***

In the weeks following the decision to make your relationship with Joel public, you found yourselves navigating a new reality in Jackson. The once familiar streets now felt charged with curiosity and speculation. You walked through the bustling market and communal areas of the town, your hands entwined, openly displaying your affection for each other.

The reactions from the community were varied. Some greeted your union with open arms, offering congratulations and warm smiles. Others were more reserved, their curiosity evident in their glances and whispered conversations. You and Joel faced these moments with a combination of resilience and humor. Your quick wit was particularly effective at easing the discomfort of those around you.

One sunny afternoon, while you were browsing through the market stalls, an elderly woman approached you both with a skeptical look. She raised an eyebrow, peering at you from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. “So, you two are an item now?” she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution.

You turned to face her, a playful smile spreading across your face. “Yep, that’s right. Joel here is my favorite person to argue with,” you said, giving Joel a mischievous look.

Joel smirked, adding, “And she’s the one who keeps me grounded. Can’t have one without the other.”

The woman’s stern expression softened into a smile. “Well, that’s a refreshing way to look at things. Congratulations then,” She patted Joel on the shoulder and ambled away, leaving behind a sense of acceptance.

As your relationship grew, so did the depth of your connection. You and Joel became more attuned to each other’s needs and emotions. Your bond was tested and strengthened through shared experiences and mutual support. Each day brought new challenges, but facing them together made your partnership even more resilient.

One particularly trying day, after a demanding patrol that left Joel physically and emotionally drained, he returned home to find you waiting for him. The sight of you, with a warm meal and an understanding smile, was a balm to his weary spirit.

As you sat down to eat, Joel hesitated before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. “Today was rough, Ash. I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Your eyes softened with concern. You reached across the table, your hand covering his. “You’re stronger than you think, Joel. We all have days that test us, but you’re not alone in this. I’m here with you, every step of the way.”

Joel met your gaze, the exhaustion in his eyes slowly giving way to a glimmer of relief. “I don’t know how I’d manage without you,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion.

You squeezed his hand, your expression resolute. “You don’t have to manage alone. We’ve got each other. That’s what matters.”

Your relationship was not all about serious moments; it was also filled with lightheartedness and affection. Your playful banter and shared humor brought a sense of normalcy and joy into your lives.

One morning, as you prepared breakfast together, the kitchen was filled with the usual clatter of pots and pans. You were juggling two eggs and a fresh stick of butter when, in a moment of clumsiness, you dropped the eggs across the floor. Joel, standing nearby, couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Well, looks like we’re having eggs for breakfast and a side of floor clean-up,” Joel said, his voice dripping with mock seriousness.

You rolled your eyes, picking up the scattered pieces with a smirk. “I’m just adding a bit of excitement to our otherwise boring mornings. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

Joel leaned against the counter, shaking his head with an amused grin. “You and your ideas of excitement. I guess I should be grateful for the change.”

Later, as the day drew to a close and the sun dipped below the horizon, you and Joel found yourselves on the porch, enjoying the tranquility of the evening. You sat close together, the warmth of your bodies and the fading light creating a cozy atmosphere.

Joel wrapped an arm around you, pulling you gently against him. “You know,” he said quietly, “for all the chaos and challenges, I wouldn’t trade these moments with you for anythin’.”

You rested your head on his shoulder, your voice was soft and content. “Me neither. We’ve built something really special here. It’s worth fighting for, no matter what comes our way.”

As you sat together in the fading light, your bond felt stronger than ever. The shared laughter, mutual support, and tender moments of connection were the foundation of your relationship. In the midst of a world fraught with uncertainty, you and Joel had found a precious refuge in each other, a testament to the enduring power of love, humor, and unwavering support.

[laurasimonsdaughter]

A farrier and her son were closing down the forge late at night, when the sound of hooves approached from up the road. They looked out across the yard and watched, with growing discomfort, how a hooded figure on a blood bay horse came riding towards them. Steed and rider halted at the gate, and the farrier hesitantly lifted her hand as the stranger spoke, in a voice as searing as fire:

“I am expected in the next town and my horse needs shodding.”

Neither master nor apprentice dared to lift up their eyes.

“Yes, sir,” the farrier answered and the figure dismounted.

The bay was a formidable animal, but it followed its master’s orders. The farrier worked the metal while her son worked the forge and she shaped the horseshoes exactly to the horse’s feet. But when it came to the shoeing, the nails that her son put in her hand were barely half the length of what was needed. She held them, and hesitated, and nailed the irons in place.

“What is your fee?” the stranger asked, once more taking the reigns of his steed.

“No fee, my lord,” the farrier replied. “An honour to serve you.”

The hooded rider went away and mother and son stayed behind, too frightened to speak. But barely had they gathered their courage and turned their backs to the road, or a second rider approached them.

He too was hooded, and his horse was black as night.

“One of my fellows went before me and I follow where he goes,” the rider spoke with a voice as dry as the cracked earth. “But my horse needs shodding.”

Once again the farrier worked the metal while her son worked the forge, one again she affixed the horseshoes with nails too short by half. She would take no fee for their labour, and the stranger rode off into the night.

No sooner had the sound of pounding hooves faded from their hearing, or a third set of hooves could be heard coming nearer.

This rider rode a white horse and his words dripped with the thickness of his voice.

“My horse needs shodding, for two of my fellows have gone before me and where they go I am close at hand.”

Barely a word was spoken. They shod the stranger's horse exactly like the others, and watched him gallop away. Then the farrier took her son’s hand, stood in the yard, and waited.

Slowly, at a steady pace, a fourth figure came down the road and halted at their gate. His hood and cloak were black, he carried a scythe at his side, and sat astride a pale horse.

“Three of my fellows have gone down this road, and whatever their destination they choose must be my own. If I am to go where they are going, my horse will need shoeing.”

“Of course, sir,” the farrier replied, but her son spoke up:

“But must you?”

The figure bowed his cowled head and cosigned his horse to the farrier’s care.

Again she carefully trimmed the hooves, again she expertly shaped the horseshoes, but when her son handed her the nails she shook her head. He faltered and she shook her head again. He gave her the proper nails and they finished their work.

“Thank you,” the stranger nodded. “What is your fee?”

“Whatever you deem our services are worth, my lord.”

The stranger held his horse by the reigns and for a long time he looked thoughtfully down the road where the three had gone before him. Then he looked at the mother and son, standing stiffly side by side.

He held out a thin hand and gave them each a single coin, one just like the other, before mounting his horse, and turning back in the direction from which he had come, riding at the same unhurried pace.

The farrier and her son watched him until he was out of sight and out of hearing. They stood there, until dawn broke, and the dark was chased away. Only then did they did they dare to lock the gate and go to the house, where the rest of family still slept soundly.

The two coins were placed in salt and buried underneath the doorstep. And for as long as that house stood, no one who was born under its roof was carried out of it before their time.

[ak319]

Yan Socialite Brother x reader x Yan?Hubby

YOUR LITTLE EZZY'S BACK! So I couldn't help but write more about him. I will also write a version with the reader's wife. Enjoy reading ♡ Ezra Headcanon

In the dark hours, the Alvarez estate was shrouded in a thick silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire that danced in the hearth. Shadows stretched across the grand, dimly lit room, adding to the air of peculiar mystery that seemed to cloak the entire estate. Ezra sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the flames that flickered with a restless energy, mirroring the turmoil within him. The news you had shared with him still echoed in his mind, fanning the fire of his emotions, making it burn hotter, fiercer.

"Amir?.." his eyes were fixed on your back as you scrummaged through the bookshelf. You replied back gently. "Yes, Amir. The boy who works on one of the farms."

So a slave huh?

And then you explained everything to Ezra, from how you saw Amir, appreciated his gentle nature, and were now thinking of bringing him here as your groom. Ezra’s rage simmered beneath the surface, though his fake smile and curious eyes never left your face. But your tone didn’t match the word "thinking", it clearly said, "I am bringing him as my groom." He was happy… happy for you. But on the other hand, he wasn’t happy for himself.

This was the day he had dreaded. For his own peace of mind, he sent one of his attendants, Rowan, to inquire about this so-called Amir. The report? Amir was a poor servant with three siblings and parents who also worked on the farm. Amir was the oldest. Hm. Poor, innocent, loyal, and not too bad-looking, though in Ezra's eyes, everyone pales in comparison to Alvarez's. Nobody can ever be good enough for you. He just didn't want his sister to marry a dirt-face. After all, their family has a certain dignity in society. There was something he relished in this situation, Amir’s meekness, bred by his lower status, was something Ezra could use and if his sister were to marry, it should be to someone who knows their place.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

Amir couldn’t shake the memory of the way you approached him that day.

“M-my lady-”

“It’s okay, relax. Just came to greet you and see how the work is going.” His hand continued to glide through the horse’s mane, though his gaze, filled with shyness and respect, lingered on you. You loved that. “What’s your name, boy?”

“A-Amir…ma’am.” You asked him more questions, and with each one, his initial fear of you began to fade. Eventually, he even dared to ask some of his own. He didn’t realize that he had backed away to the fence, cornered by your every step forward.

“I don’t think a…” You gently removed a leaf from his silky hair. “A pretty thing like you belongs on a farm.” His quick breaths brushed your face before he turned away. Did you just compliment him?! How could you not? He was so unique with that snowy hair and those pale green eyes. “U-um, but I have to-w-work to earn-for-”

“What if I say, not anymore?”

On that very day, you boldly asked his parents for his hand in marriage, right there on the farm, while Amir stood paralyzed in disbelief. His parents, naturally, agreed without a moment's pause, and his heart raced as he caught your final glance over your shoulder before you rode off with your men. How could a humble servant like him ever be worthy of becoming your husband? The idea felt impossible, undeserved. But as the reality settled in, he came to see it not as a blessing but as a test---a daunting trial between love, loyalty, hate… and obsession.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

'Time to play some games' Ezra smirked in the mirror as he gave himself a once-over. "Nobody can outshine you Ezra or take your place, nobody."

The grand staircase of the mansion, lavishly adorned for his sister's wedding, became the stage for Ezra's entrance. As he descended, everyone’s eyes were drawn to him. His gaze landed on you seated beside Amir on the sofa, and his smirk widened at the sight of Amir’s expression. Those doe eyes that have seduced his sister were now filled with embarrassment, as they should be.

Amir was at a loss. His brother-in-law, dressed in an outfit nearly identical to his own--albeit more glamorous and in a different color--had just exposed Ezra's facade. All the sweet words and actions before the wedding had been an act. Ezra settled onto the cushion next to you, casually nibbling on some food from the table, savoring the revelation of his little game.

"Ezra, you should have rested," you said, your tone carrying a hint of concern. Amir was taken aback, noticing your relaxed demeanour. It seemed you hadn’t caught onto Ezra’s stunt. It wasn’t your fault, after all. Maybe you are too tired to notice or don't want to scold your brother, whom you cherish deeply, especially in front of guests—many of whom were now eyeing Ezra with a mix of admiration and curiosity. His display was a calculated reminder that he would always eclipse Amir. Ezra had even missed the official ceremony, claiming illness as his excuse and retreating to his room.

"Nonsense!. How could I have missed my own sister's wedding? And did you forget that I managed all these preparations?. I would never miss it."

'Oh, but you missed the vow ceremony, how convenient and now he's here to remind everyone how he managed all of this and such a good brother-in-law he is by being sweet to me and my family.'

"Do I look good, sister?"

"Of course you do. When have you ever looked bad?" You reached out to pat his head affectionately before pulling a small pouch from your pocket. "This is for you Ezra, a token of appreciation for your efforts, as tradition dictates."

Ezra’s eyes sparkled with delight as he accepted the pouch of gold. "It was nothing. Thank you so much. I just did my duty."

He got up soon to cater to guests including Amir's family probably to show off how humble he is.

The only thing keeping Amir sane and easing his worries was you. Your hand held his gently, and he felt comforted by the ring you put on his finger. He placed his other hand on yours, needing the reassurance that you were there for him.

‘As long as you’re here,’ he kept praying silently.

However, as days passed since the marriage, Ezra's facade toward his brother-in-law began to crumble in your absence. Amir couldn’t understand why Ezra, who had been nothing but nice to him, now seemed to act cold and distant.

The taunts, the disgusted glances, and the deliberate ignoring of Amir had become a painful routine. What troubled him the most was Ezra’s ability to put on a friendly front when you were around. He wondered how a person could even do that? Can he be this deceitful too? His parents always taught him to be kind and true to people. That is why he bared himself to you, he opened his heart to you and gave himself completely. By now he had come to terms with it that Ezra won't ever see him as part of the family much less as an equal. But he remained focused on making sure you were happy with him, that he never made you upset with him because that is what Ezra wants but with Amir's modest and docile nature, it was nearly impossible,

"You know, Amir, since my sister is away on a business trip, you might as well stay with your parents for a while." Amir looked up from his untouched breakfast, confusion and concern etched on his face.

"U-um... why?"

"Why?" Ezra's lips curled into a dismissive smirk. "Well, your duty is to her, and since she’s not here, you might as well go. It’s not like you’re doing anything important around here."

"But—"

"I’ll have the carriage prepared." And just like that he got up and left, Rowan tailing behind him. And so, Amir found himself spending days with his family. His spirits lifted somewhat in their comforting presence, but his thoughts were always clouded by how much he longed to be in your arms. However...

"You don’t just get up and leave like this. Did you even realize how badly this reflects on me? My spouse just vanished after a few days of marriage. I expected you to be waiting for me at the door, but instead, you were here." Your words felt like sharp needles piercing his heart, making him clutch the carriage’s cushion tighter. His mind was filled with images of Ezra welcoming you back, whispering deceitful tales of how he had left.

'He was bored.'

'He doesn’t like it here. I think he doesn't even want to make an effort to adjust.'

'He didn’t even bother to greet you. What kind of husband is he, sister?'

"(Y/N), I d-didn’t mean to leave. It’s just--" What could he say to avoid further anger? Should he blame Ezra? The thought of making excuses or casting blame only added to his distress.

"I don’t care. Next time, don’t leave like that. And if you feel the need to, ask me first. Got it? Also, you can just call your family to visit there. That’s your home now, you don’t have to keep coming back here." He nodded, biting his lip. 'As if your brother would ever let my family feel welcome there. I would never subject them to that mansion of thorns, to be insulted. That’s something I won’t tolerate.'

"Forgive me?" he asked softly, leaning closer to you. "Please, I missed you with every breath." A tired sigh and a gentle caress on his face were all he received, but even that was more than enough for him.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

Time seemed to pass slowly for Amir, each day filled with torment and venomous words from Ezra. He hid his tears, letting them out in some corner of the mansion , so that when you returned, he could greet you with a smile. He didn’t know what to do. He didn't want to stress you by complaining about your brother or involving you in this petty game. He felt like he was going mad as he dwelled on his thoughts. The books offered some solace, but he wished his life were more like a fairytale.

“Well, I thought you should take care of the household budget now, but I think it’s too soon for you to handle this. There are a number of reasons for my distrust, which... I would prefer not to share.”

“It’s alright... I just joined the family, so I think it’s inappropriate for me to take on that responsibility. And brother Ezra is handling it well anyway.”

“Thank you for understanding.” You gently played with his hair as his head rested on your lap. “I love how understanding you are.” He melted under your compliment, the magical touch adding to his contentment.

“Anything for you, wife. You know better than me. Whatever decision you make, I’ll always accept it.” He kissed your finger, his heart swelling with happiness at the sight of the ring you wore. The ring his family had bought with whatever they could afford, and yet you wore it. You were the only one who hadn’t looked down on him because of his status. You even cared for his family, sending them provisions and gifts.

Actually, there was another person who hadn't looked down on Amir--your mother, Ms. Grace. She was a woman who preferred solitude, keeping herself busy with her hobbies after her husband's death. Whenever Amir felt alone, he made sure to check on her, offering company and conversation.

“You’re a really good boy. My daughter found a gem.” Amir smiled, but his eyes told a different story. They were seated in Grace’s study, having tea. “Something troubles you, and I know what it is. It’s Ezra, isn’t it?” Damn it, is it that obvious?

“N-no, no, he’s nice. I’m just--”

“Oh, save it. He’s my son, I can smell his shenanigans from miles away. And that daughter of mine—utterly stupid!. She’s the reason he’s like this. Either she’s too aloof or just chooses to ignore it.”

“No, no! She has a lot on her plate. I just don’t want to burden her with such petty problems. She brought me here so that she could find peace, not for me to disrupt it.” Grace’s heart swelled with pity and love at his words. “You are my son too, okay? And I’m just trying to help you understand that you’re the only one who can help yourself.”

“W-what does that mean?”

"It means you have to be strong. You’re not some piece of garbage my daughter picked up. She brought you here, gave you a title, and bestowed you with respect--so honor it, and don’t let anyone take it away just because they think you don’t deserve it. My in-laws were a piece of work too. May their souls rest in peace, but I went through some tough times with them. What kept me firm was my husband. Do you get my point?"

Her in-laws--oh, what a tragedy that befell them on that ferry. The whole town was shaken. Perhaps it was their karma.

“Yes.”

"You love her, right?" His head snapped up to meet her eyes. Was that even a question?

"More than anything! Always."

"Then don’t beat yourself up like this. Just do your part and leave the rest to God. Everything will be alright one day." Amir nodded and took a sip of his remaining tea, feeling a bit lighter and more hopeful. She was right. Being depressed and crying wouldn’t get him anywhere. Worse, you might even leave him because of his sulky behavior. His fingers tightened around the saucer.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

"Sir Ezra has called for you," Rowan informed him as he was putting on his shoes. The two of you were getting ready for dinner. "Me?"

"Yes, you, sir. In his room."

"I'll be there." He glanced at you as you were fastening your coat. "Yeah, go ahead, I'll be waiting downstairs." He nodded and left, but not before helping you with your sleeve buttons and giving you a quick peck.

"You called for me?" His smooth voice reverberated in the quiet room, his eyes finding Ezra nestled in his giant bed.

"Oh yes, you two are going out, right? Could you tell (Y/N) to bring back those pastries that I love?" Something felt off.

Amir swallowed the uneasiness and glanced between Ezra and Rowan. "Sure. Anything else?"

"No. That would be all, thank you."

As always, you had chosen a high-end restaurant, and your presence and attention made him forget all his worries. This was what he cherished the most, his time with you. Your care, your love. He felt, no, believed that he was the luckiest man alive. Contrary to Grace's words, you did pick him from the trash and made him your treasure.

When you both entered the mansion hand in hand, your smile immediately faded into a worried frown.

"EZRA!" Amir barely had time to react as he saw you rush up the stairs where Ezra was now slumped against the railing. The bag of pastries had been thrown from your hands and lay at his feet.

"ROWAN! CALL THE DOCTOR! What happened, Ezra?!"

"Di-did you bring the med...?" Ezra's one hand gripped your collar as the other his stomach.

"What medicine?!"

"The one I asked for..." Ezra's weary, hollow gaze turned to Amir, sending a chill through his very core. "Rowan, help me carry him." You shot a sharp glance over your shoulder at Amir as you hurried up the stairs.

'He did it again... God,' Thought Amir as he bent down to collect the crumbles scattered on the carpet. They mirrored his own shattered emotions and the fractured state of his new life.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

"I swear he asked for pastries... you believe me, don't you!? Please!"

"I said, let it go. Just shut up." You settled onto the bed, sighing as you saw him standing in the corner, emotionless.

"Amir, come here. There is something you should know." Your tone was soft, almost apologetic.

He sat beside the bed, his eyes cast on the floor. "Listen, I feel like you both don't get along, but that needs to change, okay? He is my brother, and you are my husband. Both of you are important to me. And I wanted to tell you that soon after having a talk with him, I will ask Mother to find a suitable bride for him. This family needs an heir."

Wait...

"Heir?"

"Yes, an heir. Even though, as you know, I'm not a fan of children in any shape or form, the line needs to continue. That is Ezra's duty, so he is essential to me. This whole tedious business of having children...ugh." You rubbed your forehead in frustration. "Whatever. But we will also treat them like our own, okay?" You loathed the idea of carrying a child yourself, and Amir was just as opposed to the thought of you experiencing any discomfort. The thought of losing you over that made him shiver. The business was more important to you than anything, and you made that very clear before marriage. Your word was law. Still, he couldn’t help but ask.

"C-can't we both... adopt, though?"

"That's for another day and why adopt now when we can have our own? Ezra has to marry someday. It’s completely fair. He needs to grow up now."

Your tone and earlier outburst made him nod frantically, but a new emotion stirred within him , something close to amusement. Oh, how will Ezra react when you make him marry someone. Maybe it’s for the best, 'At least he’ll get off my back, hopefully.'

Yet, he also felt pity for the woman who would be bound to that two-faced bastard. Is your only goal to use your brother as a breeder? That’s even more amusing.

As you lay down, he went to the bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. If Ezra were to provide you with a child one day, wouldn’t that make him more honorable in your eyes?

'No, after today’s stunt, I’ve had enough of this.'

You want a child, an heir--that’s clear, that's fine. But he won’t let Ezra exploit this situation.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

"I--I mean--" Ezra stammered, his usual confidence wavering as he tried to find the right words.

You held his face in your hands, your grip firm yet gentle, your eyes searching his. "It's not like I am asking for something outrageous here," you said, your tone soft but laced with expectation.

Ezra's eyes darted away for a moment, then back to you. "I get you, but isn’t it too soon? I mean-"

"You're of age," you cut him off, your tone now tinged with a bit of annoyance. "You’ve never rejected anything I’ve asked of you before, and now you are?"

"NO! No, absolutely not, sister!" Ezra's voice was a mix of desperation and determination. "How can you even think that? I will do it. I will." Inside, though, his mind rebelled. It’s not the marriage that Ezra hates, it’s the idea of spending his life with some annoying woman. What if she turns out to be a snake too?! Oh, he won't forgive that, ever. His eyes betrayed a flicker of dread before he quickly masked it with a forced smile.

"Great, then. Mother will surely find the most amazing match for you," you said with finality, turning to leave. "Just make sure to tell her what your type is. Remember, she shouldn’t just be a good wife but a perfect mother for my heir too."

Without another word, you exited the room, leaving Ezra alone with his spiraling thoughts. Did Amir put this idea in your head? Sometimes, Ezra just wanted to kill that son of a-

"Deep breaths, Ezra, deep breaths," he muttered to himself, trying to quell the surge of frustration. Yeah, his sister wouldn’t be happy if her husband was torn to pieces. 'This is your life now', seeing Amir’s face in this mansion every single day, and soon enough, a wife’s too. Ugh! He threw a vase at the wall in a fit of irritation. He won't ever be in peace until you divorce Amir.

He couldn’t afford to dwell on that for now. He had to carry out your order, even if he despised the thought of dealing with an annoying woman and whining babies. You had given him a task, a job, and he couldn’t let you down. He would never let you down.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

Ezra's bride, Jean Aston, had been chosen--an arrangement made with a family friend. While Ezra couldn't have cared less about the choice, he at least appreciated that Jean stood out with her striking red hair and green eyes. His wife needed to be of some caliber, though in his view, only one person could be the true beauty of the marriage, and that person was unquestionably him. However, he also acknowledged the importance of passing on good genes to the heir you desired.

What he hadn’t expected was Jean’s bubbly demeanor. Wasn't she the one who had been too shy to meet him before the wedding?

"Can you be quiet? Can you be a bit more demure?" Ezra snapped, his patience wearing thin as she chattered incessantly, sitting beside him after their vows. "Look at me--am I being so chattery? Bride and groom are supposed to be graceful, woman."

Jean’s expression soured beneath her veil. "Wow, I was just trying to make small talk. I’ve been quiet since our engagement, so I’m going to talk now that we’re married. Also when is the food going to served?I am starving, how can-"

'God, just let this ceremony end already.'

Meanwhile, in the far corner of the room, Amir sighed, silently wishing Jean the best. Poor girl didn’t know what she was in for. His mind wandered back to his own wedding, the memory leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. It was hard not to compare the two experiences and feel a twinge of sympathy for her. At least you are way better than Ezra. A lot...no, perfect in his eyes. Always.

Once they retreated to their room, Ezra lifted Jean's veil with a cold, expressionless face, cutting her off before she could utter a word.

"There are some things you need to engrain in that skull of yours. First, always show respect for my sister. Always. You know that, don’t you? Secondly, try talking less and listening more."

"Got it! Now, where’s my wedding gift?" Jean’s cheerful interruption made Ezra’s jaw tighten, but he quickly masked his irritation with a smooth composure.

"No, you tell me first--who advised you to wear a harvest gold veil with such questionable embroidery? Huh? Such a poor fashion choice. I’ve explicitly told your family that gold is my color, I wear it. I don’t want to see you in it again." His fingers traced the material with a disdainful touch. "This abomination definitely needs fixing ." Though the veil was actually quite pretty, he couldn’t accept the fact that she looked good in it-- perhaps more than he did which is a big no.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

Months later, the mansion, once quiet and dull, now echoed with the cries of a baby boy whom you named, Joseph. Ezra handed you the baby first which you were hesitant to hold but did anyway, after all you asked for this. It only lasted for a few minutes before he dozed off in Jean's arms.

"Jean," you said, gently patting her head. She looked up at you with a mix of nervousness and curiosity, her eyes brightening with anticipation. You took the papers from Amir and handed them to her. "Here's a gift. A plot, in your name and another in dear Joseph's. You’ve earned it."

Jean’s eyes widened with surprise and gratitude. "Y-you didn’t have to, (Y/N)-"

"Jean," Ezra scolded gently, his tone surprising you. It seemed that your brother had softened a bit since Joseph’s birth.

"Don’t refuse (Y/N)'s gift. Accept it," he added. Jean nodded, her shyness evident, but her gratitude clear as she met your gaze. "Thank you, (Y/N)."

"Good, now rest. The nanny will arrive soon," you instructed, leaving with Amir in tow. Ezra shot a disapproving look at Amir as they exited.

"Don’t be rude to Brother Amir like that," Jean reprimanded.

"It’s none of your concern. Stop being his defender, anyway. Focus on the child, his upbringing must be perfect. And take care of yourself too--I don’t want you fainting while feeding him." With that, Ezra stormed out. Jean sighed, finding him as unpredictable as ever--hot one moment, cold the next.

The tragedy that struck when Joseph was just six months old was unexpected. The poor child fell gravely ill, and even the doctors couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with his stomach. But by some blessing, everyone's prayers were answered when Amir's remedy worked, one his mother used to give when they were sick as children and Joseph was saved. Had it been a moment later, who knows what could have happened. Even though Ezra didn't bother to thank Amir, it didn’t matter. Amir did it for you, for your child.

༺𓆩❀𓆪༻

"You know, I think it's been a while since I married you," you murmured, lost in thought.

Amir looked up from his book and chuckled, "Oh, you realized it now? I think it's been more than a while, my dearest."

"I know, I know." You now stood where he was seated, gently caressing his cheek. "I think it's time you start doing your duty here." You handed him the seal, "You're in charge of the household's budget now." Amir's eyes widened in surprise. "B-but brother Ezra--"

"Shush," you interrupted. "I decide how things are run here. And I’m giving you this responsibility. Don’t disappoint me."

He nodded, a grateful smile spreading across his face as he kissed your knuckles. "Never, I won’t ever dream of it."

From within, his heart was bursting with happiness. At last, he had something--something he wanted, something he could use as leverage against Ezra. His plan had worked flawlessly. His hidden knowledge of botany had made it all possible; plants to make poison, plants to make antidote. A soft giggle escaped him and so did some tears, as you left the room, the seal twirling between his fingers.

Deep inside, he couldn’t ignore the guilt gnawing at him as he saw the pain etched on everyone’s faces over Joseph. His own tears stung with remorse, but he believed it was a good plan--a necessary one to win your trust, your love. He hadn’t wanted to be so heartless, to poison his own child, but he felt he had no choice. Being Ezra’s doormat for so long had worn him down. And for once, watching Ezra in distress was so worth it. Amir couldn’t help but relish every moment.

(AN: OmG, Amir really turned dark, the poor innocent boi. Look how Ezra massacred my boy)

[joelsrose]

First Date: Part II

Part 1

Next part

The room was quiet, but your heart refused to follow suit, pounding wildly against your ribs as Joel’s words played over and over in your head. The faint hum of alcohol lingered in your veins, leaving your senses dulled but your emotions sharp. Heat crept up your neck and across your face, a blush you couldn’t will away. Your chest ached, full and warm, caught somewhere between elation and frustration.

Not like this.

Joel Miller wanted to kiss you. The thought spun in your mind like a cyclone, disorienting and infuriating all at once. Why was he so impossible to understand? Why couldn’t he just come out and say what he meant instead of leaving you to sift through his maddening half-truths and clumsy, drunken confessions? All he ever did was complicate things.

He was infuriating, stubborn, and guarded to a fault—a wall of iron wrapped in a storm cloud. And yet, despite all of it, you felt yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It didn’t make any sense. Why him, of all people? Had the years of chaos and heartbreak warped you so completely that you’d developed some ridiculous weakness for brooding older men with a penchant for gruffness and unspoken truths?

You huffed into the darkness, pressing your palms against your flushed cheeks, but the heat didn’t dissipate. Against your will, your thoughts drifted back to him, to his voice low and gravelly, saying things he couldn’t seem to admit in the sober light of day. Was he awake now, thinking about you? Or had he already pushed it all aside, boxed it up and locked it away in whatever cavern he stored the pieces of himself he refused to share?

The ache in your chest swelled, pushing against the growing exhaustion that tugged at you. You curled onto your side, pulling the blanket closer, hoping to smother the whirlwind of emotions that refused to quiet down.

And just as the edges of sleep began to blur your thoughts, you felt it—a phantom sensation born of longing and bittersweet dreams. The imagined press of Joel’s lips against yours, warm and deliberate, a fleeting moment of tenderness that made your heart stutter even as slumber finally claimed you.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You rode in silence behind Joel, the steady rhythm of your horse beneath you almost lulling you into a trance. The biting cold nipped at your cheeks, but your thoughts kept drifting to the man ahead of you. His broad frame cut an imposing silhouette against the pale horizon, his posture as tall and rigid as ever. Every movement was deliberate, his eyes constantly scanning the terrain, as if the weight of the entire world rested squarely on his shoulders.

This morning, he had greeted you with a curt nod and a gruff “Morning.” The simple acknowledgment had caught you off guard. After the tension of your last conversation, you half-expected him to retreat into one of his impenetrable silences. But that was Joel Miller—always catching you off guard, always surprising you right when you thought you finally had him figured out.

Patrol today was supposed to be a routine supply check at one of the safe houses, but something felt off. Your admittedly poor sense of direction had its limits, and even you could tell that you’d been heading the wrong way for at least an hour.

You hesitated, your eyes fixed on Joel’s broad back as he rode ahead. Joel wasn’t exactly known for his love of small talk, and the idea of breaking the silence felt like stepping into dangerous territory. But the quiet was stretching too thin, and curiosity, paired with a healthy dose of boredom, finally got the better of you.

“Joel,” you called out, your voice cutting through the crisp air, “where are we going? The safe house is the other way.” Your tone was casual enough, but it carried an undercurrent of irritation you couldn’t quite hide.

He didn’t turn, his voice gruff and matter-of-fact. “Already checked the supplies this morning.”

“What?” you blurted, reining your horse to a halt. Your frustration flared as the biting cold nipped at your cheeks, your irritation rising at the realization. “What the hell are we doing out here, then?”

You couldn’t keep the exasperation out of your voice, the long ride through freezing winds now feeling even more unnecessary. Your breath puffed in front of you as you waited for an answer, your fingers tightening on the reins.

Joel finally stopped his horse, turning in the saddle to face you, his expression unreadable as always. “We’re goin’ somewhere they can’t hear us,” he said simply, his tone as dry as the winter air.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, your frustration bubbling over. “The hell does that mean?” you shot back, your breath puffing out in an irritated cloud.

Joel exhaled, rubbing a gloved hand over his face as if summoning patience. “Jesus,” he muttered, his voice laced with sarcasm. “Don’t sound so scared. Not gonna murder you.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, caught completely off guard. Then it hit you—Joel Miller had just told a joke. A joke. In his own deadpanned, gruff way, Joel Miller was trying to lighten the mood, and it left you momentarily speechless.

“What do you mean, ‘somewhere they can’t hear us?’” you pressed, suspicion still clear in your voice.

“Less chance of runnin’ into infected or raiders out here,” Joel replied, his tone measured, his focus already shifting back to the path ahead.

You frowned, still not satisfied. “Okay… so?”

“So we can practice,” he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Practice what?” you groaned, exasperation creeping into your voice as you rolled your eyes. “Do you ever speak in full sentences, or is this just a special talent of yours?”

Joel’s eyebrows arched slightly at your tone, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. He wasn’t used to this—your voice sharp, laced with teasing. Around Maria and Tommy? Sure. But with him? You’d always seemed a little more reserved, a little hesitant.

For a moment, something softened in his expression, his guarded demeanor cracking just enough for the faintest twitch of a smile to tug at the corner of his lips. It was fleeting, though—gone before you could catch it, as if he’d forced it away before it betrayed him.

“Gonna practice your shootin’,” he said, his voice steady, with just the faintest edge of amusement, before turning his focus back to the trail.

You found your gaze lingering on his profile, tracing the hard line of his jaw and the subtle furrow of his brow, hoping it would somehow reveal his truth. Joel Miller was a complete enigma, a puzzle you couldn’t seem to piece together no matter how many hours you spent in his company.

This was the man who rarely spared more than a fleeting glance at anyone unless it was absolutely necessary, the man who seemed to prefer the chaos of infected over the mundane discomfort of small talk. And yet here he was, willingly going out of his way, taking you out to practice shooting. In the middle of nowhere. Far from prying eyes and unnecessary distractions.

The thought crept into your mind before you could stop it, your chest tightening as you turned it over. Was there a chance—however small—that Joel Miller felt something for you too?

It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? You shook your head slightly, willing the thought to dissipate, but it clung to you, stubborn and insistent. No matter how much you tried to brush it aside, the possibility lingered—warm and persistent, like an ember nestled deep in your chest, refusing to fade no matter how much you tried to snuff it out.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“All right,” Joel said, his voice breaking through the crisp morning air as his eyes swept over the landscape ahead. The clearing was vast and open, framed by a dense thicket of trees whose bare branches swayed softly in the winter breeze. Frost coated the grass, glimmering faintly under the pale, overcast sky, and in the distance, a frozen creek carved its way through the land, its icy surface catching the weak light like fractured glass.

The air was still, carrying the sharp, earthy scent of winter, and the silence was almost unnerving in its completeness. No distant chatter, no shuffle of movement—just the sound of your breath mingling with the faint crunch of frost underfoot.

Joel was right. You were far from Jackson, far from the risks of infected or raiders. Here, in this quiet expanse of frozen solitude, it was just the two of you.

Joel swung his leg over his horse, dismounting with practiced ease. You followed suit, your boots crunching softly against the frost-laden ground as you landed. Without a word, Joel led the horses to a nearby tree with a thick, sturdy trunk, securing them with firm, deliberate knots.

You grabbed your pack and rifle, trailing behind him as he moved through the clearing. His eyes swept the area with a critical precision, his every movement purposeful, as though he’d already planned out exactly how this would go.

He stopped at a fallen log first, gripping it with both hands and dragging it into position with a grunt of effort. Crouching low, he pulled a tin can from his pack and set it carefully on top, his hands steady despite the biting chill in the air.

Next, he turned his attention to a dilapidated fencepost, its wood splintered and weathered, lining up a few bottles along its edge. The frosted glass caught the faint light filtering through the clouds, glinting like tiny beacons against the dull gray backdrop.

But Joel wasn’t finished. A rusted metal barrel leaned against a nearby tree, and he hauled it upright with a quiet determination, giving it a quick once-over before affixing a target to its side. Finally, he moved toward the creek, his boots crunching over frost and ice, lining up a series of rocks along the edge, spaced just enough to challenge your aim at a longer distance.

You watched it all with growing amusement, your eyebrow arching as Joel stepped back to survey his work. His expression remained all business, his lips pressed into a firm line, but the meticulous care he put into arranging each makeshift target was oddly endearing.

“Jesus,” you muttered, eyeing the array of makeshift targets scattered across the clearing. “How many of these are you hoping I actually hit?”

“All of ’em,” Joel replied without missing a beat, his tone steady and confident.

You raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. “That’s ridiculous, Joel.”

“No, it ain’t,” he said, dead serious, his gaze unwavering as he adjusted his stance. “When we’re done here, you’ll be able to hit every single one.”

You let out a disbelieving huff, shaking your head. “You’re insane.”

“I meant what I said,” he continued, his voice low but firm, cutting through your doubts. “You’re not a bad shot—but you’re not confident.”

His words made you pause. He remembered saying that, back when he’d been drunk. Did that mean he remembered the other thing he’d said then?

Thinking about you.

Joel kept going, his tone calm but resolute. “Half of shootin’ is havin’ the aim,” he said, gesturing toward the rifle in your hands. “The other half is thinkin’ you can actually hit what you’re aiming for.”

“Okay,” you breathed, steadying yourself as you tightened your grip on the rifle.

Joel Miller believed you could hit every single one of these targets, so you better damn well try.

You glanced at him, his expression as steady as ever, his confidence in you unwavering. “Alright,” you said, your voice firming with determination. “Teach me.”

Joel gave a small nod, his eyes narrowing slightly as he stepped closer, his presence solid and grounding. “First,” he began, his voice calm but commanding, “your stance. You ain’t gonna hit anything if you’re all off-balance.”

Joel stepped closer, the sound of his boots crunching against the frost pulling your attention to him completely. The space between you felt impossibly small as he came to stand at your side, his dark eyes scanning you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Feet shoulder-width apart,” he said, his voice low and gruff, his tone laced with a quiet authority that sent a shiver down your spine. You adjusted your stance, glancing at him for approval, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before he gave a slight nod.

“Good,” he murmured, stepping behind you. You felt the weight of him there, close enough that the warmth of his presence cut through the biting cold. “Grip the rifle like this.”

His hands reached out, rough and warm as they wrapped over yours, adjusting your grip with careful precision. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a pulse of heat through you that you couldn’t ignore.

“Relax,” he said, his voice softer now, but still carrying that edge of restraint. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, grounding and firm. “You’re too stiff. Loosen up—ain’t gonna hit a thing if you’re all tense.”

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on his words and not the way his touch lingered, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder before he pulled back.

“Like this?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Joel leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “Better. Now, line up your sights.”

The proximity was dizzying, the way his hand ghosted over your arm to guide you sending a jolt of awareness through you. You couldn’t help but feel the heat of him at your back, the roughness of his hand as it hovered, hesitant but deliberate.

“You’re tilting,” he murmured, his voice softer now but still gruff. His hand brushed your arm lightly as he adjusted your aim. “Not your body—just your eyes. Straight down the barrel.”

The tension crackled in the air between you, thick and electric. You tried to steady your breathing, but it was impossible with him this close, his focus entirely on you.

“Now,” Joel said, his voice almost a whisper, rough and unrestrained, “breathe in. Slow.”

You obeyed, your chest rising and falling in rhythm with his words.

“Hold it,” he continued, his tone impossibly close, the timbre of it making your pulse race. “Squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull—squeeze.”

The rifle fired, the shot echoing through the clearing.

The can on the log wobbled but didn’t fall.

You groaned in frustration, your cheeks burning from the effort—and something else entirely.

Joel stepped back slightly, just enough to give you room to breathe, but not enough to break the tension. His lips pressed into a line, his eyes scanning you, calculating. “Do it again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You frowned, glancing at him. “You make it sound so easy,” you muttered.

“Ain’t supposed to be easy,” he said, his voice lower, quieter. His eyes locked on yours, and for a moment, the air between you felt heavier. “But you’ll get there.”

He stepped behind you again, closer this time, his hand brushing your lower back as he guided you into position. “Focus,” he said, his voice rough and close. “You got this.”

This time, when you fired, the can flew off the log with a sharp clang.

A surprised laugh burst from your lips, and you turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. Joel’s eyes lingered on yours, the tension thick and charged, before he gave a small, approving nod.

“Told you,” he said, his voice gruff but softer.

The world seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in the stillness of the clearing.

Your chest tightened as you met his gaze, and for once, he didn’t look away.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The clearing had transformed into a battlefield of spent casings, the sharp tang of gunpowder mingling with the crisp evening air. You’d lost track of how many rounds you’d fired, how many times Joel’s gruff encouragements had pushed you to reload and try again.

The sun hung low now, spilling a watercolor of oranges and pinks across the sky, while shadows stretched like creeping fingers over the ground. The fading light tugged at the edges of your nerves, a reminder of how dangerous it was to linger, but Joel stood firm.

“You’re not leavin’ until you hit every single one,” he said, his voice steady and resolute, as if the world beyond this clearing didn’t exist.

Your gaze shifted to the last target—a battered can balanced precariously on the edge of a log, defiant in its refusal to fall. It mocked you in its stillness, the sole survivor of the carnage you’d unleashed.

Joel adjusted his stance beside you, his presence a steady anchor. “Alright, let’s go again,” he said, his tone as unwavering as ever, leaving no room for argument.

“Joel,” you groaned, the ache in your arms deepening as the rifle seemed to grow heavier with every passing second. “We’re gonna run out of bullets, I’m starving, and then—when we’re weak from hunger—werewolves are gonna eat us.”

Joel’s head snapped toward you, his brow knitting together in utter confusion. “The hell are you talkin’ about?”

You bit back a laugh, your shoulders shaking just slightly. “Sorry. I’m delirious. I told you—I’m hungry.”

He exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t catch, though the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips. “Focus,” he said, stepping closer, his voice softer this time, like he was coaxing a skittish animal. “This is the last one—you can do it.”

You glanced at him, lifting an eyebrow in mock defiance. “And if I don’t?”

Joel’s eyes glinted, his expression unreadable as he shrugged, his tone deadpan. “Then I’ll leave you out here. Alone.”

Your jaw dropped, the words hanging in the air for a beat longer than they should have. “What?” you practically yelped, caught between indignation and disbelief.

He shrugged again, the corner of his mouth tugging upward into what could only be described as a smirk. It was maddeningly subtle but unmistakable, and for a moment, you just stared at him, thrown off by his uncharacteristic playfulness.

“Jesus, Joel,” you muttered, narrowing your eyes at him, though the spark of humor in his gaze told you exactly how much truth there wasn’t in his empty threat.

“Alright,” you sighed dramatically, squaring up to the rifle.

Joel stepped behind you, his presence impossibly distracting, his warmth cutting through the cold like a flame. His hands settled on your waist, firm and steady, grounding you in a way that sent your heart into overdrive. The touch wasn’t intrusive, but it was deliberate, and it set every nerve in your body alight. He nudged your feet apart with his knee, his voice low and gravelly as he murmured, “Remember—feet apart.”

How in the world did he expect you to hit the target when he was this close? Your mind raced, your thoughts tangling into a mess of sensations—the press of his chest just shy of your back, the quiet strength in his hands, the way his breath ghosted over your ear. You bit your lip, terrified that if you said anything, your voice might betray just how much he was affecting you.

“Alright,” Joel said softly, his voice so close it made your stomach flip. “Now shoot.”

You forced yourself to exhale, a slow and steady release, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle kicked against your shoulder, the shot ringing out across the clearing, and the can flew off the log with a sharp clang that echoed through the trees.

“I got it!” you yelped, spinning toward him, the thrill of victory bursting out of you. Without thinking, you hopped in place, your excitement bubbling over.

Joel clapped his hands together once, his grin breaking free like sunlight through storm clouds. It was rare, genuine, and so utterly Joel that it stole your breath. “Good girl,” he said, his voice warm, his tone low, the words landing squarely in your chest and sending heat rushing to your cheeks.

Your laughter spilled out, light and unrestrained, though the flush in your face betrayed how much those two simple words had affected you. “I can’t believe it,” you said, catching your breath. “I mean, you helped—like, a lot.”

“No,” Joel said firmly, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity in his gaze unwavering. “You did that.”

Something in the way he said it—earnest and steady—made your chest tighten, the words settling in a place deeper than just pride. For a moment, the world stilled, and it was just him, his eyes on yours, his presence steady and reassuring in a way that made it impossible to look away.

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, your lips curling into a shy smile. “Thanks,” you murmured, the word feeling heavier than it should.

“Alright, let’s go,” Joel said, turning toward the horses. But just before he mounted his, he glanced back at you, his voice low and teasing. “Before the werewolves come get us.”

You couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across your face as you laughed softly, shaking your head.

You smiled the entire ride back.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You loved movie nights at Jackson. They were your favorite day of the month—the one night where the weight of survival seemed to lift, where laughter and shared moments made the world feel just a little bit normal again. Joel knew this.

Over the past few weeks, Joel had learned more about you than he ever expected. You’d started opening up after that shooting lesson, your words spilling out during patrols while he listened, even if he didn’t always respond. He didn’t need to say much—he was paying attention, far more than you realized.

He tucked away the little details, storing them like they might matter someday: how much you loved coffee, the way you always gave your horse, Winnie, a soft pat before every ride, how your favorite food used to be sushi, even though you hadn’t had it in years. He noticed the things you missed, the faint wistfulness in your voice when you mentioned them. And he couldn’t help but notice the way your face lit up whenever you talked about movie nights—your favorite day of the month, you’d said, like it was the closest thing to normal life you had left.

That’s why Joel was sitting here, crammed into the overly warm and crowded community room, the hum of excited chatter filling the air. A few teenagers a couple of seats down were causing a ruckus, and Joel had already shot them a sharp glare, but he stayed. His jacket was draped over the seat next to him, keeping it empty despite the steady stream of people filtering in.

At one point, a woman—nudged forward by her giggling friends from another row—sauntered over, her intentions clear in the way she lingered near Joel’s side. She gestured toward the empty seat beside him, her tone light and suggestive as she asked if it was free.

Joel, oblivious to her flirtation and entirely disinterested, didn’t even bother to lift his head. “Seat’s taken,” he replied curtly, his voice flat and dismissive, his eyes never leaving the drink in his hand.

The woman hesitated, clearly caught off guard by his lack of acknowledgment, before retreating back to her friends, her cheeks tinged with embarrassment.

Joel didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Moments later, you walked in, your smile wide and contagious as your eyes swept across the crowded room. Movie night had always been your thing—something you loved, even if you usually came alone. You didn’t mind; the atmosphere, the chatter, and the shared excitement were enough.

But when your gaze landed on Joel, sitting stiffly amidst the chaos, your smile grew even wider. It was funny seeing him here, so out of his element, and yet undeniably him.

“Joel?” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough over the hum of the room as you wove through the crowd toward him. “What are you doing here?”

He feigned surprise, his tone casual, though the slight shift in his seat betrayed him. “Oh, you know… watchin’ the movie.”

You chuckled softly, the sound light and unguarded, tugging at something deep in his chest. Your eyes scanned the crowded room, narrowing as you searched for an empty seat. The hum of voices began to quiet as the lights dimmed, the projector humming to life.

“Well,” you whispered, “I should probably find a seat.” You started to turn, ready to slip away into the sea of people.

“Wait,” Joel said abruptly, his voice low but firm, cutting through the settling quiet.

A sharp shhh from someone nearby made his jaw clench, but he ignored it, reaching over to pull his jacket off the seat beside him.

“There’s a seat here,” he muttered, his tone gruff but leaving no room for debate.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, your gaze dropping to the now-empty seat. “Oh, I thought you were saving it…” you said, gesturing toward the jacket he’d just moved.

“No,” Joel replied quickly, a little too quickly, as he draped the jacket over his lap. “It’s yours. Sit.”

Your heart swelled, a soft warmth blooming in your chest as you slid into the seat beside him. Joel Miller saved you a seat. Here, of all places—a packed room buzzing with energy, in a place he’d never willingly set foot in before. It was almost unthinkable, and yet, there he was, his rugged frame taking up more space than the narrow chair could manage, his attention fixed stubbornly on the screen ahead.

The closeness felt different, a quiet charge humming between you that had nothing to do with the low whir of the projector kicking to life. You glanced sideways at Joel, catching the way his jaw was set tight, the muscles working under his skin as his hands gripped his jacket like it might steady him.

“Thanks,” you whispered, leaning in just enough that your words were meant for him alone.

He didn’t look at you, but the slight tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. His grip on the bottle in his hand loosened, and for a fleeting second, you could’ve sworn you saw the faintest tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The movie flickered to life, its warm glow casting shifting shadows across the crowded room. You watched intently, the pictures dancing over your face, your quiet smile tugging at your lips as you lost yourself in the moment. Joel’s eyes, however, weren’t on the screen. In the subtlest way, he turned toward you, his gaze lingering a second too long, his breath hitching as he took you in.

You looked so happy, so at ease, and it struck him harder than he wanted to admit. It was a rare thing, seeing you like this, unguarded and content. And for reasons he didn’t dare explore, it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Joel’s leg started to bounce, an outlet for the restless energy he couldn’t seem to shake. His mind was far from the movie, far from the room entirely. Every nerve in his body was attuned to you—the warmth of you sitting so close, the faint scent of your shampoo, the soft sound of your breathing as you leaned slightly forward.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he allowed himself to relax, just a fraction. His knee brushed lightly against yours, his shoulder just barely grazing yours in the cramped space. He told himself it was the tight quarters, the lack of room—but deep down, he knew better.

You noticed immediately. The slight shift in his posture, the nervous bounce of his knee, the charged silence between you—it was impossible to miss. You bit the inside of your lip at the contact, a thrill coursing through you, though you barely moved. The tension was thick, a current humming between you, leaving the air heavy with unsaid things.

Joel might think he had you all figured out, but you knew him, too. He wasn’t watching the movie. His restless movements, the way his grip tightened on the bottle in his hand, the faint rigidity in his shoulders—it wasn’t frustration. It was nerves, raw and unspoken, and maybe more telling than anything he could’ve said.

In a moment of quiet boldness, you leaned into his shoulder, your movement so slight it could’ve been dismissed as accidental. But it wasn’t. Your weight pressed gently against him, testing the fragile boundary that seemed to hover between you. Feigning a yawn, you let your head tilt, coming to rest on his shoulder, your cheek brushing against the soft fabric of his shirt.

Joel froze. You felt it immediately—the sudden tension in his body, the way his breath caught for just a moment. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t shift or shrug you off. He stayed perfectly still, as though any movement might shatter whatever fragile thread had been strung between you.

His arms remained crossed, rigid beneath you, his posture brimming with restraint. And yet, he didn’t move.

He let you stay, let the weight of your head settle against him, as if it was something he couldn’t bring himself to deny. The warmth of your touch against his shoulder was subtle, but it felt monumental—like a quiet revelation neither of you were quite ready to speak aloud.

Your lips curled into the faintest smile as you closed your eyes, pretending to focus on the movie, though you were acutely aware of him. Of his tension, of his breathing, of the steady warmth radiating from him.

Joel shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours again. This time, it wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate—quietly, wordlessly saying, I’m still here.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you dared move.

The movie played on, its flickering images casting faint shadows, forgotten by you both.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

It was almost Christmas, and Jackson was doing its best to exude holiday cheer, even in a world irrevocably changed by the outbreak. It wasn’t extravagant or polished—how could it be?—but there was a warmth that spread through the town like an unspoken agreement to make the season a little brighter.

String lights, salvaged from who-knows-where, were hung along fences and rooftops, their soft glow casting a cozy light over the snow-covered streets. Some blinked unevenly, others stayed dark, but the effort was there, and it was enough to make the evenings feel a little more magical. Handmade decorations adorned the town—garlands of evergreen branches tied with bits of red cloth, paper snowflakes crafted from old books and newspapers, and ornaments fashioned from bottle caps and scraps of metal.

Music played faintly from the Tipsy Bison, where someone had rigged up an old record player. A collection of scratched vinyls—holiday classics from a bygone era—filled the air with songs that crackled and skipped, but still brought smiles to people’s faces.

You loved Christmas—everything about it. The way it seemed to pull people closer, the way the world seemed to glow a little brighter under the soft, warm lights. You thought back to the days before the outbreak, when you’d pile into the car with your family and drive through neighborhoods, marveling at the twinkling displays in windows and yards.

And the trees—the trees. You remembered how, every year, your family would spend hours decorating your own. There’d be laughter, arguments over which ornaments went where, and the familiar scent of pine filling the room. You’d string the lights carefully, drape the garlands just so, and stand back to admire your work, always ending the night with hot chocolate by its soft glow.

That was what you missed most: a Christmas tree. Your own tree. Something to decorate, to make your house feel like a home again, even just for a moment. You’d tried to make do—stringing up lights you’d scavenged, hanging the odd decoration here or there—but it wasn’t the same. You wanted the ritual, the tradition, the warmth it brought.

You sighed, staring at the bare corner of your living room, imagining how it would look with a tree standing there, soft lights casting their glow on the walls. It wasn’t much to ask for, was it? Just a piece of the life you used to have.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

As you and Joel rode back to Jackson after another long patrol, the crisp winter air bit at your cheeks, the fading daylight painting the snow in hues of soft lavender and blue. The silence stretched between you, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of hooves against the frozen ground. Without thinking, you began humming softly, the tune slipping from your lips to fill the quiet.

“Bright time, it’s the right time, to rock the night away,” you sang under your breath, the words light and airy, carried on the cold breeze. The melody danced between the steady sounds of the horses, a small comfort against the stark winter stillness.

Joel turned toward you, one eyebrow quirking up in that familiar, skeptical way that always seemed to say more than words ever could.

“What?” you asked, grinning at the look on his face. “Don’t tell me you hate Christmas.”

“Didn’t say that,” he replied, his voice gruff as always, his gaze sliding back to the trail ahead like the topic was already dismissed.

“Okay, Grinch,” you shot back, snorting at your own joke.

Joel shook his head, but you caught it—the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips, like he was fighting to suppress the smallest of smiles. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make your chest feel lighter, the warmth of it lingering far longer than it should.

You let the moment settle, your eyes drifting to the endless sea of trees ahead, their branches bowed under the weight of freshly fallen snow. The sight was stunning, the kind of quiet beauty that belonged on a postcard, but it gnawed at something deep inside you—a pang of longing for a life that felt worlds away.

The words escaped before you could reel them back. “I’d give anything to have a Christmas tree again. Just...decorate the hell out of it. Lights, ornaments, everything.”

Joel didn’t respond right away, but he turned his head just enough to let you know he was listening, his profile softened by the dusky light..

“It used to be my favorite thing,” you said, your voice quieter now, the edges of nostalgia softening your words. “Every year, my family and I would put up the tree together. It was chaos—arguing over where the ornaments went, trying to untangle the lights without strangling each other—but it was the best kind of chaos.” You paused, the weight of the memory settling over you, bittersweet and heavy.

Joel didn’t say anything, his silence stretching longer than you expected. You glanced over at him, suddenly self-conscious. Vulnerable. The thought crossed your mind that he might shrug off your rambling with one of his usual gruff remarks, but when your eyes met his, he wasn’t dismissive. He was watching you, his expression unreadable yet completely focused, like your words mattered more than you realized.

You cleared your throat, a nervous laugh bubbling up to fill the space. “What about you? Did you ever have any Christmas traditions?”

Joel exhaled deeply, the sound heavy and weighted, as if it carried a lifetime’s worth of memories with it. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer, and a flicker of guilt sparked in your chest. Who were you to poke at a past he worked so hard to bury?

“Sorry,” you started, your voice faltering as you prepared to retreat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head slightly. His tone was quieter now, less guarded. “It’s fine.”

The pause that followed felt like the calm before a storm, a moment suspended in fragile quiet. Finally, he spoke, his voice carrying a softness you weren’t used to hearing from him. “Me and my daughter, Sarah…”

Your breath caught, the way he said her name hitting you like a punch to the chest. There was something in his voice—a warmth and sorrow so deeply intertwined that it wrapped around your heart, pulling it tight.

“She used to love those gingerbread house kits,” Joel said, his voice quieter now, as if speaking the memory too loudly might shatter it. A faint, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, softening his features in a way you’d never seen before. “Always wanted to make the fanciest one—had these big ideas about balconies and turrets, like somethin’ outta a magazine. And every damn time…” He chuckled, low and warm, the sound tinged with affection. “It’d fall apart. Used to drive her nuts. But she’d just laugh it off, tell me it was all part of the plan, and start over.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth lifting without thought as the image came alive in your mind. A younger Joel, one free of the weight of the world, laughing with his daughter over collapsed gingerbread turrets. The thought was bittersweet, a glimpse of a man you’d never known but could almost picture—a father who loved without hesitation, whose laughter was full and unguarded, before loss had carved its mark into him.

“That’s a nice memory,” you said softly, careful not to speak too loud, afraid to disturb the fragile thread of openness stretching between you.

Joel didn’t reply right away. Instead, he adjusted the reins, his grip easing as his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—a quiet acknowledgment that, for once, he wasn’t carrying that memory alone.

For the rest of the ride, the silence between you felt different. It wasn’t heavy or awkward, but something warmer, like the quiet understanding of two people who knew what it was to hold on to pieces of a world that was gone.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You woke to the faint gray light of dawn seeping through the window, your body protesting the cold with an ache that had become all too familiar. Winter had a way of settling into your bones, amplified by too many restless nights. A long yawn escaped as you stretched, the motion tugging at sore muscles. You wiped the remnants of sleep from your eyes, shivering as your bare feet met the icy floor.

The house was frigid, the kind of cold that clung to everything, stubborn and unyielding. You pulled your coat on over your sleepwear, wrapping it tightly around yourself as you shuffled into the kitchen. The soft hum of the coffee maker broke the silence, the promise of warmth in your mug the only thing motivating you to stay upright.

Then you heard it—a muffled groan, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy being dragged just outside the door. Your movements stilled, the faint noise enough to send a flicker of unease skittering up your spine. Frowning, you tilted your head, straining to catch the sound again.

Another grunt. Low, frustrated, and definitely close. Your heart leapt, the stillness of the morning amplifying your sudden wariness. What the hell? Your eyes darted to the door, your mind torn between throwing it open or reaching for the rifle leaning against the wall.

Curiosity got the better of you. Hands slightly trembling from the cold—or maybe something else—you stepped forward and gripped the handle, twisting it slowly. The door creaked open, and a gust of icy air hit your face, stinging your cheeks as you peeked outside.

“Joel?”

There he was, hunched over, dragging a pine tree through the snow, its branches catching on every uneven patch of ground. His face was flushed from the cold, his breath visible in the crisp morning air as he gave the tree one final heave. Straightening up, he caught sight of you standing in the doorway, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

For a moment, he froze, caught in the act. His expression was as guarded as always, but there was something else—a flicker of hesitation, like he wasn’t sure what to say or how you’d respond.

“You, uh…” He shifted awkwardly, glancing at the tree, then back at you. “You said you wanted a tree,” he muttered, his tone gruff, his shrug feigning indifference, as though dragging a whole pine tree through the snow was just another errand.

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading despite the icy air around you. “Did you cut this yourself?” you asked softly, stepping closer, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Joel nodded once, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the simple act embarrassed him more than it should have.

“And dragged it all the way here?”

Joel nodded again, his hand drifting to the back of his neck, his fingers rubbing at the nape like he could somehow ease the tension there. “Wasn’t far,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, but the faint flush creeping up his cheeks gave him away.

He was lying—it had been far, and he was too old for this shit. Every step back had weighed heavy in his bones, his hands still numb from the cold, his back stiff from hauling the thing all the way here. But none of that mattered. Not when it meant seeing you like this, your eyes alight with joy, your smile so bright it knocked the air from his lungs. He’d do it again in a heartbeat, a hundred times over, if it meant he could hold onto this fleeting, impossible moment just a little longer.

You stared at him, the enormity of his gesture settling over you, wrapping around you like the warmth of a fire on the coldest night. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too thick, your emotions too raw.

Without thinking, you closed the distance between you and threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a fierce hug. Joel stiffened at first, his hands hovering at your sides as though unsure of where to place them. But then, slowly, his arms came around you, his hold tentative but steady, one hand splaying across the middle of your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into his shoulder, your voice muffled but trembling with sincerity.

Joel didn’t say anything, but the way his grip tightened, just enough to let you know he was there, said more than words ever could. The faint scent of pine and the warmth of him filled your senses, and for that brief moment, the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

As you pulled away and took a proper look at the tree, a delighted shriek escaped you, your hands flying to your cheeks.

“Jesus,” Joel muttered, his hand coming up to cover his ears in mock exasperation. “Warn a guy next time, would ya?”

“Joel, this is the best day ever,” you said, spinning to face him, your grin so wide it almost hurt. “You are officially the opposite of the Grinch.”

He shook his head, a soft huff of amusement escaping him.

“Come on, let me help you,” you said, grabbing at the trunk of the tree, already tugging it toward the door.

“Don’t need to do that,” he said, his tone gruff but without bite.

“I want to,” you shot back, undeterred, already struggling to maneuver the hefty thing into your living room.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

With Joel’s steady hands guiding it, the tree finally found its place in the corner of your living room.

It fit perfectly, its branches reaching just shy of the ceiling. The rich scent of pine filled the air, and for a moment, you could almost forget the world outside as you stood back and admired it.

“Joel, seriously,” you said, turning to him, your voice softer now. “This is really kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied, brushing off your gratitude like it was nothing, though he avoided your eyes.

But this wasn’t nothing—not to you. There was something about the moment, about Joel standing there in your home with snow still clinging to his boots, that made you feel bold. Something about the quiet intimacy of it all, the way it felt almost domestic in its simplicity. Joel Miller had gone out of his way—for you. The thought made your chest tighten, a warmth spreading through you that melted away the chill of the morning. It made your heart ache in the best way, leaving you feeling special in a way you hadn’t in a long, long time.

“How about…” you began, your heart thudding as his eyes flicked back to yours, sharp and attentive. “Did you maybe wanna come over tonight? I mean… to help me decorate the tree. And I, uh…” You faltered, suddenly shy under the weight of his gaze. “I have alcohol,” you finished, wincing at how lame it sounded out loud.

Joel’s eyebrow arched, his lips quirking ever so slightly. “Alcohol? That’s your bribe? Like I’m some kinda drunk?”

“What? No!” you sputtered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“I’m jokin’,” he interrupted, his voice tinged with dry amusement, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of relief and nerves tangling in your chest as his teasing sunk in.

Joel hesitated, his expression shifting subtly as his eyes lingered on yours. There was something unspoken in his gaze—an uncertainty, but also a quiet warmth that made your breath catch. It felt like he was weighing something, some internal debate playing out just behind his carefully guarded exterior.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice softer now. “Yeah, okay.” He gave a small nod, almost as if convincing himself this was fine, this was normal.

“Okay,” you echoed, trying and failing to contain the giddy smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” Joel repeated, his voice steady but quieter, as though the word carried more weight than it should. He nodded once more, turning toward the door. He hesitated briefly, his hand hovering over the handle, as though he wanted to say something else. But instead, he cast you one final glance, his expression unreadable, and stepped outside, leaving behind the faint warmth of his presence—and the buzz of anticipation that seemed to cling to the room like static.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

Joel stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at the reflection he usually avoided like the plague. The mirror never lied, and what stared back at him was a man weathered by regrets and loss, his inner turmoil etched into the lines on his face, the streaks of grey in his hair and beard. His hands gripped the edges of the sink, his knuckles white, as he shook his head slowly. He didn’t recognize the man looking back at him—at least, not tonight.

He felt stupid.

Like a goddamn teenager getting ready for a date, his heart pounding for no good reason. When you had asked him to come over, the words had caught him off guard, knocking the breath right out of him. His initial instinct had been to say no, to mutter some excuse about being busy. But the look in your eyes, the way you’d smiled at him—hopeful, hesitant—had thrown him off balance. Against all his better judgment, he’d nodded.

And now here he was. His hair, damp and slicked back from the shower, was a little more effort than he’d ever normally bother with.

He’d even trimmed his beard and mustache.

He wore a button-down shirt, one of the few he owned that didn’t look like it had been through a war, and a pair of jeans that weren’t too worn at the knees. His coat was thrown over the back of a chair, waiting for him to stop pacing and just go.

What the hell was he doing? He had lugged a fucking tree to your house. Joel Miller didn’t do things like that. Not for anyone. He didn’t put himself out there, didn’t let himself get drawn into things that could end up hurting more than they were worth. Yet, here he was, straightening his shirt in a mirror he hated, wondering if you’d notice the effort he was putting in, even though he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

The walk to your house felt longer than it should have, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts. Joel wasn’t just out of his depth—he was drowning in unfamiliar waters. He could turn back. He could go home, pretend he’d forgotten, avoid whatever this was threatening to turn into. He stopped mid-step, staring down at the snow-dusted ground, the temptation to turn around gnawing at him.

But he didn’t.

Before he knew it, his boots were on your porch, the warm glow of light spilling out from the edges of your window. His hand hovered over the wood of your door, suspended in hesitation. His chest tightened, his breath shallow as a thousand thoughts battled in his head.

What if this was a mistake? What if he couldn’t give you what you deserved? What if…

The sound of your humming floated through the door, soft and genuine, and it stopped his spiraling thoughts dead in their tracks. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment to steady himself.

Then, with a rough exhale, he knocked.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“Hi,” you said softly as you opened the door, your breath catching for a moment as your eyes took him in.

Joel looked… handsome.

Not that he wasn’t always handsome, but tonight he looked different—more put together than usual, as though he’d taken the time for this.

His hair was slicked back, still damp from the shower, and the button-down shirt he wore fit him just right, the dark fabric emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders. He’d put in effort for this. For you. And that thought sent a soft ache through your chest, your heart beating just a little faster as you struggled to find the right words.

“Hi,” Joel replied, his voice low and gruff, but there was something softer beneath it, something you couldn’t quite place.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside, your heart thudding in your chest as he crossed the threshold.

Joel stepped forward, standing awkwardly by the door as his hands hovered at his sides, unsure of what to do with them.

“I’ll take your coat,” you offered, your fingers brushing his sleeve lightly as you reached out.

“Oh,” he said quickly, “I can do it.”

The two of you fumbled with the coat, a clumsy, almost comedic dance of politeness. When you finally managed to get it on the rack, you turned back to him, your cheeks flushed, an apologetic smile tugging at your lips.

Joel thought it was sweet, the way your nervousness showed in the little things—how you smoothed the hem of your pink jumper or tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Well,” you began, breaking the silence as you turned toward him, your voice light with an effort to ease the tension. “I managed to steal a bunch of leftover ornaments and lights.” You disappeared into a nearby room, your footsteps soft, and returned moments later with a box in your hands. Setting it on the living room floor with a playful grin, you added, “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Cross my heart,” Joel replied, his voice low but warm, mimicking the motion with a faint, crooked smile. The gesture, so uncharacteristically lighthearted, made your grin widen as you knelt by the box, feeling the weight of the moment ease into something softer, something warmer.

“Okay,” you said, gesturing to the box with a quick motion. “I’ll get you something to drink. Sorry, I’m a terrible host—I don’t have people over much.”

For some reason, that confession made Joel’s chest tighten—not with discomfort, but with a quiet sense of satisfaction. The thought that not everyone had the privilege of this—the quiet intimacy of being in your space—filled him with something he couldn’t quite name. That he was one of the few people you’d allowed into this small, private corner of your world… it mattered more than it should.

“It’s fine,” Joel said, his voice coming quicker than he intended, smoothing over the moment. He softened his tone, just enough to catch your attention and pull your gaze back to him.

You glanced at him, a shy smile brushing across your lips before you turned and retreated into the kitchen. The faint sound of glasses clinking as you moved about filled the silence, but Joel barely noticed, too busy taking in the room around him.

He eased onto your couch, leaning back tentatively as though he didn’t quite belong there. His eyes swept over the space—cozy, warm, undeniably yours. Books were stacked haphazardly on a nearby table, their spines a mix of worn and new. A blanket hung over the armrest, its edges slightly frayed, like it had been used countless times for comfort. The faint scent of something sweet lingered in the air, soft and welcoming, and it made him smile without realizing it. This wasn’t just a house—it was a home, and he couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since he’d felt something like this.

When you returned, holding a glass in your hands, Joel’s gaze lifted to meet yours. He didn’t look away immediately, his eyes lingering just a moment too long, enough to send a spark of warmth through your chest.

“Thanks,” he murmured, reaching for the drink. His fingers brushed yours briefly, the warmth of his touch startling against your cool skin. The small, fleeting contact sent a shiver down your spine, leaving you momentarily breathless as he settled back into his seat.

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear again. “Alright,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “Let’s make this tree look like Christmas exploded on it.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, his eyes softening. “Lead the way.”

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You and Joel worked side by side, the soft glow of the living room lamp wrapping the space in a warm, golden light. The open box of ornaments lay at your feet, spilling out a chaotic mix of shiny baubles, mismatched trinkets, and tangled strings of lights that looked like they’d seen better days.

“This one,” Joel said, holding up an ornament so hideous it made you visibly wince—a lopsided gingerbread man with one eye missing, its glitter barely clinging to the uneven surface.

You raised an eyebrow, a laugh slipping past your lips before you could stop it. “I thought the plan was to make this tree look nice.”

“Hey,” Joel shot back, mock defensive, though the faint smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his amusement. “It’ll add character.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to suppress your grin. You could get used to this, you thought—the easy banter, the warmth of his presence, the quiet moments where the world didn’t feel so heavy.

“Sure it will,” you teased, reaching into the box for something a little less tragic. You pulled out a glittery star, holding it up with a flourish. “Here, let’s balance out your ‘character’ with something actually pretty.”

Joel chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a soft hum of contentment through you. He reached up to place the gingerbread man on one of the higher branches, his fingers brushing against the pine needles with a carefulness that caught you off guard.

Your gaze lingered for a moment, drawn to the way his hands moved—strong and calloused, bearing the evidence of a life lived hard, yet surprisingly gentle in this moment. You shook yourself out of it, your cheeks warming as you focused back on the tree. But the thought lingered. This could be something.

As you leaned forward to hang the star, your shoulder bumped into his, and the contact sent a jolt through both of you.

“Sorry,” you murmured quickly, your cheeks flushing as you stepped back.

“S’all right,” Joel said, his voice quieter now. His gaze flicked toward you, and for a split second, the room seemed smaller, the space between you charged with something neither of you dared name.

You both turned your attention back to the tree, the moment lingering in the air like a held breath.

“Here,” Joel said after a beat, pulling a strand of lights from the box. He handed it to you, his fingers brushing against yours briefly. The touch was fleeting, but it left a warmth that lingered far longer than it should have.

“Thanks,” you said softly, your heart thudding as you began winding the lights around the tree.

Joel stepped closer, his hands reaching out to help guide the string. His proximity made your pulse quicken, and you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the task instead of the way his arm brushed against yours.

“Looks good,” Joel said after a moment, his voice low and steady. His eyes lingered on the tree, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that his attention had shifted, subtly but unmistakably, to you.

You turned toward him, holding up a candy cane with a playful smile. “Last one,” you said, the warmth in your tone betraying the ease you felt in his presence. “Where should it go?”

Joel leaned forward slightly, his hand brushing the tree as he pointed to a branch near the top. “There.”

You tilted your head, eyeing the spot with a small laugh. “I can’t reach that high.”

Joel stepped closer, his warmth radiating against your back as his hand rested lightly on your lower back, guiding you forward. “Here,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I’ll lift ya.”

Before you could respond, his hands found your waist, strong and sure, lifting you as though you weighed nothing. The sudden contact made your breath catch, your pulse quickening as your hands instinctively reached for balance. For a brief moment, you froze, the nearness of him stealing your focus.

“You good?” Joel asked, his voice steady, but quieter, almost careful.

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, your voice barely above a whisper. You hooked the candy cane onto the branch, the small act grounding you as you steadied yourself. “Okay, got it.”

Joel lowered you gently, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second too long before he pulled away, the absence of his touch leaving your skin tingling.

You turned to face him, your cheeks warm, your heart pounding in a way that felt almost too loud in the quiet room. “Thanks,” you said softly, your voice carrying a weight of something unspoken as your eyes met his.

Joel nodded, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Tree looks good,” he said gruffly, though there was a softness in his tone that made your chest ache.

You smiled, the warmth between you undeniable as the glow of the tree bathed the room in soft light. “It does,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

You watched as Joel knelt by your fireplace, his broad shoulders hunched as he fiddled with the knobs and levers, his movements deliberate and confident, like he’d done this a hundred times before. You’d asked him to take a look, to figure out why it wouldn’t turn on, and now here he was, focused in that quiet, determined way of his.

The warmth of the room still hadn’t chased away the chill clinging to the corners, and you pulled your sweater tighter around you as you waited. After a few moments, the fire roared to life, the sound sharp and satisfying, the flames crackling as they cast a soft, golden glow over the room.

The light danced across the walls, illuminating the tree in the corner, its twinkling lights and ornaments transforming your living room into something cozy, almost magical. A wave of contentment settled over you, warm and steady, wrapping itself around you like a blanket.

Joel stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and turned to you, his brow drawn in that familiar way of his. “How the hell,” he began, his voice tinged with disbelief, “have you been gettin’ through winter without a damn fireplace?” His hands found his hips, his posture a mix of frustration and incredulity.

You shrugged, leaning casually against the arm of the couch, masking the truth of how many nights you’d spent shivering under blankets too thin for the bitter cold. “I’m tougher than I look, Miller,” you quipped, a teasing grin tugging at your lips, trying to keep the moment light.

Joel shook his head, his brow furrowing deeply, his expression a mix of exasperation and something heavier—something closer to concern. “Gonna get yourself pneumonia,” he muttered, his voice gruff but laced with that quiet insistence that always made your defenses wobble.

“Pfft,” you scoffed, waving him off like it was nothing. “I’ve made it this far.”

But Joel wasn’t letting it slide. He turned to you, fixing you with a look so serious it made your smile falter. “You gotta take care of yourself,” he said, his tone firm, weighted. The way his voice dipped—low, resolute—settled something deep in your chest. “I’m bein’ serious.”

Your grin faded as his words lingered, the weight of them sinking in. He wasn’t joking, wasn’t teasing. Joel’s dark eyes stayed locked on yours, steady and unrelenting, and there was something there that stole the breath from your lungs. The way he was looking at you—like your well-being mattered more than anything else—sent a wave of warmth washing over you, one that had nothing to do with the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

You forced a small, playful smile, though your voice was softer now, tinged with something you couldn’t quite name. “Almost sounds like you care about me,” you teased lightly, trying to break the tension, though your heart pounded as the words left your lips.

Joel’s jaw tightened for a moment, his gaze flickering as if debating whether to speak. But then he did, his voice low and steady, slipping out almost like he couldn’t help himself. “’Course I care,” he said, his tone laced with a rawness that caught you off guard. He shifted slightly, his fingers brushing over the back of the chair as though grounding himself. “You think I wouldn’t?”

The sincerity in his voice wrapped around you, leaving you stunned, your heart stuttering as the space between you seemed to shrink. The way he said it—like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like it was something you should’ve known all along—sent a twist of yearning through you so sharp it was almost painful. Joel’s gaze didn’t waver, and for a heartbeat, neither of you moved, the moment hanging heavy between you, filled with all the things neither of you had said yet.

You froze, the teasing grin slipping from your face as his words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Joel didn’t say things like that. Not Joel. Not ever.

And yet here he was, standing in your living room, saying the kind of thing that cracked open every wall you thought he’d built around himself. It wasn’t the first time, either—the third, maybe fourth time he’d let something slip that showed you, without question, that he cared. But now, as if realizing what he’d done, he looked like he was already regretting it.

He sighed, the sound deep and weary, dragging a hand through his hair as his gaze darted away from yours, fixing on the floor like it might swallow him whole. “I should probably get goin’,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, tinged with that same uncertainty you’d seen in him before. “I’ll, uh… come back tomorrow. Fix that cabinet hinge in the kitchen.” He gestured vaguely toward the next room, his words rushed and uneven, like he needed to fill the silence with something, anything, to get himself out the door.

You blinked, caught off guard—not by the mention of the cabinet hinge, which you hadn’t even realized was broken, but by the way Joel suddenly seemed so unsure of himself. The way he shifted on his feet, hesitating as though he didn’t know if he should stay or go. The Joel you knew didn’t hesitate. He didn’t backpedal or falter. And yet here he was, breaking his own rules, leaving you too stunned to speak.

You opened your mouth, trying to say something to pull him back, but the words wouldn’t come. The air between you felt heavy, electric, charged with everything unspoken, until Joel finally moved toward the door. His boots thudded against the floorboards, each step carrying him closer to leaving, but when he reached the door, he stopped.

For a moment, he stood there, his hand resting on the handle, the muscles in his shoulders tight like he was bracing himself.

You thought—hoped—he might turn around, might say something to break the tension strung so tightly between you. But instead, he gave a small shake of his head, so faint you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so closely.

“Goodnight,” he said gruffly, his voice rough at the edges, and before you could respond, he pulled the door open and stepped out into the cold night air.

You stayed where you were, rooted in place as the door clicked shut behind him, the warmth of the fire doing nothing to ease the ache that had settled in your chest. His words replayed in your mind, over and over again. ’Course I care.

The weight of them pressed against you, soft but insistent, leaving you wondering if he knew how much those words had meant—or if he’d ever let himself admit it.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

Joel kept his promise. The next evening, just past seven, he appeared at your door, his work tools slung across his arm. Outside, the wind howled through the streets of Jackson, carrying snow that fell thick and fast, blanketing the world in an unforgiving stillness. Most of the town had hunkered down for the night, fires crackling in hearths and windows locked tight against the bitter cold.

When you opened the door, Joel stood there, looking more worn than usual. His coat hung heavy on his shoulders, dusted with snow, and his breath curled in the freezing air. “Evenin’,” he muttered, his voice low, each word edged with exhaustion. As he stepped inside, you noticed the soft groan he let slip, the deliberate slowness of his movements. He’d had patrol—he must’ve. No one else would’ve braved this storm, not at this hour, unless they had no choice. Or unless they’d made a promise.

Joel didn’t linger in the doorway. He brushed off the cold, heading straight to the kitchen like a man on a mission. Setting his tools down on the counter, he rolled up his sleeves, the quiet determination in his posture unmistakable. Without a word, he knelt to inspect the broken cabinet hinge, his hands already moving with practiced precision.

The room fell silent, save for the faint clink of tools and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. You watched him from across the kitchen, the words from the day before still circling in your mind, soft but persistent. ’Course I care.

Your voice broke the quiet, hesitant. “Where’d you learn to do all this?”

Joel didn’t glance up, his focus fixed on the hinge as his hands worked it into place with steady ease. “Construction,” he said gruffly, as though the word was too simple to explain the breadth of what it meant. His tone carried a quiet weight, the kind of admission he didn’t make often. “Did it for years… before.”

“Oh,” you murmured softly, the revelation settling over you. It caught you off guard—Joel had been a constant in your life for months now, his presence as steady as the rhythm of patrols and shared silences. You’d spent hours riding beside him, trading small talk and the occasional story, but somehow, he’d kept this piece of himself hidden. Joel Miller, who seemed to know almost everything about you, was still such a mystery.

“All done,” he said, straightening and brushing his hands off with the kind of no-nonsense efficiency that made you bite back a sigh. Ten minutes—that was all it had taken him, and now he’d be gone again, leaving behind a warmth you weren’t ready to let go of.

“If you, uh… need anything else fixed, just let me know,” he added, his tone gruff but carrying a note of softness that lingered in the air. He reached for his coat, his movements purposeful as he headed for the door.

You followed him, your gaze flicking to the storm raging outside as you opened the door. The wind roared like a living thing, flinging snow in thick, relentless waves that obscured everything beyond a few feet. Joel muttered a low, “Christ,” under his breath, his expression tightening as he took it in.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your brow furrowing as you pushed the door shut again, sealing off the bitter chill.

Joel raised an eyebrow, giving a shrug as he reached for his coat again. “Headin’ home. My place ain’t far.”

You crossed your arms, fixing him with a pointed look. “And you say I’m the one who doesn’t care about myself,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended but underpinned with concern. “You’re not going out in that.”

Joel huffed, his brow furrowing, his posture shifting like he was gearing up for an argument. But before he could get a word out, you stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest. It wasn’t forceful—just firm enough to stop him in his tracks, your fingers lingering against the warmth of his shirt.

“You’re staying here,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips, your tone leaving no room for argument. “Besides, you’re the only one who knows how to start my fire, remember?”

Joel exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a grumble as his shoulders slumped in reluctant surrender. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it back over the chair. “You’re a damn pain, you know that?” he muttered, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” you teased, your grin widening, satisfaction flickering in your chest. “Go on, Miller. Make yourself at home.”

He shook his head, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t quite catch, but he didn’t fight you. Instead, he moved to the fireplace, crouching down with the same practiced focus as before. The sound of crackling flames soon followed, and the heat began to spread through the room, softening the chill that had lingered.

Joel straightened, his hands brushing against his jeans as he turned toward the couch. With a gruffness that seemed more for show than anything else, he eased into the worn cushions, his posture finally relaxing as he leaned back. For a moment, he just sat there, his gaze flicking to the fire, then to the tree, then—unmistakably—to you.

It was going to be a long night, the kind that stretched on slowly, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of shared warmth and unspoken words. But for the first time, neither of you seemed to mind.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows as if testing the strength of the glass. The storm showed no sign of relenting, snow piling up in relentless waves. An hour had passed in the warm quiet between you and Joel, the unspoken question hanging in the air—was he staying the night?

“I’m hungry,” you sighed dramatically, sprawling on the couch with a lazy stretch. The fire crackled beside you, its glow soft against the walls, while you stole a glance at Joel, who sat across the room, his expression unreadable.

Joel let out a low groan as he pushed himself to his feet, his joints protesting the movement. He wandered toward the kitchen, his boots heavy against the floor, and pulled open one of your cabinets. “You got any food?”

You shrugged lazily, your head tilted against the couch cushions as you watched him rummage through the shelves. “Not really. I don’t cook much. Usually hit the dining hall. Or, you know… skip meals.”

Joel froze mid-motion, his back straightening as he turned to look at you. His brow furrowed, and the disapproval in his expression was unmistakable. “What?” he said, his voice low, carrying that familiar gruffness that managed to be both chastising and concerned.

You winced inwardly, realizing too late that you’d just handed him another reason to scold you. “It’s not that big a deal,” you added quickly, sitting up as if that might soften the blow.

Joel’s head shook slowly, his gaze hard as he muttered something under his breath. “Unbelievable,” he finally said, the word half to himself as he stepped toward the cabinets with more purpose. Rolling up his sleeves with a deliberate tug, he began scanning the shelves, his movements efficient and no-nonsense.

“What are you doing?” you asked, propping yourself up on your elbows to watch him, curiosity piqued.

“Making dinner,” he replied curtly, grabbing a pan with practiced ease. His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a quiet care to the way he moved, pulling out utensils and scanning the sparse contents of your cabinets like he’d done this a thousand times before.

“You can cook?” you asked, your voice laced with amusement and a hint of disbelief.

Joel glanced over his shoulder, his expression unimpressed. “I’m 56 years old. You’d hope I know how to cook by now.”

A snort escaped you, and a teasing grin spread across your lips. “Feel free to move in, then. Handyman, chef… do you do laundry, too?”

Joel raised an eyebrow, stirring something on the stove with deliberate motions. “Hilarious,” he deadpanned, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

The thought, though—of living here with you, of being this small, steady presence in your life—settled deep in his chest, an ache he hadn’t felt in years. It was a longing he didn’t dare give a name.

You chuckled, the sound soft and unguarded, before leaning back into the couch. The warmth of the fire seeped into your skin, lulling you into a comfortable haze. Your eyes fluttered closed, the gentle clinking of pans and the scrape of utensils filling the space like a quiet, unexpected lullaby.

For a man who rarely spoke more than a few words at a time, Joel Miller had a way of taking care of you—whether you’d asked for it or not.

ᡣ • . • 𐭩 ♡

“Wake up,” a gruff voice broke through your haze, the words sharp but not unkind. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, the warmth of the fire and the soft cushions lulling you back toward sleep.

“Wake. Up,” Joel repeated, and this time you felt a hand on your shoulder—firm but surprisingly gentle, his touch softer than his tone.

“What?” you mumbled, your voice muffled as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at him through the fog of sleep.

“Dinner,” he said simply, stepping back toward the kitchen and pulling out a chair at the small dining table. He sat down, his movements steady and deliberate, waiting.

You yawned, stretching as you pushed yourself off the couch, your limbs heavy from the comfort you’d been wrapped in. Padding over to the table, you blinked the sleep from your eyes—and stopped.

Your gaze fell on the spread in front of you, simple yet thoughtful. Somehow, Joel had managed to turn the random leftovers from your cabinets into something that actually resembled a meal. The sight of it made your chest warm.

“Aww, Joel,” you said, a soft laugh escaping as you slid into the chair beside him. You looked at the plates, your heart swelling at the small details—the carefully sliced bread, the steaming stew, the way he’d even set the table. “You made all this?”

Joel gave a nonchalant shrug, his eyes flicking to you briefly before focusing on his own plate. “Didn’t take much. Just used what you had.”

You took a bite of the stew, your eyes fluttering closed as the warmth and rich flavors settled in. “Alright?” Joel asked, his voice gruff but tinged with a flicker of curiosity as he watched you.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze with a smile. “Better than alright,” you replied, taking another bite, savoring every spoonful like it was the best thing you’d eaten in weeks.

After dinner, you stood and began gathering the dishes, waving him off when he moved to help. “I got it,” you insisted, practically pushing him toward the couch. Joel grumbled under his breath but relented, settling down near the fireplace.

The fire cast golden light over his features, softening the hard lines of his face as he leaned back, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. The familiar sound of running water and the clink of dishes filled the room, and Joel found himself glancing over his shoulder.

You stood at the sink, your back to him, humming softly under your breath as you worked. Your hair fell loose over your shoulders, catching the warm glow of the firelight, and Joel couldn’t help but let his gaze linger, something soft and unspoken stirring in his chest.

When you were finished, you dried your hands and crossed the room, handing him a glass of whiskey before settling at the opposite end of the couch. Joel took the glass with a nod, the firelight catching in the amber liquid as he swirled it absentmindedly.

“The fire’s nice,” you murmured, your voice quiet and content as you leaned back into the cushions.

Joel nodded, his eyes shifting from the flames to you. “Told you it’d make a difference,” he said, his tone gruff but carrying the faintest edge of warmth.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the room filled only with the crackling of the fire and the faint whistle of the wind outside. The tension that always seemed to linger between you felt softer now, more like a quiet understanding. You sipped your whiskey, the heat spreading through you, as Joel’s presence, steady and grounding, filled the space beside you.

Joel broke the silence to your surprise, his voice low and gruff, cutting through the comfortable hum of the fire. “What were you hummin’?” He gestured lazily toward the kitchen, where you’d been earlier, his words measured but his gaze intent.

You froze for a moment, feeling a warmth creep into your cheeks. “Oh… you heard that?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with a shy laugh. “It’s just an old country song my dad used to sing when I was little.”

He nodded, his whiskey glass balanced carefully in his hand, his fingers tapping against the rim. “Sounded nice,” he said simply, taking a slow sip. His tone was even, unreadable, but the weight of his words hung in the air like they carried more than he’d intended.

You hesitated, then smiled, your brows raising in playful disbelief. “Was that a compliment, Miller? Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Joel scoffed lightly, his gaze flickering to the fire before returning to you. “What? I compliment you all the time.”

“In what universe?” you shot back, the amusement clear in your voice. Your eyes sparkled as you leaned forward slightly, bracing your elbows on your knees, waiting for his rebuttal.

Joel shifted in his seat, leaning forward as if considering his next words carefully. His expression was thoughtful, though his lips twitched in a way that suggested he was humoring you. “Said you weren’t a bad shot,” he offered finally, his tone casual, like that was enough to make his case.

You rolled your eyes, the warmth of the fire softening the moment. “Not sure if that counts as a compliment, Joel.”

He tilted his head slightly, his jaw tightening just a fraction as he regarded you. The firelight danced over his features, carving out the lines of his face, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed like he might let it drop. But then his gaze lingered, stayed, the quiet stretch of silence between you enough to make your heart skip.

“You’ve got…” Joel began, his fingers now drumming lightly against the glass in his hand. His voice was softer, hesitant, as though he wasn’t quite sure how to finish the sentence. “Nice eyes,” he muttered finally, the words falling out clumsily, unpolished and raw.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding against your ribs. The sheer simplicity of the statement, coming from him of all people, felt like the most vulnerable thing he could’ve said. Joel Miller, with his gruff exterior and impenetrable walls, had just admitted something so small yet so intimate.

He quickly took another sip of his whiskey, his eyes darting away as though trying to escape the moment. You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, the sound tinged with disbelief and warmth. A blush crept up your neck as you shook your head, your smile soft.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” you teased lightly, though your chest felt impossibly tight.

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand over his face, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “Forget it,” he muttered, but there was something in the way his gaze flickered back to you that made your breath catch.

You turned your attention to the fire, needing a moment to steady yourself. “You know,” you began, your voice quieter now, “you don’t have to keep fixing all my stuff.”

Joel leaned back slightly, his posture loosening as he studied you. “Someone’s gotta do it,” he said simply, his voice carrying a gruff sincerity that sent a shiver through you.

“I can take care of myself,” you replied softly, glancing back at him, your eyes searching his face for something you couldn’t quite name.

Joel raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Let’s see,” he said dryly, ticking off on his fingers. “Doesn’t cook, didn’t know how to start her fireplace, believes in werewolves…”

A laugh burst out of you, breaking some of the tension, though it didn’t fully ease the weight in the room. “Seriously, Joel,” you said, shaking your head. “You don’t have to.”

His expression sobered, his gaze locking on yours. For a moment, you thought he might deflect, might brush it off with another quip, but instead, just looked at you.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice low, so sure.

The words hit you harder than you expected, settling somewhere deep in your chest. He didn’t have to, but he chose to. Over and over, he chose to show up for you in ways that spoke louder than anything he could ever say. It was an unspoken truth that hung between you, heavy and charged.

Your heart pounded as you stared back at him, the air thick with something unsaid. “Joel…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper, but the words caught in your throat.

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then leaned back with a sigh, his fingers wrapping tightly around his glass. “Drink your whiskey,” he muttered, his tone gruff but not unkind, his walls creeping back up just enough to keep him safe.

You smiled faintly, shaking your head as you took a sip. The fire crackled, the warmth of the room wrapping around you both, but the weight of everything unsaid lingered, weaving an invisible thread between you.

Neither of you dared to pull at it just yet, but it was there, undeniable, and it felt like enough for now.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

Tag list xxx

@bbyanarchist @kanyewestest @locked-ness @bambisweethearts @pedritospunk @ickearmn @joeldjarin @disco-barbiexx @sherrye22 @vxrona @ashhlsstuff @dendulinka6 @ashhlsstuff @r4vens-cl4ws @divineangel222 @jasminedragoon @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @handsintheeaire

[yandere-romanticaa]

Marriage was often used as a tool of convenience - be it to upgrade one's own social status, get some much needed silver and gold, or to just get one leg up over your enemies, it really did not matter in the end.

Like it or not, you were tied to that person till death did you part.

That was a chant that has been sung to you ever since you came out of your weeping mother's womb. As the daughter of the household, it was natural for you to wed one day. However, the family was one of average standing, it had no special titles tacked onto it nor did it have any grotesque reputation which could sully it to the darkness and back. In its own way, it was oddly blissful, being invisible like that. No one expected you to act like a stuck up lady who would be locked away deep in a tower and you were also safe from becoming a measley wench who would be forced to spend the rest of her miserable days stuck rolling around in the mud, selling her body to all sorts of horrific strangers just in order to eat for a day.

You had the privilege of being born into a happy life. Perhaps a slightly dull one sometimes but regardless, a good one at that. You were content with everything which was given to you, perhaps even happy.

However, all things come to an end, and your end came in the form of a man riding on horseback.

He was strong, capable, handsome... But you kept that thought to yourself as you helped the wounded stranger get back on his feet, his midnight black steed happily trotting away somewhere as it accidentally shook the rider off its back once it locked eyes on you, a stranger in the woods.

"And who might you be?" asked the dark haired man, his curly hair framing his pale face so wonderfully that it took the breath from your lungs away.

You held onto him tightly and pressed him close to your body, the odor of blood and sweat covering him from top to bottom but you couldn't be bothered to care. He wore simple clothing which made you think that he was in a similar position like yourself in terms of finance, which gave you a slight glimmer of hope.

It was embarrassing how much you were swooning over the stranger.

Taking him back to your hut took longer than expected but all was well in the end. The handsome stranger had a name, Robb he said it was, and you couldn't hide the adoration in your voice whenever he would speak to you. The night flew by like a summer breeze - too fast and too sweet. Come first daylight he had to leave, which you understood.

That didn't stop you from feeling a little blue.

He mounted his horse like a knight in shining armor, its mane tussling proudly in the bitter north wind as Robb looked down at you, his warm blue eyes desperate to tell you many stories and secrets, but time was cruel and scarce.

He would come back to you, he promised.

And you gave him a smile sweeter than any juicy fruit, telling him that you would gladly wait for him.

He rode away all the while looking back at you, sending you a heart stopping smile which could make anyone weak in the knees. The horse left large hoofprints in the snow and you focused your attention on that, rather than the bitter stabs of pain in your heart.

There would never be a day when you'd see Robb ever again.

You were due to leave for the South in a few weeks time, in order to finally be wed off. The fantasy of Robb was saccharine and enchanting, many hours of sleep were lost due to him. Even if you barely knew him, the matters of the heart were reckless and stupid.

The heart wants what it wants and your heart ached for Robb.

All the while, you hadn't a clue of him and his plans. The men in Winterfell grew tired of his constant ramblings of this lovely woman he met, this sweet little thing which made his heart sing like no one else. He would walk in the corridors with a pep in his step as he thought of all the ways he could take you back to his home and give you the life you deserved.

His candied tirade quickly came to an abrupt halt once his mother had informed him of the grave news, that you had been promised to another man.

Robb was furious.

Who was this man?! Who did he think he is?! Ever the meticulous man, he got to work immediately. In less than a few days he had managed to gather all the information he could on this mystery fiance of yours, all the papers sprawled across his massive table. The candles in his chambers glimmered gently, the shimmering light a stark contrast to the raging flames in his heart.

If he could have his way, he'd be out for blood. Robb was too much of a jealous man for his own good but he needed to think, he needed to prepare if he wanted to do this right.

In less than a day, he had everything set up. If the man wasn't willing to take the gold he was offering him, he was not above using any scare tactics. His anger ended up getting the better of him though, so a bizarre combination of both was used.

The way in which your fiance left you made your heart sink. How were you going to break the news to your parents? Whatever could you have done so wrong to earn the ire of this lord whom you haven't even met yet...

You weep in your room, staining the mattress with your salty tears, completely oblivious to the small cavalry with House Stark banners raging on your front door.

Robb Stark had come for his bride. And she had no idea what sort of future awaited her...

[yourmomsawh0r3]

Lost

anthony bridgerton x fem reader

summary: During a storm, Anthony Bridgerton finds his friend Y/N unconscious after a fall from her horse.

The skies over Aubrey Hall were dark and threatening, the air heavy with the promise of a storm. Anthony Bridgerton, the eldest of the Bridgerton siblings and the responsible Viscount, often found solace in the rhythmic gallop of his horse across the rolling fields. On this particular day, he decided to go for a ride despite the gathering storm clouds, hoping the fresh air would clear his mind.

As he rode through the familiar paths, his thoughts drifted to Y/N. She had been a constant in his life since they were children, their bond as strong as any familial tie. But recently, he found himself noticing her in a new light – the way her laughter warmed his heart, the spark in her eyes when she spoke of her passions, and the gentle grace she carried herself with. Yet, he had not fully confronted these feelings, pushing them aside in the face of duty and responsibility.

The first crack of thunder startled Anthony from his reverie. He looked up, realizing the storm was upon him. Deciding to turn back, he urged his horse into a faster gait. As he approached a familiar clearing, he saw a sight that made his heart stop – Y/N’s horse was galloping wildly, riderless.

Fear seized him, and he spurred his horse towards the clearing. There, amidst the pouring rain, he saw her – Y/N, lying motionless on the ground. Her form was crumpled, mud and rain soaking her clothes. Without a second thought, Anthony dismounted and rushed to her side.

“Y/N!” he screamed, his voice barely audible over the howling wind and rain. He knelt beside her, his heart pounding in his chest as he gently turned her over. Her face was pale, her eyes closed, and she was utterly still. “No, no, no,” he muttered, panic rising in his throat.

Without wasting another moment, Anthony scooped her up into his arms. She felt frighteningly light, and the fear of losing her gnawed at him with every step. “Hold on, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. “Just hold on.”

The journey back to the Bridgerton estate was a blur of rain and desperation. Anthony’s muscles burned with the effort, but he didn’t slow his pace. His only thought was getting Y/N to safety, to help. The image of her lying unconscious in the rain fueled his determination.

Finally, the grand silhouette of Aubrey Hall loomed ahead. Anthony’s cries for help alerted the staff, who rushed out to meet him. “Get the doctor!” he shouted as he carried Y/N inside. “Now!”

He placed her gently on a settee in the drawing room, his hands trembling. The house was a flurry of activity, the Bridgerton family and staff moving quickly to assist. Anthony barely registered his mother’s worried face or his siblings’ concerned questions. All he could see was Y/N, still unconscious and pale.

The family doctor arrived swiftly, ushered in by the commotion. He examined Y/N with a professional detachment that both reassured and terrified Anthony. Every second felt like an eternity as he waited for the doctor’s verdict.

“She’s sustained a concussion and some bruising,” the doctor finally said, his tone grave. “But she’s strong. With proper care and rest, she should recover fully.”

Relief flooded Anthony, and he sank to his knees beside her, tears mingling with the rain still dripping from his hair. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Thank you.”

The hours that followed were a blur. Anthony refused to leave Y/N’s side, holding her hand and willing her to wake up. His mother brought him a dry set of clothes, but he barely noticed the discomfort of his wet clothes. All he could think about was the fear of losing her, and the realization that he couldn’t bear the thought.

As the storm raged outside, the hours stretched on. Anthony’s mind raced with memories – their childhood escapades, the laughter they shared, the unspoken bond that had always existed between them. How had he been so blind? How had he not seen that she was more than just a friend?

It was in the quiet hours of the night, as the storm began to wane, that Y/N finally stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, and a soft moan escaped her lips. Anthony, who had been dozing fitfully by her side, jerked awake, his heart leaping with hope.

“Y/N?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Can you hear me?”

Her eyes opened slowly, focusing on his face. “Anthony?” she murmured, her voice weak.

Relief and joy surged through him, and tears filled his eyes. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed. “You’re awake. You’re going to be okay.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed slightly as she took in his tear-streaked face. “What happened?”

“You fell from your horse,” he explained, his voice thick with emotion. “I found you in the clearing. I thought… I thought I’d lost you.”

Tears of his own began to fall as he spoke, the weight of his fear and relief overwhelming him. “I was so scared, Y/N. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

She squeezed his hand weakly, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I’m here, Anthony. I’m okay.”

In that moment, Anthony knew he couldn’t hold back any longer. The realization that he could have lost her, that he had almost missed his chance, was too much to bear. “Y/N, there’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “I’ve been such a fool. I’ve been blind to what’s been right in front of me all these years.”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with curiosity and concern. “What is it, Anthony?”

“I love you, Y/N,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember. But I was too stubborn, too scared to admit it. Finding you today, seeing you like that… it made me realize how much you mean to me. I can’t lose you. I don’t want to live without you.”

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes as she listened to his heartfelt confession. “Oh, Anthony,” she whispered. “I’ve loved you too. I’ve been waiting for you to see it, to understand that my heart has always belonged to you.”

The weight of their unspoken feelings hung in the air between them. Anthony leaned forward, gently brushing his lips against hers in a tender kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the love and emotion that had been building for years, a kiss that promised a future together.

When they finally pulled apart, Anthony rested his forehead against hers, tears of relief and joy mingling with hers. “We’ll get through this together,” he whispered. “I’ll take care of you, Y/N. I promise.”

And in that moment, as the storm gave way to a peaceful dawn, Anthony and Y/N knew that their love was strong enough to weather any storm. Their journey had been filled with twists and turns, but they had found their way to each other at last, their hearts and lives intertwined forever.

[muzzledhoundsheart]

❧❧❧THE BEAST INSIDE YOUR WALLS❧

Pairing ❧ dark!Gwayne Hightower x (f)reader  

CW ❧ dubcon, blood, fingering (f), oral (m), p in v sex, m!dom, possible typos 

AN ❧ I hope you guys enjoy this one! I had a pretty hard time with deciding if I’m gonna post it or scrap it and work on it another time or completely rewrite it but I think it pulled itself together pretty well in the end. Also sorry for any typos of any kind, I edit everything myself and English is my second language so some stuff slips to the cracks real fast (always makes me want to die when I see it ahaha) 

Fog hung thick over the trees, weaving itself round the crowns, through every branch hanging like shawls. Or more like nooses, Gwayne thought to himself. Him and his men rode through the forrest for hours now, seemingly without an end in sight. At every corner they rounded they found the same scenery, all blurring into one. While he enjoyed the status of being a knight, the glitz and glam of tournaments, young ladies fawning over him and men respecting him. He hated days like these. The sweat in his armor running cold down his back, the uncomfortableness spreading further, seeping deep into his very bones. 

„I see a village there! “, one of his men shouts. Oh, thank the gods he thought. Finally, some rest. He just hopes to find a good meal, a warm bed and a pretty whore to end the day well with. He could see in his men that they were all thinking the same, or at least some variation of it. They were so close they could almost make out the houses now, when suddenly, a shrill scream echoed through the Forrest. The horses were on high alert and almost knocked their riders off. It wasn’t just a scream of fear, it ran much deeper. The men looked to Gwayne unsure of how to proceed. „Sounds like a fucking banshee.“, a shorter roundish man spat with a heavy drawl. „My father used to warn me about them screams in Forrests, they’re luring you in to skin you alive.“, another one said. „Oh horseshite it’s probably just a kid who ran off and now can’t find their way back, serves ´em little cunts right.“ What a troop of heroes, Gwayne thought to himself. 

He took a deep breath and stifled a sigh, „You go on, I shall see if the forrest nymphs truly are calling for me.“ He said with a boyish smirk adorning his lips. The men looked uneasy but accepted his order and started their journey anew. Just as Gwayne was about to turn around to ride deeper into the thicket again he heard another blood curdling scream. His brows furrowed and he gripped the reigns tighter, dashing towards the noise. The closer he seemed to get, the colder his sweat ran down his neck, his thoughts running rampant stringing together gruesome paintings of violence and agony. Another scream, and it sounded awfully close. He drew his sword and the muscles in his pale back pulled taught, shifting underneath his freckled skin and sending a rush of adrenaline through his veins. The sight before him was, however, not what he imagined. 

A young woman was desperately struggling to climb up a mangled tree, she gained some footage and pulled herself up another branch, pained grunts leaving her mouth and blood dripping from her arm and side — drip drip dripping down from the wounds running down to her naked toes. Beneath the tree stood two wolfs, blood and saliva dripping from their snouts, bubbling around the corners making them look rabid, hungry — starving. The wolves didn’t even care about the deafening noise the hooves of his humongous stallion made, no, they were set on her, having already had a taste of her sweet flesh, eager for more.

 Gwayne ceased the opportunity and aimed for one of the wolves, within a few strives he was close enough to slash the back of one of them, their head hanging on by what little sinew the sword didn’t quite reach. This, finally, caught the other wolf's attention and he growled at Gwayne, ready to tear into his horse, pull him off and rip him apart, piece by bloody piece. Gwayne was faster though, stabbing the wolf in it’s side on one swift motion, his sword cutting into the wolf like velvet, releasing a gut-wrenching whimper, the wolf folded into itself while blood spurted out of it’s wound and snout, until his eyes glossed over, and his labored breathing stopped. It was almost beautiful how such such a beastly being perishes so pathetically, he thought, almost forgetting about the woman still hanging desperately onto the rotting branches of the tree in front of him. „My Lady... I’m afraid the branch will break soon.“ 

It took some time for the woman to realize what just happened. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, her chest heaving up and down heavily. Taking in her appearance, now being close enough to do so, Gwayne noticed how she was dressed, a white thin linen dress, almost looking like a nightgown, with nothing else covering her shivering form. Furthermore, the dress was ripped in multiple spots and her blood blossomed into the fabric, spreading like a visceral garden over her attire. She held her side with one hand and Gwayne noticed that her dress was ripped around her breast as well, it laid openly naked above the hand holding her side. What a lucky man Gwayne was. „Thank- thank you Ser. By the gods thank you.“ She breathed out, her voice sounding hoarse and rough. Gwayne dismantled his horse, hiding his almost perverse smile behind this mundane display.

 He approached the tree and held out his hand for her. Standing tall in front of it, he was sure the woman could reach him if she crouched down. „Let me help, my Lady.“ He said in the softest voice he could muster in this moment, his lips stretching into a friendly, warm smile. If only she knew. The woman was still apprehensive but did eventually crouch down and let him aid her in climbing back down. When she was on a brach low enough, Gwayne cupped the back of her knee and hauled her into his arms. She let out a surprised yelp and blinked up at him through thick lashes. The woman was caked in grime and blood, sweat clung to her body like second skin, but she was beautiful, nonetheless. 

„You’re all good now.“, he said, slowly lowering her to the ground while steadying her. Her hand went to her torn dress, trying to hold it up to hide her bareness. Before words could leave her mouth, he already unbuckled his cape and draped it around her shivering form. „What a predicament you were in ,my Lady. If you let me, I would take you to the nearest village to have a healer look at your wounds.“ He said not letting his gentle hold on her shoulders go. His fingertips slowly wandered up and down the familiar fabric in a soothing matter. „I would owe you my life, Ser.“, she haughtily breathed out.

 He was sure she’s lost enough blood to barely be conscious, especially now that the adrenaline is steadily leaving her body. His face contorted into a look of concern, „I might have to look at your wounds now and tend to them as best as I can. Forgive me but you’re looking awfully pale, my Lady.“ She let out an amused sound at that. „You might as well do it now, yes.“ she was swaying, on the cusp of fainting. Gwyane knelt down in front of her, slowly bunching up her skirt. The wound in her side wasn’t as bad as he initially thought, he got up again and assured the woman that he was only getting one of his satchels off his horse. He then proceeded to clean her wounds, dressing them in cloth and sending her assuring looks through his copper lashes. The woman felt like she was dreaming, being saved by such a beautiful kind man. 

He looked like a knight from a fairytale, his face was carved out of ivory, his eyes like the stormy waters that ran through the land and his copper hair falling around his cheekbones framing his pretty face. He got up again, wiping his hands on a cloth, discarding it after by dropping the bloodied cloth back into the satchel. „That should do it for now.“, he said. The woman was still dazed and looked at him as if he was a prince of the realm. „I cannot thank you enough.“ She expressed grasping tighter onto his cloak. „ Not to worry, my Lady, i have to wonder however you got yourself in this situation though.“. She looked flustered and diverted her eyes. „I was visiting my brother to take care of him, the cold got to him and i was afraid he wouldn’t make it out alive on his own. I thought taking the route through the forrest would get me home quicker, how foolish of me.“ 

Foolish indeed Gwayne thought to himself, stifling a grin. „I could offer you a bed for tonight as my thanks, Ser.“, her eyes lit up saying that, and Gwayne almost felt bad for how genuine she looked. It was rare to find someone seemingly believing in the simple kindness of man nowadays. He also wondered if she knew just what she implied with her statement, well he surely wouldn’t mind if that was what she was thinking of. Just the thought brought a shiver down his skin straight to his cock, it has been so long since he got to indulge himself after-all. „I would happily accept, my Lady“ he took her small shivering hand in his and brought it to his lips. She looked like she was about to faint again and before she started swaying, he decided to steady her with his arm around her waist. The woman stole many glances at him, and his breast swelled with pride — arrogance. He was sure he got kissed by Lady Luck tonight. 

He helped her mount his house and put her legs over his, one arm caging her in, so she „will be safe with him.“. They started trotting towards the small village nearby, her directions were surely helpful, making them arrive sooner than he anticipated.

They rode through a small marketplace coming across some of his men pointing him out to what seemed to be their bedwarmers for the night. Shouts of his heroism were heard, and the roundish man yelled „Not a banshee then ,aye?“. The woman then led him the way to a small hut. Nothing special really, made of wood and stone and mud. It looked solid — just — with greenery not only surrounding it but winding itself into every nook and cranny. They unmounted and she, still shaky on her feet, let him inside the small hut. 

His heavy boots stomped down on the creaky floor as he took his surroundings in; it was…homely. Certainly homely. A small kitchen met a big cozy bed draped in different fabrics and knit blankets. Books and various other items were strewn about, but it looked like it had a system at least. „You may take the bed and I will get you something to freshen up.“. Gwayne looked to her and swiftly grasped her wrist „I would rather claim my reward now, my Lady“. „I’m not sure what you mean.“ Her heartbeat quickened; she couldn’t have been so blind could she? He towered over her taking steps forward until both reached one of the wooden clad walls. She felt as if her flesh would freeze off, needles and pins spreading all over her body, her stomach in knots. „Remove my cloak“. All kindness vanished from his voice. She was staring at him, frozen in time. Cold cold cold fear encompassing her. „Now.“ he almost growled. 

Shaking hands reached up to open the claps, the thick fabric pooling around her still bare and bloodied feet. His eyes raked over her form, half naked and quivering before him. So delicious. His hand reached out to her, making her flinch away hard. This made his cock twitch, hard and wanting in his breeches. He moved quick and ripped the already torn dress to complete shreds. The cloth fell off her breasts entirely and he could almost make out her rapid heartbeat through her chest. The quick — thump thump thump — spurring him on even more. 

Gwayne’s hands found solace on her ribcage, his calloused thumbs slowly tracing the underline of her breasts, making her nipples pebble. The motion was almost soothing but her it felt like a predator seizing up his prey, installing fear in it and calculation their next move. She didn’t dare to breathe which he took note of — it made him chuckle. A deep rumble coming out of his chest. „I wont hurt you“. 

Liar.

She knew he would, they both did. His hands now cupping her breasts, clutching them tightly, pinching and pulling at her flesh. Small gasps left her mouth and she never felt more vulnerable than in this moment. He dipped his head to her level, copper strands kissing his cheekbones. His right hand followed her clavicles, up the tendons on her neck and settled on her throat. The pressure applied made her lightheaded. „Why don’t you sing my praises, huh, your great hero deserves more than this don’t you think?“ She wanted to bite that smug smirk off his face.

 It felt like he could sense what she thought, and he chose to attack first. His lips captured hers in a searing kiss. Gwayne’s tongue slipped into her mouth and he tasted every part of her. When they finally parted, her breaths were labored, chest heaving and saliva coated the bottom of her face, strings of it connecting them like a wet spider web. He kissed her again and again, growing more aggressive with each one, biting and pulling at her lips and tongue until she tasted the iron now coating their lips. She was ashamed of herself for how wet she’s gotten. Wetness slowly running down the inside of her thighs, as she felt how hard and wanting Gwayne has gotten himself. 

While Gwayne was biting and shucking at the juncture of her throat he ripped the last shreds of her gown hanging around her hips apart, leaving her completely exposed to his hungry eyes. Goosebumps littered her body as the cold air hit her skin, which was a welcome distraction from Gwayne’s searing touch, dipping lower and lower. He reached her mount and and slid a single finger between her folds. His lips breathed hot against her cheek „What a tight little cunt“, he moaned as he sunk his finger deep inside her. She wanted to run away, call for help and have him beheaded, but in this moment the coil winding itself in her stomach craved him to keep going, to do more. And do more he did. Another finger slipped into her — two long slender fingers stretching her tight wetness out in fluid motions. His paced steadily increased and he looked like he was about to rip her chest open with his teeth. Her breast heaving into his face and sweat slowly dripping into his face. He licked a long stripe up her artery and bit down, just hard enough to force a strangled groan out of her bruised lips. 

She was burning from the inside out from shame — it felt so delicious, being mauled alive. Just as she was about to completely lose herself in the pleasure, he withdrew his hand. „Get on your knees“, he commanded breathless and harsh. Her eyes refocused on him, and he sunk down, big, clouded eyes fixed on the flushed head of his cock. She didn’t even notice that he partially undressed himself. „Open“, he said as his thumb pressed down on her plump lower lip and hand wrapping around her throat again, much tighter this time. He ran the tip of his leaking cock along the edge if her teeth, finding great amusement in it. Even if she were to bite him, he could snuff her out in seconds. „Don’t tell me you don’t know what to do now, you’re definitely not a maiden,“ She was — but he didn’t need to know. She’s heard enough tales from friends and the brothel workers scurrying about the market when they found the time.

Light-headed form the lack of oxygen and limited in her movement she began running her tongue along his cock. Up and down the head, following a prominent vein slithering along the underside of it. Gwayne groaned and pulled her in by the throat. She sputtered around him, his cock reaching deep into her throat now. He left her no time to catch a breath, moving his hips in a fast irregular rhythm. „That’s it, take it“, he breathed out. His cock slipping in and out her mouth faster with every thrust. Spit dripped down his sack as cradled her head against his pelvis bone. Her eyes rolled up her skull and he swore he would have a corpse around his pulsating cock any minute now. Showing some mercy, he released her, and she gulped down deep breaths of air — coughing them right back out again. Her teary eyes looked longingly at his cock, bobbing and pulsating still, thick drops of precum dripping onto the hard wooden floor. Before she could do much of anything he leaned down and seized her by her claves. Pulling her, with her back on the floor now, closer to him. 

His hands pawed at her thighs and trapped fistfuls of plush fat for leverage. Her lower half hung in the air, and he had a full view of her creaming cunt. Gwayne halted for a short moment, asking himself if he wanted to taste her first, lick up the viscous fluids of her drooling cunt, dripping onto the floor. He discarded the idea and chose to position his cock at her entrance. In one harsh thrust he was inside of her, setting a brutal pace. The small hut was filled with wet slapping noises, moans and groans. Gwayne fucked her as if he intended on killing her. Her body like putty in his string hands and her cunt growing hotter and tighter around his swollen cock. He crouched down lower and threw one of her legs over his shoulder, rutting so deep into her she swore she would never be able to feel whole again without his cock in her. Her desperate whimpers turned into incoherent screams. They ran down deep into Gwayne’s bones and spurred him on as he felt his release coming. His final thrusts were brutal, kissing her cervix and bruising her pelvic bone in it’s wake. He grabbed her throat again and squeezed as his sack tightened and he released hot spurts of thick cum into her womb. They both stayed like this for many moments. He could still feel her walls convulsing around his softening cock, her soft hands laying atop his around her throat, wordlessly begging to release her. When he did, her body fell to the ground with a thud. Her legs still open, arms crossed above her head and her wounds weeping again. Sweat, blood and cum dripping out of her and mingling into a visceral painting of lust. Gwayne brushed his damp hair out of his face and slowly redressed. How he wished to paint the scene before him to take with him out on the battlefields. Alas — he grabbed his sword and pointed it down at her belly, slowly tracing a line up between her breasts and resting below her chin. „I don’t want any red-headed bastards running around, make sure to take care of it.“. „I-i will, don’t worry.“ He nodded curtly and threw her one last glance before leaving her hut. Her heart was still beating like a rabbit running away from a pack of wolves. She hoped the beast would trace her scent and find his way to her again soon.

[sunsetchicane]

I love your post card series! Could I request Oscar with rodeo reader where they’re penpals and Oscar subscribes to the cowboy channel (that’s actually what it’s called) to watch his penpal and rodeo reader starts to watch f1 and then she gets invited to Austin?

love letters [OP81]

oscar piastri x fem!barrel racer!reader [from southern US]

word count: 4.2k

summary: The one where you meet a certain racing driver as you're both starting your careers and you decide to keep in touch.

warnings: fluff, fluff, oh and a little more fluff! angst maybe if you squint and tilt your head

author's note: To my dearest anon, this is MY love letter to YOU. Thank you for requesting this and letting me write about the rodeo; it brought me back to when I was just a little girl and was oddly healing?? Sorry for being a sap lol! I hope this is to your liking :) Feedback, comments, reposts, and likes are always appreciated!!! Peace and love babes. [xoxo elle]

“Speed. Agility. Determination. This barrel racing pair is one for the ages and the crowd here today knows it,” Janie Johnson says, a bright smile on her face while she stares down the barrel of the camera.

She turns her attention over shoulder when the crowd’s cheers hit a crescendo. You’ve just rode out into the arena, the American flag streaming by your side while you gallop around. Chants and cheers of your name fly from the mouths of onlookers, swallowing everything into a thunderous roar. For this moment, the entire world is yours. The other top riders follow you out into the dirt of the arena, hands waving and smiles flashing. There’s nothing quite like being at the rodeo. 

“And there she is, our winner today and her beautiful horse, Sweet Tea,” Janie says, unable to look away from the way you and your horse run the perimeter. You take your time, soaking up the glory of another win. 

You fly through your post-race duties, one thought constant in your mind: you have to write your letter to Oscar. It’s sort of a silly tradition, but you’ve been doing it for ages. After a rodeo weekend or a race weekend for him, you both would write each other a letter explaining everything in careful detail. You loved it. Even though the information about the rodeo and the race would be released ages before the letters arrived in your respective mailboxes, it was still amazing to hear about things from his perspective and explain your’s to him.

So, once everything is loaded up and you’re back on the road, you lean yourself back in your seat with a pen and pad of paper in your lap trying to put everything you’re feeling into words. Though your sports were different in a lot of ways, there were similarities that pulled the two of you together. The pressure, the adrenaline, the rush of a win. It’s what made you two so close even though there were vast oceans separating you. 

As you write, you can’t help but reminisce on the first time you ever wrote one of these letters. It was years ago, just as you started pro barrel racing. It was a rodeo early in the season. You were dressed and ready for your pool. Sweet Tea was edgy and nervous and so were you. You were the rookie pair that year, just a five year old horse and an 18 year old jockey. You remember that you felt way in over your head that day as you watched the vets take on the arena. 

To ease both of your nerves, you led Sweet Tea on a walk. Whispering to her with your head low, you didn’t even notice the group walk up in front of you. The voice of your manager made you tip your head up, looking at him under the brim of your hat. He smiled at you and introduced you to a group of young, thin, pale looking boys. He explained that they were from a Formula 3 team called Prema. You’d never heard of Formula anything before.

Your manager led the group of boys away after some small talk. They were nice enough, but you didn’t need any distractions. Just as the last of the boys followed your manager to your stalls, you thought you were free to go about walking Sweet Tea again.

“What’s your horse's name?” An unfamiliar voice with an unfamiliar accent said. You don’t get much for foreign accents at the rodeo, so it took you by surprise. Your eyes met his brown ones. His brown hair was cut short on the sides and the top drooped down over his forehead. He donned a white t-shirt that displayed the word “PREMA” in red, coupled with a pair of blue jeans and sneakers. It was the first of the few times that you’d seen Oscar Piastri in person. The memory lives clear and bright in your mind.

“Sweet Tea,” you answered him in a clipped voice. You were still uppity about your impending race and Oscar was quickly becoming a distraction. 

“Sweet Tea,” he echoed while taking a few steps closer. Tightening your grip on her reins, you waited for her to spook. 

“Wait-” you began to warn Oscar as he crept in closer. But you were swiftly cut off when all Sweet Tea did was bray and huff at him. You were nothing short of shocked. She rarely took to anyone, but she seemed to immediately like him. It made you curious.

“You can pet her, if you want,” you encouraged him while continuing to gauge Sweet’s reaction. Together, the two of you stroked the soft brown of her coat. You could tell that her mood was suddenly a lot sunnier, the moodiness exiting her body as you and Oscar brushed your hands over her.

“What’s your name?” you asked after a while. 

“Oscar,” he replied, his eyes darting up to meet yours over Sweet Tea’s head. For a moment, you studied his face. He looked perfectly calm, peaceful even, in the intense atmosphere that surrounded you. It didn’t surprise you that Oscar’s tranquil nature helped to set Sweet’s nerves at ease. His demeanor was even helping you. 

“She likes you,” you said, giving him a small smile while you dragged your hand over your horse’s nose.

“I hope so,” he said, his eyes flicking from you to Sweet and then back up. 

Everything after that was history.

You and Sweet Tea ran better than you ever had, placing in the top three. It was your best result yet and set you up for success for the rest of the weekend. You saw Oscar every day of the rodeo. He would stop by to say hello to you and Sweet Tea while you were prepping for a race or catch you after your pool. Awkward teenage conversation fell away quickly, giving way to long, easy conversations. 

On Sunday, you and Sweet Tea took it all. It was a huge payday which would boost the rest of your season. You were on cloud nine. Oscar walked with you while you led your horse back to the trailer. Back and forth you talked about the race and how it felt. You were so glad to have someone to talk to about all this. You used to talk to your grandpa about everything, dissecting the race and your rides with him. He’s the one who taught you how to race. But, he died shortly before the season started. He never got to watch you race at this level and you didn’t have him to talk to anymore.

“Sorry, I’m rambling,” you said while turning away and adjusting your hat, suddenly embarrassed at yourself. Oscar wasn’t a rodeo kid. He probably didn’t care how tight your turns around the barrels were or how responsive Sweet was today. 

“No,” he said, quickly cutting you off. “It’s alright. I like to listen.”

Not convinced, you stayed silent.

“It sounds a lot like how I feel when I race, you know. So, I get it,” he admitted then, his shoulders coming up into a shrug. You eyed him from under your hat, glad for the way the wide brim covered most of your face.

“I used to talk to my grandpa about this stuff,” the words tumbled from your mouth before you could stop them. If it would have been anyone else, you would have died from embarrassment. But, Oscar just blinked at you and waited patiently for you to elaborate.

“You remind me of him,” as you said it, you want to punch yourself in the face. You really went two embarrassing moments for two that day.

“Thank you?” he said, a small chuckle coating his words. He smiled at you so warmly that it thawed the icy shame in your chest slightly. 

“I just mean that,” you tried to salvage what you thought was meant to be a compliment but just came out really weird. “You’re a good listener, like him.”

Oscar nodded, his small smile still on his lips. His perpetually tired-looking eyes were soft and kind while he watched you walk your horse. You believe that it was in that moment that you became friends, good friends.

Coming up on your trailer, you slowed your pace, wanting to prolong your last moments with your new friend. Feelings that had been growing steadily over the weekend were at their peak, downing you in an intense feeling of longing. If you could do anything to never let him leave your side ever again, you would do it. In a heartbeat. In the span of just a few days, you’d grown so close that it felt like there’d never been a time where you didn’t know him. Friendly affection wasn’t an apt description of what passed between the two of you. A four letter word danced around in your teenage mind. But you couldn’t say that to him. You’d only known him for 72 hours. 

“We leave tonight,” Oscar said then, shoving the toe of his shoe into the grass. You leaned into Sweet Tea, stroking her neck and avoiding looking at your brand new best friend–your brand new obsession. Emotion roared like a tide inside of you, threatening to spill out from your eyes in tears and from your mouth in a confession. 

“Don’t be a stranger, alright?” your voice was thick with your southern accent. It always got heavier when you were emotional.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. Your eyes flicked to his then, taking in the soft look that graced his features. He seemed so sure of his words. It placed a little peace in you to know that he was just as intent on not letting go of the relationship you’d built as you were.

“Can I write to you?” you asked suddenly, not sure why this is the way you wanted to keep in contact with him. There was something inside of you that longed to write to him. Handwritten letters seemed deeply personal, intentional, everything that you wanted to convey to him. 

“Write…like letters?” he asked, his small smile turning into an amused grin. Instead of becoming embarrassed at your suggestion, you held firm. Nodding at his question, you sent him a small smile. He shook his head a little and asked for your phone. You handed it to him and he typed in his contact, only filling out the address line and his name. 

Once your phone was back in your possession, he said a goodbye to Sweet Tea while stroking her nose lovingly. She whinnied at his touch, tossing her head affectionately. Then he turned his attention to you, he stepped closer than he ever had. Invading your air, you thought he might kiss you. Your heart stopped for a moment, teenage love sending sparks across your eyes. Instead, he wrapped his arms around you, giving you a tight squeeze. Your arms slung easily over his shoulders, holding him close. You relished the feeling of his chest against yours, his breath against the back of your neck. 

That’s the feeling that you’ve held onto over the last four years. It’s the feeling you hold close on lonely nights on the road. It’s the feeling you remember every time you pen a letter to your closest friend, wishing that you could’ve had the chance to be something more.

Over the years you’ve kept up with Formula racing, just for the sake of watching Oscar. Though, you’ve started to become quite the fan. Especially now, as Oscar is tearing it up for McLaren. He’s had an exceptional season. In his faithful letters, he writes in his subdued way about how thrilled he is about this season. His humility never fails to make you smile. It’s one of the things that makes him Oscar. 

He also writes about watching you on the Cowboy Channel whenever he can. You’re always surprised and warmed when he includes details of your race or compliments your skills. His words, though concise, are eloquent in their own way. Whenever you read his letters, you can hear his voice in your head.

So, as you wrap up your letter, you’re already anticipating his response. Your eyes drift to the window once you’ve tucked everything away. The familiar rolling fields of perfectly parallel rows of crops lull you into a sleepy trance. Dreams of seeing Oscar again flood your mind when your eyes slide closed and fall comfortably asleep.

The final turn into your gravel driveway pulls you from your nap. You’d slept for nearly the entire drive. You’re warm from sleep, your eyes still heavy but your body feeling refreshed after a long weekend. 

You and your small team unload the horses and the equipment quickly, desperate to return to your respective homes for a meal and your own bed. There’s nothing quite like returning to the ranch after a rodeo weekend. As you sling up your last saddle, you wonder if Oscar feels that way about home after a race weekend. You make a mental note to ask him about it in your next letter.

Before heading into your home, you run out to the mailbox and place your letter in it. Flipping the red flag of your mailbox up and walking away, you’re already anxiously awaiting his response. 

Instead of dwelling on your letter and Oscar, which will definitely send you into an anxious tizzy, you decide to catch up on a couple of work related things to keep yourself distracted. Snuggled cozily into your bed after a long shower, you pull out your laptop and open your email. There are a dozen different unread emails from rodeo crews, journalists, and ranch staff. However, one unfamiliar sender catches your eye.

It’s from McLaren.

Ignoring everything else for the moment being, you rush to open the email. Rarely have you received emails from the McLaren F1 team. Every once in a while, they send you PR gifts or things of the like because of your connection with Oscar. But this one looks different. It’s more personal than that.

When your eyes read the contents of the document attached to the email, you nearly fall off your bed. It’s an official invitation from the McLaren team to join them as a guest for the Grand Prix in Austin the following week. Slack jawed, you mindlessly follow the directions on how to accept the offer. Nothing matters right now except for this.

After four years, you’re finally going to see Oscar again.

—

Walking onto the Paddock, you feel oddly at home. The hustle and bustle of a race weekend reminds you of your weekends at the rodeo. Team members and journalists and officials stream around you, everyone hellbent and on a mission. You’re swallowed into the excitement of it all, fading into just another body in the masses. It brings you peace that you weren’t sure you were going to find here. 

“Miss?” a voice says from just behind you. Narrowing your attention to them, you turn around quickly. A small girl with bright blonde hair sends you a quick smile. She’s adorned with the bright papaya of McLaren. Her eyes drag from your hat-covered head to your boot-clad feet. Your light colored Wranglers hug your curves and flair out over your boots. A matching blazer covers your shoulders and the white button-up with the first few buttons undone. The look is complete by a dark orange, silk bandana tied loosely to one of your belt loops. You know you look like the epitome of country, but it was all intentional. 

The McLaren employee confirms who you are before offering to lead you to the garage. Swallowing hard, you trail behind her, cutting your way through the sea of people. Nerves dance around in your stomach. You feel like you’re back on top of Sweet Tea the day you met Oscar, wide-eyed and anxious as all get out. But there’s something deeper that keeps you moving, a desire–a need–to see Oscar again. This is the moment you’ve been dreaming of for years. 

Every letter has been in preparation for this moment. Every word you’ve ever written to him saying the things you couldn’t bring yourself to say all those years ago. For the past week you’ve been rehearsing exactly how you’re going to tell the love of your life that you’ve fallen for him, that you’ve loved him since you were just 18. There’s nothing that could stop you, not even the fear of rejection. Four years of longing have put you in indescribable agony. There has to be some sort of resolve, good, bad, or otherwise. Today is the day that you’re going to share the one secret that you’ve ever kept from him. 

The blonde employee, Julia, leads you into the garage and begins introducing you to the team. Smiling and snapping photos with some people, you lose count of how many names you’re told and hands you shake. Not that you’re really trying to keep track, your mind being pulled in a different direction. Desperately, your eyes scan the small garage for the only face that really matters. 

You’re in the middle of discussing your latest race with one of the engineers when some movement from the back of the garage steals away your attention. A mop of brown hair and a dashing smile that you’d never forget comes into view. He’s rounding the car, chatting with his engineers and crew while laughing. He’s dressed in his race suit, the arms tied around his waist and showing off his skin tight fireproofs. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch him. The rest of the world fades into a blur while your living, breathing dream shimmers like a mirage in front of you. 

Finally, finally, he turns around with the soft smile that you’ve missed so much on his face. From across the garage, over the massive car between you, you lock eyes. Tears spring to your eyes as his jaw goes slack. You barely have time to blink or breathe before he jerks into action. He’s rounding the car in a hurry, whispering rushed apologies as he gently shoves people out of his way. You break away from your conversation with an ‘excuse me,’ meeting Oscar halfway.

The force of his hug knocks your hat clear off your head, but you hardly notice as he sweeps you up off the floor and into his arms. His arms, which are much larger than you remember, strangle you into the tightest hug you’ve ever experienced. His face presses roughly into the crook of your neck. Smiling like a fool, you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, never wanting to let go. 

When he finally sets you back down, you pull only one hand away to wipe furiously at the tears that have slipped out of your eyes. Sniffing, you laugh at what a mess you’ve become. But when you look up to find Oscar’s tear rimmed eyes and bright smile, you can’t help but choke on another sob.

His hands are still on your waist while you try to sort yourself out. Eyes shining, you take him in fully. He’s so grown. He’s tall and broad and all man. Except for his eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes, and his boyish smile. Those two things have stayed the same. Looking at them now, it’s like your past and your future have collided and coalesced into one man. Sighing, you shove him playfully in the chest.

“When did you go and get all grown up?” you say, your voice thick with emotion. He captures your hand on his chest, taking it into his own. With his fingers wrapped around yours, you feel perfectly at home. A slight blush has crept into his cheeks, painting a soft rose across his ivory skin. Your chest squeezes at the sight.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he says quietly while reaching down to pick up your hat. Playfully, he shoves it back onto your head with a small smile. 

For a couple of comfortable seconds, you just stand there in each other’s presence. Soaking in everything he is, you bask in the moment. He’s here with you. Finally. And the way he’s looking at you with those brilliant brown eyes makes you feel like not a day has passed since he left. The feeling that was born inside of you when you were 18, is reborn with double the intensity. Your love for the man in front of you is overflowing; it’s drowning you.

“Do you have a minute?” you ask after a while, your eyes darting around to the crowd around you. Oscar snaps back into reality with you, following your gaze to the stray looks you’ve been getting. Nodding, he leads you by the hand back to his driver’s room. 

It’s a tiny space, just big enough for a couch and a small closet. But it’s private enough to have the conversation you’ve been equally needing and dreading. Oscar sits next to you on the tiny couch, his side pressed into yours. You can’t tell if the contact makes you more nervous or sets you at ease. For as many times as you’ve thought about and planned for this moment, nothing could have prepared you for the real thing.

Fiddling nervously with the hem of your bandana, you avoid looking your friend in the eyes. But, you can feel him staring at you. Suddenly, a large hand closes around both of yours, causing you to cease your fidgeting. Turning your eyes to his, you take in the crease between his brows and the small frown that pulls at the corners of his lips.

“Is everything alri-” he begins but you’re quick to cut him off. 

“Ah, hell,” you mumble quickly, making a knee jerk decision.

With both hands you grab him by the neck and yank his face to yours. His head knocks your hat back on your head, giving you enough space to kiss him. Pressing your unmoving lips to his, you hold him there in desperation. 

So much for the carefully crafted speech that you’ve spent four years on. 

For a couple heart wrenching seconds, he doesn’t move. He’s gone completely still under your hands, his lips slightly parted in shock. Shame pools low in your stomach as you begin to pull away. But your heartbreak lasts only a split second before his hand is on the back of your neck, keeping you in place while he bursts into action.

His kiss is just as desperate as you feel. Pressing into each other with all the passion you’ve been harboring for four years, you’re both consumed by the heat of the moment. Your head swims as his lips glide against yours, his tongue skimming over your bottom lip before pressing deeper. 

His free hand reaches out, grabbing your knee to haul you onto his lap. Sliding home over his muscular thighs, you sigh into his mouth. Nothing has ever felt more right. Perfection doesn’t do Oscar justice. He’s everything. 

He holds your waist tight between his large hands while your kiss slows down. Lazily, you suck at his bottom lip while he chases you backward. Once again his chest is on yours, your memory flicking back to the last time you saw him. You knew then that you were his, and he was yours. Nothing could keep you apart, especially not now. 

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, your breath hot and voice soft. You’d never been one to beat around the bush; so why even try when it matters most?

The payoff is better than you could have ever hoped. Oscar doesn’t waste a second before both of his hands cup either side of your face, holding a searing kiss to your lips. He’s firm but kind. He’s Oscar.

“I love you,” he replies breathlessly after a couple seconds.

Your heart soars, leaving your soul in outer space. Seeing stars, you lean your forehead against his, a small laugh bubbling from your chest. Oscar chuckles with you, his chest rumbling under your hands. Pulling back slightly, you take your time to just look at him. Soft brown eyes meet yours and there’s a look there that you know you mirror with your own gaze. Affection, longing, love.

“I had this whole speech ready, you know,” you accuse while adjusting your hat on your head. Oscar’s mouth falls open slightly, faux offense coming over his features.

“You’re the one who kissed me!” he accuses right back. “I was all prepared, too. But someone was just over eager to jump my bones.”

Pinching his side playfully, you watch gleefully as he yelps. Shushing him quietly, you place a chaste kiss on his lips. Silently, an agreement that this was far better than any words you could have said passes between you.

Shaking his head, he settles his arms around your waist and smiles despite himself. With callused fingers, you trace constellations between his freckles. Your heart sings and you wonder how you were ever able to stand being away from him. With Oscar next to you, with his breath on your face, and with his smile for just you, you know that this is it for you.

Four years have been spent dreaming of him. Now, the rest of your life will be spent dreaming with him.

[bookhousestark]

ARYA STARK APPRECIATION WEEK 2024 ↳ Day 3: Overlooked traits

Natural leader

They rode north, away from the lake, following a rutted farm road across the torn fields and into the woods and streams. Arya took the lead, kicking her stolen horse to a brisk heedless trot until the trees closed in around her. Hot Pie and Gendry followed as best they could. Wolves howled off in the distance, and she could hear Hot Pie's heavy breathing. No one spoke. From time to time Arya glanced over her shoulder, to make sure the two boys had not fallen too far behind, and to see if they were being pursued.

A Storm of Swords, Arya I

Fond of nature

"When we were crossing the Neck, I counted thirty-six flowers I never saw before, and Mycah showed me a lizard-lion."

A Game of Thrones, Sansa I

Merciful

“[…] Do you want the water?" "Aye." The man swallowed. "And the mercy. Please."

When she came back, the archer turned his face up and she poured the water into his mouth. He gulped it down as fast as she could pour, and what he couldn't gulp ran down his cheeks into the brown blood that crusted his whiskers, until pale pink tears dangled from his beard.

A Storm of Swords, Arya XII

Feminist

"The Lannisters are proud," Jon observed. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's House equal in honor to the king's." "The woman is important too!" Arya protested.

A Game of Thrones, Arya I

Empathetic

She thought of Mycah again and her eyes filled with tears. Her fault, her fault, her fault. If she had never asked him to play at swords with her …

A Game of Thrones, Arya II

Left-handed

Arya took her right hand off the grip and wiped her sweaty palm on her pants. She held the sword in her left hand. He seemed to approve. "The left is good. All is reversed, it will make your enemies more awkward.”

A Game of Thrones, Arya II

Learned

It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household.

A Game of Thrones, Arya I

Observant

"Learn three new things before you come back to us," the kindly man had commanded Cat, when he sent her forth into the city. She always did. Sometimes it was no more than three new words of the Braavosi tongue. Sometimes she brought back sailor's tales, of strange and wondrous happenings from the wide wet world beyond the isles of Braavos, wars and rains of toads and dragons hatching. Sometimes she learned three new japes or three new riddles, or tricks of this trade or the other. And every so often, she would learn some secret.

A Feast For Crows, Cat of The Canals

[hoe4hotchner]

The miller's daughter [A.H]

𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚐!𝙰𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚗 𝙷𝚘𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟷.𝟹𝚔 𝙲𝚆: 𝟷𝟾+, 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎/𝚎𝚡𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 - 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 (𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕), 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗

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           The village was quiet as King Aaron rode through its streets, the only sound was the steady clip of his horse’s hooves against the cobblestone. Flanked by his loyal knights, his imposing presence cast a long shadow over the modest cottages and small markets. Villagers lowered their heads as he passed, their fear detectable, the silence thick in the air. No one dared to meet his gaze - no one, that is, except for you, you hadn't spotted him yet, not until it was too late.

            The king spotted you standing by the well, your back turned, unaware of his gaze until his horse slowed to a stop. Something about the way you carried yourself captured him. There was a light in your eyes, a quiet strength that called to him in a way nothing had before. The only child of the miller. King Aaron felt a shift, something dark and possessive awakening inside him as he followed your movements.

            His eyes followed every movement you made, and that hunger, that deep craving for power and control that already burned within him, ignited into something more. You would be his. He knew it with a confidence as unyielding as the way he ruled his kingdom.

            Without hesitation, he dismounted, his booted feet hitting the ground with a heavy thud. The townspeople stilled, their terror thickening as he approached you, his knights close behind, their armor as dark as his heart. He could feel their fear, but it only fueled him, fed the darkness that had long ago taken root in his soul.

            Your father, who had been standing nearby, stepped forward, his face pale and anxious as he realized who stood before him. He bowed low, voice trembling as he addressed the king. “Your Majesty… it is an honor…” he swallowed.

            The king's gaze, however, remained fixed on you. There was no room for pleasantries or polite conversation. His desire for you had already consumed him, and Aaron Hotchner was not a man who waited. He got what he wanted, when he wanted, and what he wanted now - was you.

            “I want her,” he said bluntly, his voice dark and commanding. His eyes finally shifted to your father, cold and calculating. “I will take her as my queen.”

            Your father stammered, panic flickering across his face. “Your Majesty, I—my daughter… she—”

            King Aaron's expression darkened, the small, hesitant refusal sparking a destructive flicker of rage within him. He snapped his fingers, and the knights moved instantly. In a matter of seconds, they had your father by the arms, their gauntleted hands gripping him tightly as they hoisted him from the ground. You gasped, stepping back in shock as they yanked him away from you.

            “Your hesitation,” King Aaron said, his voice smooth but laced with a lethal threat, “is not something I tolerate.”

            The knights dragged your father forward, forcing him to his knees at the king’s feet. You could see the panic in his eyes, the fear that had turned his face ashen, your heart pounded in your chest, terror rising in your throat.

            “Please, Your Majesty,” your father begged, his voice shaking. “Please, spare me. I—"

            King Aaron raised a hand, cutting off his pleas. His gaze was icy, his patience worn thin. “Agree to my terms, or I will have you beheaded. It’s a simple choice my good sir.”

            You watched in horror, the weight of his words sinking in as tears started streaming down your cheeks. Your father’s life hung in the balance, and you felt your world begin to collapse around you. There was no escape, no way out. This man - this king - held your future in his hands, and he had no intention of letting you go, whether he had the approval or not.

            “I’ll do it,” your father croaked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She will marry you. Just… spare my life.”

            King Aaron smirked, the satisfaction in his eyes making your skin crawl. “Good,” he said quietly. “You’ve made the right choice.”

            He signaled for his knights to release your father, and they did, shoving him roughly to the ground. Your father looked up at you, his face stricken, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing either of you could do. King Aaron's will was absolute.

            The wedding day arrived with a dreadful silence all over the kingdom. The grand hall of the castle was filled with lavish decorations and an air of quiet unease. You stood at the front of the hall, dressed in a gown fit for a queen, your heart pounding in your chest. The weight of the moment pressed down on you, and your eyes, despite your attempts to avoid it, found the king standing at the altar.

            He looked every bit the monster of king everyone feared - commanding, powerful, and terrifyingly composed. His black and gold robes draped over his broad shoulders, his crown glinting ominously atop his head. His eyes never left you, a sharp intensity burning within them, one that reminded you that this wasn’t a union of love - it was a claim.

            Your father stood to the side, trembling, his life still hanging on this marriage. The knights standing behind him waiting for the king's next command. The choice had been made for you. If you refused, your father would die. The certainty of that knowledge made your throat tighten, a lump forming as you stepped forward, each step heavy and reluctant.

            King Aaron's gaze followed your every movement with a hunger from within, his expression unreadable but his intent clear. This was not a man who would be denied at the altar. You reached the altar, and the king extended his hand to you, his fingers cold and commanding as they closed around yours, almost pulling you towards him.

            The ceremony began with the priest’s voice a buzzing hum that barely registered in your ears. You could feel the king’s eyes on you, his presence overwhelming, suffocating. When it came time to speak your vows, you hesitated, the importance of the moment crashing down on you like a tidal wave.

            “Do you take this man to be your husband?” the priest asked, his voice echoing in the chamber.

            Your heart pounded in your chest, your mouth dry as you stared into King Aaron's dark eyes. You knew what would happen if you said no. Your father would be dragged away, executed without hesitation. The king had made that clear.

            “I…” your voice wavered, your throat tight.

            King Aaron's grip on your hand tightened, his eyes narrowing slightly. It was a silent command, a reminder that you had no choice in this. He leaned in slightly, his voice a low whisper through gritted teeth meant only for you. “Say it.”

            Tears pricked at your eyes, but you forced them back, your jaw clenching as you nodded, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I do.”

            The king's smirk was subtle but unmistakable. He had won. He always did.

            The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. The final words were spoken, and King Aaron turned toward you, his hand cupping your chin with a possessive grip. He pulled you in for the kiss that sealed the vows, his lips cold and commanding against yours. The kiss wasn’t soft or tender; it was a claim, a reminder that he had taken what he wanted, and now you belonged to him.

            When he pulled back, his darkening eyes met yours, and the message was clear. You were his queen. And there was no escaping the grasp of the king.

            As the guests cheered, you felt the weight of your crown settling on your head, heavy and cold, just like the man who had placed it there.

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[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (the final chapter)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the curse

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The air was bitterly cold, the sharp wind slicing through the rugged terrain as Jason Lannister rode at the head of a small escort. The men of the Vale flanked him, their faces grim and their cloaks pulled tightly against the chill. The mountains loomed around them, jagged peaks that seemed to scrape the heavens. The further they traveled, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, as though the land itself mourned.

Jason’s armor was dulled by dirt and wear, and his face, unshaven and shadowed with exhaustion, betrayed the sleepless nights he had endured since leaving the Riverlands. His green eyes, usually bright with wit or confidence, were now hollowed with worry, fixed on the path ahead. Every step of his horse brought him closer to what he both dreaded and needed to see.

The captain of the Vale escort, a grizzled man named Ser Arnall, rode up beside Jason, his expression grim. "We’re near the place, my lord," he said, his voice low. "The shepherd described it well. It’s just beyond this ridge."

Jason nodded curtly, his jaw tightening. He didn’t trust himself to speak, afraid his voice might crack under the weight of his emotions. He urged his horse forward, his heart pounding as the path narrowed and the jagged cliffs rose higher on either side.

When they reached the ridge, the escort halted, their faces pale as they stared ahead. Jason dismounted, his boots crunching on the frost-covered ground as he stepped to the edge of the ravine.

The sight before him was haunting.

A massive black pit yawned open in the earth, its jagged edges descending into an abyss so deep that no light could reach its bottom. The air above it was heavy with the faint stench of charred flesh and sulfur, the unmistakable remnants of dragonfire. Jagged rocks jutted out from the sides of the ravine, their surfaces slick with frozen condensation. It was as if the pit itself had swallowed the two dragons whole, leaving no trace but the desolation surrounding it.

Jason’s breath caught, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “This is it?” he asked, his voice low and strained. “This is where they fell?”

Ser Arnall nodded, dismounting to join him. “Aye, my lord. The shepherd who saw the battle swears by it. He said they plummeted together, locked in combat, straight into this pit.” He hesitated before continuing. “No one’s dared to climb down, my lord. It’s too treacherous, and no dragons have been seen since.”

Jason stared into the black abyss, his mind racing with images of Y/N and Morrath. He could see it so clearly—Morrath’s amber eyes blazing with defiance, her powerful wings struggling against Vhagar’s might. He thought of Y/N, her fierce determination, her strength… and the horrifying possibility of her lying broken somewhere in that bottomless void.

“Have you searched the surrounding area?” Jason asked, his voice sharper now. “There could be something—anything—that tells us what happened.”

Ser Arnall nodded. “We’ve scoured the cliffs and the woods nearby. There’s no sign of the dragons or their riders, my lord. Only this.”

Jason’s throat tightened, and he turned back to the pit, the weight of the moment crushing him. The others began murmuring among themselves, their voices hushed, as though afraid to disturb the silence.

“Leave me,” Jason said suddenly, his voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

Ser Arnall blinked, confused. “My lord?”

“I said leave me,” Jason repeated, his tone steely. He turned to face the escort, his green eyes blazing despite the grief shadowing his features. “All of you. Return to your camp. I’ll stay here.”

The men exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared to argue. Ser Arnall hesitated, his brow furrowed. “My lord, it’s not safe—”

Jason raised a hand to silence him. “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Ser Arnall. Go.”

Reluctantly, the escort began to withdraw, their footsteps crunching against the frozen ground. Ser Arnall lingered for a moment longer, his gaze filled with concern, but Jason didn’t look at him again. Finally, the knight mounted his horse and followed the others, leaving Jason alone on the ridge.

As the sound of hoofbeats faded into the distance, Jason stepped closer to the edge of the ravine, his breath visible in the cold air. The wind howled around him, carrying with it the faint echoes of memories—her laughter, her voice, the way she looked at him when no one else was watching.

He sank to his knees at the edge of the pit, his gloved hands gripping the frozen earth. The abyss seemed to stretch endlessly before him, a black maw that swallowed everything—hope, love, and life itself.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “If you can hear me… if there’s anything left of you… I’ll find you. I swear it.”

The wind answered with a mournful wail, and Jason closed his eyes, his heart heavy with despair.

The halls of Harrenhal had grown colder with each passing day, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on every soul within its ancient walls. The fires in the great hearths did little to chase away the chill, for it was not the cold of winter but the cold of unanswered questions. The news—or lack thereof—about Princess Y/N, Aemond Targaryen, and Lord Jason Lannister had left the camp in a state of uneasy limbo. Even the most battle-hardened soldiers cast wary glances at the sky, as if expecting Vhagar or Morrath to appear at any moment.

Daemon Targaryen stood at the head of the war council, his presence as commanding as ever despite the grim atmosphere. His violet eyes burned with a cold fire as they scanned the map laid out before him, the Riverlands and the Crownlands marked with careful strokes of ink. Around him, his commanders and advisors stood in tense silence, waiting for his word.

Loren Lannister was among them, his youthful face shadowed with worry and barely contained frustration. His pale curls so reminiscent of his mother's, framed a furrowed brow as he stared at the map, his fists clenched at his sides. It had been a moon since his mother’s fall and his father’s departure, and the uncertainty gnawed at him like a wound that refused to heal.

Daemon’s voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp and commanding. “We can wait no longer,” he declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. “The Greens are vulnerable. Vhagar’s absence is a gift, and I intend to use it.”

One of the Riverlords, a grizzled knight with a scar running down his cheek, frowned. “But, my prince, without confirmation of Vhagar’s fate—”

Daemon’s glare silenced him instantly. “We know enough,” he said coldly. “The largest dragon in their arsenal has vanished, and so has the one-eyed bastard who rides it. If Vhagar still lived, Aegon would have unleashed her fury on the Riverlands by now. Instead, they cower in the capital, hoping we’ll hesitate.”

He leaned forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “But we will not hesitate. We march for King’s Landing. With Harrenhal as our foothold, we’ll strike at the heart of their false king’s power. The Greens will regret the day they spilled Targaryen blood.”

Loren stepped forward then, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his heart. “And what of my father, Prince Daemon? My mother? Do we leave them behind while we move on the capital?”

Daemon’s gaze softened slightly as he regarded the young man, seeing the fire and anguish in his eyes. “Your father made his choice,” Daemon said, his tone firm but not unkind. “He searches for your mother because he believes she lives. I cannot fault him for that, but we cannot let the war grind to a halt while we wait for answers.”

Loren’s jaw tightened, his green eyes blazing. “If they’re lost…” He faltered for a moment, his voice thick with emotion. “If they’re lost, then I’ll avenge them. But if there’s a chance—any chance—they’re alive, I won’t rest until I know.”

Daemon nodded, respect flickering in his expression. “You have your father’s resolve,” he said. “And your mother’s fire. Use it wisely, Loren. They would expect no less.”

Another Riverlord spoke up then, his tone cautious. “But to march on the capital… it’s a bold move, my prince. Do we have the numbers?”

Daemon smirked faintly, his confidence unshaken. “The Riverlands are with us. The North sends men even now. And with Harrenhal secured, the Greens’ support in the Crownlands is tenuous at best. Their fear will do half our work for us.”

Loren, still standing tall, placed a hand on the table. “And the Lannister banners from the Rock will hold the West. My brother and sisters are safe, and I will see to it that our forces join yours, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon’s smirk widened, his sharp features shadowed by the flickering torchlight. “Good. Then let the lion roar alongside the dragon. Together, we’ll tear Aegon from that wretched chair.”

The room buzzed with newfound resolve as Daemon began issuing orders. Scouts were dispatched, messengers sent to gather their forces. The camp, which had been steeped in uncertainty for weeks, now hummed with purpose.

As the council broke apart, Loren lingered, his hands gripping the edge of the table as he stared at the map. Daemon approached him, his tone softer than before. “You’ll have your answers, Loren,” he said. “But remember this: your parents would want you to fight for more than vengeance. They would want you to fight for your family.”

Loren nodded, his gaze unwavering. “And I will,” he said, his voice firm. “For them. For my siblings. For the West.”

Daemon clapped him on the shoulder, his expression approving. “Then let us march,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “And let the Greens tremble.”

Outside, the soldiers of Harrenhal prepared for war, their banners unfurling in the cold wind. The dragon Caraxes roared from the castle’s heights, his crimson form a harbinger of the storm to come. And though the fate of Jason and Y/N remained unknown, their legacy—fury and fire—would shape the next chapter of the Dance.

The air within the Great Hall of Dragonstone was heavy, the weight of Rhaenyra’s decree pressing on everyone present. The Painted Table, its intricate carvings illuminated by the glow of candlelight, reflected the grim reality of the war as Rhaenyra stood at its head. Her violet eyes burned with determination, the queenly resolve she carried masking the turmoil beneath.

Around her, her sons Jacaerys and Joffrey stood to one side, their faces etched with the seriousness of the moment. To the other side were her nieces, Leona and Aemma, their expressions mirroring the dread in the room. Behind them, trusted knights and advisors waited silently, the flicker of the flames casting shifting shadows on their armor and cloaks.

Rhaenyra’s voice, steady and commanding, broke the silence. “The time has come,” she announced, her gaze sweeping over the room. “The Greens have held King’s Landing long enough. Daemon and our allies have already begun their march. Now we will do the same. The capital will be surrounded, and the usurper will have nowhere to run.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, but it was short-lived as Rhaenyra raised a hand, silencing them. Her gaze fell on her sons and nieces, her voice softening but retaining its edge of authority.

“Jacaerys, Joffrey, Leona, and Aemma,” she said, her tone heavy with the weight of what she was about to say. “You are to remain here, on Dragonstone.”

Jacaerys, standing tall and proud despite his youth, immediately stepped forward. “Mother, I—”

“You will stay,” Rhaenyra interrupted firmly, her gaze locking with his. “I need you here to defend Dragonstone. This island is our seat, our stronghold. Should anything happen to me, it must remain secure.”

Jace’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, though his fists clenched at his sides. “Yes, Mother.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened briefly before moving to Joffrey, her youngest son. “Joff, you too must remain. Your strength will be needed here.”

Joffrey nodded solemnly, his face pale but resolute. “I’ll do whatever is needed, Mother.”

Rhaenyra turned to Leona and Aemma, her expression filled with equal measures of pride and sorrow. “Leona. Aemma. You have shown your bravery time and again. But I cannot risk you on the battlefield. You are the future of our house. Your strength will be needed here.”

Leona’s eyes blazed with defiance as she stepped forward, her voice trembling with barely contained emotion. “Aunt Rhaenyra, my place is with you. My parents—my mother—” Her voice broke, but she steadied herself. “They may be gone, but I am still here. Let me fight for them.”

Aemma placed a hand gently on her sister’s arm. “Leona, we have our orders. We must honor them.”

Leona’s jaw clenched, her hands curling into fists as she struggled to contain her frustration. “How can I sit here and do nothing while my parents’ deaths go unanswered?” she demanded, her voice cracking.

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her hand resting on Leona’s shoulder. “Leona,” she said softly, her tone laced with empathy. “Your time will come. I promise you, the Greens will pay for every life they have taken from us. But your strength is needed here, with your betrothed. You and Jacaerys will stand as the future of our house, should anything happen to me.”

Leona’s defiance faltered as she met her aunt’s gaze, the weight of Rhaenyra’s words settling heavily on her. Finally, she nodded, though her expression remained hard with grief and anger. “I will do as you command, Aunt,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Rhaenyra stepped back, addressing them all once more. “Should I fall, Jacaerys will take the throne as my heir,” she declared, her voice ringing with finality. “Leona, as his betrothed, you will stand beside him as the queen. Aemma, Joffrey, you will defend Dragonstone with your lives if it comes to that.”

The room fell silent, the gravity of her words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on each of them, her heart aching with the weight of what she was asking. She knew the risk she was taking by leaving them behind, but the war demanded sacrifices, and she would not allow the Greens to take more from her family.

“Promise me,” Rhaenyra said softly, her voice trembling just slightly as she looked at her sons and nieces. “Promise me you will stand together. No matter what comes.”

Jace stepped forward, placing a hand over his heart. “I swear it, Mother.”

The others echoed his words, their voices filled with quiet resolve. Leona’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she nodded firmly, her voice steady as she said, “We will not fail you.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. She stepped forward, embracing each of them in turn, holding them tightly as though she could shield them from the storm to come.

When the moment passed, she straightened, her queenly composure returning. “Prepare the troops,” she commanded, her voice ringing with authority. “We march at dawn.”

As the room began to empty, Leona lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on the Painted Table. Aemma placed a comforting hand on her sister’s shoulder, but Leona didn’t turn.

“We’ll avenge them,” Leona murmured, her voice low and fierce. “No matter what it takes.”

Aemma nodded, her expression solemn. “We will.”

The Fall of King’s Landing and the Wrath of the Dragons

(As chronicled by Mushroom and High Septon Eustace)

The taking of King’s Landing in the waning months of the year was a sight that neither bard nor chronicler could ever forget. It was a day of fire, blood, and vengeance—a reckoning long foretold by the stars, as claimed by the mystics, or long manufactured by the ambition of Targaryens and Hightowers alike.

The Attack on King’s Landing

High Septon Eustace writes that the assault on the capital began at dawn, with the black banners of House Targaryen flying above two separate armies. Daemon Targaryen, astride his crimson-scaled dragon Caraxes, led the vanguard with Loren Lannister, the eldest son of Jason and Y/N Lannister, commanding the Lannister and Riverlands forces. From the north side of the city, Queen Rhaenyra herself descended, her forces bolstered by loyal Crownlanders.

The twin assaults upon the city were brutal and swift. Mushroom’s account is far less decorous than Eustace’s, describing how the city gates, long thought impenetrable, crumbled beneath dragonfire and siege engines. Caraxes led the charge, unleashing a torrent of flames upon the Gate of the Gods. Loren’s black-armored cavalry, their banners of crimson and gold streaming, swept through the smoldering rubble, cutting down any resistance. The once-proud city watch, loyal to Aegon II, scattered like leaves in the wind.

Rhaenyra’s forces, meanwhile, broke through the southern gates. Syrax soared above her, her roar reverberating through the city as her flames engulfed enemy battlements. The smallfolk screamed, scrambling to escape the inferno that had descended upon the capital.

Both chroniclers note that the assault was not without great loss. Scores of men fell on both sides, their blood soaking the cobblestone streets. Yet the outcome was never in doubt. By midday, King’s Landing had fallen.

Daemon and Loren’s Wrath

While Rhaenyra focused her efforts on the Red Keep, Daemon and Loren turned their vengeance outward. Eustace claims that Daemon, once the Rogue Prince, burned with righteous fury as he took to the skies on Caraxes. Mushroom, less complimentary, describes him as a man consumed by rage, a fire in his heart that matched that of his dragon.

Together, Daemon and Loren led their forces southward, burning everything in their path. Mushroom writes that Loren, though young, fought with a ferocity that rivaled his father. “The cub of the lion roared as loudly as the dragons,” Mushroom quips, “and his blade was no less deadly.” Villages and strongholds loyal to the Hightowers fell to their wrath.

Their path led straight toward Oldtown, the seat of Hightower power. Mushroom gleefully notes the irony: “The mighty tower that cast its shadow over the realm now cowered before the flames of vengeance.”

The Red Keep’s Reckoning

While Daemon and Loren exacted their revenge, Rhaenyra claimed the Red Keep. Mushroom paints a vivid picture of the queen’s entrance into the throne room, her armor stained with soot and blood, her crown gleaming in the dim light. She found the usurper’s court in disarray, with Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, attempting to rally what remained of their forces.

Otto’s efforts were in vain. Rhaenyra ordered his immediate execution, a decree carried out in full view of the court. Larys Strong, the clubfoot who had served as Aegon II’s master of whispers, was next to face her wrath. “The queen herself swung the blade,” Eustace writes, though Mushroom claims she allowed her eldest son Jacaerys the honor. Regardless, both men met their end in pools of their own blood.

Aegon II, the usurper king, was found cowering in the dungeons. Mushroom’s bawdy account describes how he wept and begged for mercy, though Eustace insists he maintained some semblance of dignity. Rhaenyra ordered him stripped of his crown and thrown into the dungeons, a fate that many considered more merciful than he deserved.

Alicent Hightower, along with her daughter Helaena and Helaena’s surviving children, was confined to her chambers. Rhaenyra decreed they would live, though under constant watch. Mushroom claims this was out of pity for Helaena, while Eustace attributes it to Rhaenyra’s desire to keep the surviving Green bloodline under her control.

The Queen Triumphant

By nightfall, the banners of House Targaryen flew above the Red Keep once more. The usurper’s reign was over, and Rhaenyra had reclaimed her birthright. Yet the fires of vengeance still burned, both within the capital and beyond its walls.

The Marriage

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was adorned with banners bearing the sigils of House Targaryen and House Lannister, their vibrant reds, blacks, and golds intermingling to symbolize the unity of the realm. The hall was filled with the hum of conversation, a mixture of laughter, tension, and hope. The wedding of Leona Lannister and Jacaerys Velaryon was not just a union of two houses but a symbol of the crown’s efforts to stabilize the fractured realm after months of bloodshed and chaos.

Leona stood tall at the altar, her gown a shimmering masterpiece of black and gold, the sigils of the lion and dragon embroidered intricately across the bodice. Her scar, once hidden behind a mask, was now proudly displayed—a testament to her resilience and strength. Jacaerys, beside her, wore the black and red of his house. His expression was one of quiet determination, though his gaze softened when it rested on his betrothed.

Rhaenyra, seated on the throne, looked on with a mixture of pride and relief. This marriage, she hoped, would cement alliances that could ensure her rule and bring a measure of peace to a realm still smoldering from the fires of war.

Mushroom’s account of the ceremony is predictably bawdy, describing how the young couple exchanged vows with a passion that seemed to set the hall alight. High Septon Eustace, however, writes of the solemnity of the occasion, noting the weight of expectation that hung over the young pair. “A marriage born of war,” he called it, “but with the promise of peace.”

After the vows were exchanged and the blessings given, the hall erupted in applause. The feast that followed was a spectacle of opulence and revelry, with lords and ladies raising their cups to the health of the bride and groom. Yet beneath the laughter, there was an undercurrent of unease. The war was not yet over, and the fates of Jason Lannister and Princess Y/N weighed heavily on the hearts of many.

Daemon’s Search

While the realm celebrated the union of fire and gold, Daemon Targaryen had already set his sights elsewhere. With the Greens defeated in King’s Landing and the capital secure under Rhaenyra’s rule, Daemon left Harrenhal behind to scour the Vale for any sign of his niece and her husband.

Mounted on Caraxes, Daemon’s search was relentless. High Septon Eustace describes his mission as one born of guilt and obligation. “He sought to repay the debt of blood, for he had encouraged her courage and boldness,” Eustace wrote. Mushroom, however, claims Daemon’s motives were simpler: “He was driven by fury, for the thought of his niece lost to that one-eyed bastard was more than even the Rogue Prince could stomach.”

Daemon’s search was thorough, visiting shepherds, hunters, and villagers near the Crownlands-Vale border. Rumors swirled of a ravine that swallowed dragons whole, though no concrete evidence of their fates emerged. Still, Daemon pressed on, his determination unyielding.

The Return of Loren

In the West, Loren Lannister returned to Casterly Rock, now named its lord. The young lion carried himself with a newfound gravity, though the weight of his parents' unknown fate was evident in his every step. The Rock welcomed him warmly, its banners flying high in honor of their new lord. Baela Targaryen, ever sharp-tongued and fiery, accompanied him, her presence as commanding as any knight’s. Their betrothal, announced shortly after their arrival, was met with approval by the Westerland lords, who saw the match as a union of strength and fire.

Rhaena, Baela’s gentler twin, chose to stay at the Rock as well, finding joy in the company of Loren’s younger siblings. Little Rhaelle and Rhaegel had grown especially fond of Rhaena, trailing after her like ducklings as she spun tales of her time on Dragonstone. And young Tyland and Daena became her best friends. Mushroom’s account notes the twins' contrasting roles at the Rock: “Baela ruled the halls with fire and fury, while Rhaena mended hearts with kindness.”

The Return of Aegon and Viserys

Back in King’s Landing, Queen Rhaenyra received her youngest sons, Aegon and Viserys, who had been sent to safety during the height of the conflict. Their return marked a moment of rare joy for the queen, who embraced them fiercely. The capital, though battered, was beginning to heal under her rule, its streets no longer shadowed by fear of dragonfire or civil war.

The sight of her sons seemed to reignite Rhaenyra’s resolve. “The future rests with them,” she declared during a council meeting. “We have endured too much to falter now.”

The Realm’s New Order

Though the war had not yet ended, the realm began to take its first tentative steps toward peace. The marriage of Jacaerys and Leona was a beacon of hope, their union a symbol of what could be achieved through unity. Yet the shadow of those still missing loomed over the celebrations.

For Loren, now Lord of the Rock, the uncertainty surrounding his parents’ fate fueled his resolve to safeguard his siblings and his people. For Daemon, the search for his niece and Jason Lannister became an obsession, one that would drive him to the edges of the known world. And for Rhaenyra, the victory was bittersweet—her throne secured, but at what cost?

The Arrival of Winter’s Hand

As the cold of winter ebbed and spring touched the realm with its tentative warmth, Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, rode into King’s Landing at the head of ten thousand men. His arrival was as much a declaration of strength as it was a gesture of loyalty. The North had come, its banners of the direwolf unfurled against the sky, and its lord ready to stabilize the realm and dispense justice under the rule of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

High Septon Eustace writes that Lord Stark’s presence brought with it a sense of gravity and honor. “The wolf walked into the dragon’s lair, not to rend flesh, but to preserve peace.” Grand Maester Orwyle, who survived the war and lived to serve Rhaenyra, noted that Cregan’s mere presence was enough to quiet even the most fractious lords.

The Pact of Ice and Fire

Cregan Stark’s first act upon arriving at the Red Keep was to bend the knee to Queen Rhaenyra. He pledged his loyalty to her and her line, reaffirming the pact made during Jacaerys Velaryon’s journey to Winterfell. But there was another matter to attend to—his bride, Aemma Lannister.

Aemma, still a girl of tender years, was present in the great hall alongside her cousin Jacaerys, her sister Leona, and the queen. Rhaenyra, though reluctant to see her niece wed to the North so young, honored the pact made by her son.

Grand Maester Orwyle records the moment Lord Stark addressed Aemma with the solemnity befitting a Stark. “You are a lioness bound for the snow, my lady,” he said, his voice measured. “And you will rule with strength unmatched in the North.” Aemma, poised but shy, responded with the decorum instilled in her by her mother, though her nervous glances toward her cousin Jace betrayed her unease.

The Letter from Jason Lannister

As preparations for Aemma’s eventual departure began, Cregan Stark revealed to Grand Maester Orwyle that he had received a letter from Jason Lannister moons earlier. The letter, penned after Jason learned of the betrothal agreement, was, in Orwyle’s words, “a testament to the peculiar wit and unyielding pride of the Lannister lord.”

The letter read as follows:

To Lord Stark of Winterfell,

Greetings from the Riverlands, where I have spent the better part of my days ensuring your southern neighbors remember their place. It seems you and I have more in common than I would have thought—we are both men tasked with safeguarding our families in a time of turmoil.

I understand you have entered into an agreement with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon to take my daughter Aemma as your bride. While I have little love for such arrangements, it appears I am to endure this one for the sake of the realm. Rest assured, Lord Stark, my daughter is a lioness, and if you intend to keep her in the North, you will need the strength to withstand her roar.

Treat her well, for she is as dear to me as gold to the Rock, and her happiness will mean your continued existence should I ever return to claim her hand back myself. Consider this my blessing—or my warning.

Lord Jason Lannister

Shield of the West, Protector of Casterly Rock, and a father who would rather face a thousand winters than give his daughter to a Stark.

Grand Maester Orwyle notes that Cregan read the letter with a rare flicker of amusement. “He saw in it the spirit of the man, both fierce and irreverent. And though he found little humor in matters of marriage, he respected Lord Jason’s sentiment.”

Shadows of Uncertainty

Despite the solemnity and grandeur of Cregan Stark’s arrival and the stabilization of the realm under Rhaenyra’s rule, shadows still loomed over the court. There was still no word of Princess Y/N, Lord Jason, or even Prince Daemon. It was as if the three had vanished into the abyss that had claimed Morrath and Vhagar.

Mushroom writes that the court whispered endlessly about their fates. Some claimed Y/N and Jason had perished in the ravine, their bodies lost to the depths. Others whispered that Daemon’s search had uncovered something so horrifying that he had not returned to report it. Mushroom, ever eager for scandal, suggests that Daemon remained in the Vale because he could not bear to face Rhaenyra after failing to find her sister.

Rhaenyra herself was haunted by their absence. High Septon Eustace describes her as “a queen surrounded by victories yet hollowed by losses.” She often wandered the Red Keep at night, her eyes searching the horizon as though willing the dragons to return.

The Realm Holds Its Breath

As the preparations for Aemma’s eventual journey to the North were made, and as Cregan Stark dispensed justice in the queen’s name, the realm held its breath.

The Crowning of King Jacaerys I Targaryen and Queen Leona Targaryen

After the death of Queen Rhaenyra, the realm saw the ascension of her eldest son, Jacaerys Velaryon, now King Jacaerys I Targaryen, to the Iron Throne. His wife, Leona Targaryen nèe Lannister, stood beside him as queen consort, her violet eyes fierce and her scar now a mark of pride, emblematic of the strength and resilience she brought to the crown.

High Septon Eustace writes that the coronation was a grand affair, marked by a renewed sense of unity across the Seven Kingdoms. “The dragons’ roar was tempered by the lions’ might,” he remarked, “and the realm was reminded of the strength that lay in their union.”

Mushroom, ever colorful, paints a different picture, claiming that Leona’s scarred visage unnerved some of the more traditional lords of Westeros. “She was no soft queen,” he wrote, “but a warrior’s bride, as fierce in her words as her king was in his decrees.” Yet even Mushroom admits that their union was one of love and partnership, a rarity among royal marriages.

Under their rule, the realm entered a period of tentative peace, though the scars of the Dance of the Dragons lingered in the hearts of its people.

The Marriages of the Next Generation

Time had brought changes to the great houses of Westeros, and with them, new alliances through marriage.

Loren Lannister had wed Baela Targaryen, their union solidifying the bond between the West and the Crown. Mushroom notes their relationship as fiery but enduring, with Baela often described as “the flame that kept the lion warm.”

Aemma Lannister, after coming of age, had married Cregan Stark in Winterfell. The match, agreed upon years earlier, proved to be one of mutual respect. Aemma, who had grown into a poised and capable lady, adapted to the harsh North with surprising ease. “She was the lioness who roamed the snows,” Eustace wrote, “and the wolves howled in her honor.”

Prince Aegon Targaryen, the son of Rhaenyra and Daemon, was betrothed to his cousin Rhaelle Lannister, daughter of Jason and Y/N Lannister. The match was seen as a gesture to further unite the bloodlines of dragon and lion, though Rhaelle’s mother and father remained figures of mystery, their fates unknown.

The Mystery of Princess Y/N, Jason Lannister, and Daemon Targaryen

Despite the years that passed, the fates of Princess Y/N, Lord Jason Lannister, and Prince Daemon Targaryen remained shrouded in mystery. Their disappearances became the subject of songs, tales, and countless rumors, though no definitive answers ever surfaced. Grand Maester Orwyle noted that their absence left “a shadow over the realm, one that even the brightest flames could not dispel.”

Rumors Surrounding Their Fates

1. The Bottomless Ravine:

Many believed that Y/N and her dragon Morrath perished in the ravine where they fell battling Aemond and Vhagar. Jason, it was said, had thrown himself into the depths searching for her. Some claimed that Daemon, after arriving moons later, met the same fate. The shepherds near the Vale spoke of hearing dragon roars echoing from the pit long after the battle, but no one dared venture too close.

2. The Silent Vale:

Mushroom suggests a darker tale: that Y/N survived the fall but was captured by Aemond and kept hidden away. He claims Daemon uncovered the truth and sought vengeance, but both were killed in a final confrontation. “The Silent Vale,” Mushroom called it, “where secrets die with their keepers.”

3. Exile Beyond the Narrow Sea:

Another tale, whispered among sailors and traders, suggested that Y/N and Jason were not dead but had fled across the Narrow Sea. Daemon, some said, discovered them and chose to remain in exile rather than return to a realm that had taken so much from them. This theory often included claims of a small, dragon-guarded island far to the east where the three lived in seclusion.

4. The Ghosts of the Vale:

A particularly haunting tale claimed that Y/N, Jason, and Daemon had become specters, cursed to haunt the skies above the Vale. Shepherds and hunters spoke of seeing shadowy figures atop dragons in the moonlight, their cries echoing through the mountains like the wails of the damned.

5. The Last Dragon War:

Some believed that Aemond survived the battle and had taken Morrath’s dragon egg to hatch another beast, and that Y/N, Jason, and Daemon had been drawn into an endless hunt to find and destroy him. This rumor often ended with their eternal struggle playing out far from Westeros, a private war that the realm would never witness.

A Legacy of Uncertainty

As King Jacaerys I Targaryen and Queen Leona ruled from the Iron Throne, the shadows of those who had been lost loomed large. Rhaenyra’s reign had ended in victory, but the scars of war lingered in the hearts of her children and the realm alike. The question of what happened to Y/N, Jason, and Daemon became a legend unto itself, woven into the larger tapestry of the Dance of the Dragons.

Mushroom, in his final account of their tale, wrote:

"The lion, the dragon, and the rogue—three flames that burned too brightly to be extinguished. Yet like all flames, they left only smoke and shadow in their wake, leaving us to wonder what light they might have brought, had they burned together a little longer."

Honymoon Tour of the West

The dawn broke over Fair Isle in hues of amber and pink, the waves of the Sunset Sea shimmering like molten silver beneath the first light of the day. The air was cool and briny, carrying the scent of salt and the cries of distant gulls. You stood waist-deep in the water, the soft crash of waves brushing against your skin as you tilted your head back to feel the rising sun's warmth on your face. The hem of your white chemise clung to your legs, translucent from the seawater.

Behind you, Jason waded in, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a halo. He grinned, his green eyes filled with amusement and a touch of exasperation. “You couldn’t have waited until after breakfast to start your frolicking?” he teased, the water splashing as he made his way toward you.

Turning to face him, you laughed, your voice carrying over the waves. “And miss this? Come, my lord, the sea is calling!”

Jason groaned in mock protest, but his smile betrayed him. “You’re mad, you know that? But if I must chase you into the sea, so be it.” With a theatrical sigh, he plunged into the water, his laughter mingling with yours as he reached you.

The waves lapped around you both as Jason swept you into his arms. “You didn’t have to follow me,” you teased, brushing wet strands of hair from his face.

Jason’s grin softened into something deeper, something more tender. “Oh, I think I did,” he said, his voice low but full of meaning. “I would plunge into the surf, the storm, or even the abyss itself if it meant finding you there. Just to feel your warmth.”

You stilled at his words, a strange feeling washing over you—not just love, but a sense of gravity, of something unspoken and eternal. You cupped his face in your hands, pressing your forehead to his. “You’re too dramatic for your own good,” you whispered, though your smile betrayed you.

“Maybe,” Jason replied, his smirk returning as he tilted his head closer, “but it seems to have worked.”

Your laughter dissolved into a kiss, the kind that felt as endless as the sea itself. The world around you fell away, leaving only the two of you and the soft rhythm of the waves. When the kiss broke, you were both breathless, your laughter returning as Jason hoisted you higher in the water.

“You’re soaking,” you said, feigning scolding as water dripped from his tunic.

“Whose fault is that?” he shot back, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

Before you could reply, a fisherman’s boat drifted closer, the crew shouting and waving jovially as they passed by. Jason turned slightly, shielding you with his body as if to protect your modesty, though his grin widened. “Seems we’ve an audience.”

You rolled your eyes, your cheeks flushing as you buried your face in his shoulder. “Only you could find humor in this.”

Jason laughed, his chest vibrating against yours. “It’s not every day the Lord of Casterly Rock is caught cavorting in the shallows with a princess.” He planted a quick kiss on your forehead before turning toward the shore. “Come, my lady. Let’s save the rest of our adventures for when the fishermen aren’t watching.”

He carried you out of the water, the sea cascading from your clothes as he walked. His strength never faltered, and his arms felt like the safest place in the world. As you both reached the shore, Jason gently set you down on the warm sand. The sunlight framed him like a painting, his grin boyish yet confident as he reached for the cloak he’d left on the beach.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” you said, shaking your head but unable to hide your smile.

“And yet, here you are,” Jason quipped, draping the cloak over your shoulders and pulling you close. “I must be doing something right.”

You sighed, leaning into his embrace as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The waves whispered their eternal song behind you, and for a moment, the world was nothing but warm light and the man who held you as if he’d never let you go.

“You’ll follow me into the abyss?” you murmured, your words teasing but your tone serious.

Jason’s smile softened, his green eyes meeting yours with a rare sincerity. “Always,” he said, his voice unwavering. “There’s nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow.”

You kissed him again, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill. And as the day began in earnest, you couldn’t shake the feeling that his words would echo in your heart long after the waves of Fair Isle had faded from memory.

[ai-manre]

Following the Roses: A Meta

Having remerged into the fandom now after a long break, I was surprised to see all the currently prevailing ideas on a lot of things. It looks like the longer we go without the books, the more cycles and counter-cycles of convictions we have as a fandom, as our echo-chamber gets more intense and the contexts that much matter so much in canon fade. It was interesting to see all the different ideas and head-canons of people regarding R+L now in particular (with many now stalwartly characterizing Rhaegar as a prophecy-obsessed lunatic who impregnated Lyanna, with or without her will, and that Lyanna later grew to hate him). That made me curious into delving back to see what the books tell us and try to see where the narrative is leading us. Or maybe, more specifically, it's the roses I want to follow. The winter roses.

**The Introduction**

GRRM does a beautiful misdirection in the first book. Having Ned associate Lyanna again and again with the winter roses in his thoughts, by the time the origin of the winter roses is shown in Ned's last chapter, we have already associated Lyanna singularly with the roses. Rather than feeling the full impact of them being associated with her. So I'd like to go through the winter roses chronologically instead, according to the timeline.

**What is the narrative telling us?**

>Yet when the jousting began, the day belonged to Rhaegar Targaryen. The crown prince wore the armor he would die in: gleaming black plate with the three-headed dragon of his House wrought in rubies on the breast. A plume of scarlet silk streamed behind him when he rode, and it seemed no lance could touch him. Brandon fell to him, and Bronze Yohn Royce, and even the splendid Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

>Robert had been jesting with Jon and old Lord Hunter as the prince circled the field after unhorsing Ser Barristan in the final tilt to claim the champion's crown. Ned remembered the moment when all the smiles died, when*Prince Rhaegar Targaryen urged his horse past his own wife, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, to lay the queen of beauty's laurel in Lyanna's lap. He could see it still: a crown of winter roses, blue as frost*.

>*Ned Stark reached out his hand to grasp the flowery crown, but beneath the pale blue petals the thorns lay hidden. He felt them clawing at his skin, sharp and cruel, saw the slow trickle of blood run down his fingers, and woke, trembling, in the dark.*

>*Promise me, Ned, his sister had whispered from her bed of blood. She had loved the scent of winter roses. "Gods save me," Ned wept. "I am going mad."

This is the origin of the winter roses according to the timeline. We do not get mentions of Lyanna with the winter roses before Rhaegar crowned her with them. When Bran looks back in time and sees Lyanna, she's not seen around those roses. When the Northmen discuss her in her childhood, they don't mention her roses, only her horse-riding skills. In Howland's story of the wolf maid, she is not associated with them. Winter roses start featuring prominently around Lyanna Stark only after Rhaegar crowns her with them. Considering this to be the origin of the roses, I would find it safe to interpret that the roses don't solely symbolize Lyanna, but rather *the bond that grew between Rhaegar and Lyanna*. This way, the roses also work as a great narrative device for Ned to covertly think of R+L without directly giving it away to the readers.

This interpretation fits in very well with the next words, where Ned reaches out to touch the flower crown and feels the thorns underneath that claw at him. The beauty of the petals was hiding the "sharp and cruel" thorns underneath which could draw blood. Just like R+L's love which likely seemed a thing of great beauty to them, but resulted in pain and suffering for both of them and all around them. If, as some other interpretations go, the roses were meant to symbolize only Lyanna as a Stark maiden or represent her connection to Winterfell, it would make no sense for the sharp and cruel thorns to appear underneath.

In the words after, Ned describes her words from bed of blood and again, seemingly out of nowhere mentions how she had loved the scent of winter roses. Why was this sentence put here? In the middle of a seemingly irrelevant of her death? Following the narrative flow of where the roses began a few sentences ago, the meaning is clear. Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, loved the beauty of her bond with Rhaegar, maybe ignorant or uncaring of the thorns underneath.

>"And now it begins," said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light. "No," Ned said with sadness in his voice. "Now it ends." As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. "Eddard!" she called. *A storm of **rose** petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as **blue** as the eyes of death.*

This is our next memory of Lyanna after the crowning at Harrenhal. Ned clashes with the Kingsguard trying to get to Lyanna, Ned's subconscious and the narrative associates this clash against a background of *storm of rose petals as blue as the eyes of death*. Again, the rose petals are associated with things like pain and blood and death. The blood-streaked sky is the background of the war, the war sparked by R+L's actions, the beautiful petals are still blowing, though they are "death". Rhaegar who is dead and Lyanna who is dying, their love that has started the fire that killed them both and many more including all the kingsguard and many northmen here here. (Though the situation was far more nuanced than just R+L being responsible for all the bloodshed that happened).

> "I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father." He could hear her still at times. *Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses.* Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. *Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his as she gave up her hold on life, the **rose** petals spilling from her palm, dead and black.* After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Ned could recall none of it. "I bring her flowers when I can," he said. *"Lyanna was … fond of flowers."*

Now we come to her death. Ned remembers her room which had smelled of blood and roses. More importantly, he recalls the rose petals spilling from her palm as she died, implying that she had been holding on to them until the point of the death. The fact that her room smelled of roses itself implies that she had been making an effort to keep the roses around her, nothing was forcing her to have them around considering Rhaegar had left her months ago and died as well. (Unless anyone thinks evil Rhaegar ordered his Kingsguard to keep bringing roses to her against Lyanna's will? Or that the Kingsguard wanted to force her to continue having the roses around her? Imo that's ridiculous). It seems clear if we follow the narrative that the only roses these can be are the winter roses which connects her with Rhaegar. The fact that she took the effort to keep surrounding herself with roses, that she held onto the roses *until the moment of her death*, seems pretty irrefutable proof that she loved Rhaegar till the very end.

I have seen interpretations before that she was holding onto the roses as they symbolized her connection with Winterfell and her home. Apart from the reasons I had already mentioned above regarding why the roses clearly don't represent Winterfell, there is also the fact that if Lyanna wanted a connection to her home, her brother Ned Stark should be a much clearer option to cling onto rather than the roses connected heavily with Rhaegar (who according to this interpretation, she must have grown to hate). If it was only about her desire for home, we would have only gotten mentions of how hard she clung to Ned, there was no reason to mention the roses. But they were mentioned. And she did. She clung onto the roses as hard as she'd clung on to Ned, until death forced her to let go. This is capital R romanticism, Rhaegar died with Lyanna's name on his lips, Lyanna died with his roses (the last remnant of their love) in her palm. They died thinking of each other. And the roses, the roses are now "dead and black" just as both of them are.

After remembering that moment, Ned tells Robert that he brings her flowers. That Lyanna had loved flowers (note the ellipses). Lyanna had loved the scent of winter roses, even as they'd brought her death. She had loved Rhaegar, even as that brought her so much pain.

> Her eyes burned, green fire in the dusk, like the lioness that was her sigil. "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me, in me, stinking of wine, and he whispered Lyanna." *Ned Stark thought of pale blue roses, and for a moment he wanted to weep.* "I do not know which of you I pity most."The queen seemed amused by that. "Save your pity for yourself, Lord Stark. I want none of it."

Next, Ned thinks of the roses when he speaks with Cersei. And this, I love this!! Ned having to confront Robert's love for his sister and all that had cost him (not getting into Robert's vices here), knowing that Lyanna had loved Rhaegar. To see his friend cost himself a life and the love of Cersei by not getting over Lyanna, unknowing that Lyanna had never loved him! What Ned doesn't know but the narrative enriches is "I do not know which of you I pity the most" because Cersei had wanted Rhaegar as much as Robert had wanted Lyanna. Both were defeated so thoroughly by R+L's love for eachother.

>He was walking through the crypts beneath Winterfell, as he had walked a thousand times before. The Kings of Winter watched him pass with eyes of ice, and the direwolves at their feet turned their great stone heads and snarled. Last of all, he came to the tomb where his father slept, with Brandon and Lyanna beside him. "Promise me, Ned," Lyanna's statue whispered. *She wore a garland of pale blue roses, and her eyes wept blood.* Eddard Stark jerked upright, his heart racing, the blankets tangled around him. The room was black as pitch, and someone was hammering on the door. "Lord Eddard," a voice called loudly.

Nothing much here, just Lyanna again with her garland of roses (aka R+L) reminding Ned of his promise to protect their only son. This is a covert reference to R+L=J. With this, we end Ned's POV and move on to the next references of winter roses.

>She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. *"And she never sung you the song o' the winter rose?" "I never knew my mother. Or any such song."*

The next time the mentions of winter roses crop up again is in Jon's story, where Ygritte asks him if his mother had never sung the song of winter rose to him. To which he responds that he'd never known his mother or such a song, unknowing that this song was the hint to his mother, that this song represented her life.

>North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark's own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he'd made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. 'All I ask is a flower,' Bael answered, 'the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o' Winterfell.'"

>*"Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o' the winter roses be plucked for the singer's payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished . . . and so had Lord Brandon's maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain." Jon had never heard this tale before.*

A singer and a Stark maiden. The Stark girl who loved Bael so much that she'd given him a son (just as Jon himself was born) and who later threw herself off a tower when her son brought her Bael's head. Quite a few narrative resonances here, death of the Stark maid in a tower, a relative who had a hand in the death of her love. "No flower so rare nor precious". Is there anything so rare and precious as true, unconditional love? As Maester Aemon says, "We are only human after all, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory and our great tragedy."

> But there were others with faces he had never known in life, faces he had seen only in stone. *The slim, sad girl who wore a crown of pale blue roses and a white gown spattered with gore could only be Lyanna.* - Theon V, ACOK

The next mention is, oddly enough, in Theon's prophetic dreams. Again, Lyanna is associated with the crown of roses Rhaegar gave her and death. The white gown might represent marriage as it is an interesting detail to have mentioned (instead of just calling it a gown) but I don't have strong opinions on it either way.

The next mention is the most interesting to me, as for the first time, the roses lead to the future rather than the past.

>Then phantoms shivered through the murk, images in indigo. Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman's name. . . . mother of dragons, daughter of death . . . Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow. A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd. From a smoking tower, a great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire. . . . mother of dragons, slayer of lies . . . Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly. A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV, ACOK

>"Perhaps," she said reluctantly. "Yet the things I saw . . .""A dead man in the prow of a ship, a blue rose, a banquet of blood . . . what does any of it mean, Khaleesi? A mummer's dragon, you said. What is a mummer's dragon, pray?" - Dany V, ACOK

And what a lovely image it is. Jon, the sole child of Rhaegar and Lyanna, the only remnant of their love, growing at the Wall. For once, the imagery is overwhelmingly positive. The beautiful blue rose, against all odds, flourishes in the harshest of environments and what's more, it "fills the air with sweetness". Rhaegar and Lyanna might have died, but the child that resulted from their bond is making the world better.

The Conclusion

What's more, even in the latest calendar illustration GRRM had [commissioned](https://www.reddit.com/r/ImaginaryWesteros/comments/1093bgk/2024_calendar_cover_art_by_justin_sweet/), we know instinctively that it is Rhaegar and Lyanna thanks to the winter roses. Rhaegar who crowned Lyanna with these roses. Lyanna who died clutching them till the last moment. Their son who fights to protect the realms of men, doing the duty of a King without even knowing that he is one, that he is the King of the narrative. The blue rose who continues to bloom in the harshest of places.

The significance that in the text, it's Jon and only **JON** who is connected with/represented as the blue winter rose is important. Neither of the Stark maidens, Sansa or Arya, are ever connected with the blue rose in the text itself despite both having love for flowers. No other Stark has this motif in their story. The motif belongs solely to Bael and his Lady Stark, to Rhaegar and Lyanna, to Jon himself. It's the motif of love. Prince Rhaegar had loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it. Lady Lyanna had loved her Prince Rhaegar and their child is saving the realms of men.

The roses that bloomed for them and between them. That showed how beautiful their love was and how painful. The world is cruel, the world is beautiful.

[nthspecialll]

Charles rode home, back to camp, back to the place and the people who had been his support the last half year, the people who had saved him and whom he had saved. He had known there had been troubles, he had seen it first hand, but he had not known that what he would arrive back to would be death.

Charles didn’t know what had gone down at Beaver Hollow, he had expected to come back to arguing, maybe some silence like there had been the last couple of weeks, quiet muttering and side glares. He had just buried Eagle Flies, yet another person who was manipulated by Dutch, one of his people, a young boy who just wanted to keep his people safe, to keep their people safe.

What does he return to? Grimsaw laying on the ground, gunshot to the stomach, eyes emptily staring out at the ransacked camp that had once been home.

I wonder if he thought it was the Pinkertons for a moment or if he knew that the inevitable had finally happened, that they had snapped, that his home was no more, that once again he was on his own, that his family had turned on one another.

I wonder if he feared walking in the area, afraid of whos dead body he would find next. Would it be Arthur with a bullet to the head? Would it be Javier with a new wound running along the scar on his throat? Would it be John with a knife still embedded in his stomach? Who of his brothers would he find next slaughtered by their own family?

He probably knew that the hole he was digging for Susan wouldn’t be the last, he probably knew he would make more, that he would find more bodies if he just walked the area. He was probably already grieving as he followed the hoof prints hammered into the ground, he knew whatever he was going to find would not be pretty.

He hadn't need to be a master tracker to find the next bodies, the distinctive horses he knew that John and Arthur rode, laying dead on the mountian, guns, saddles, personal items still left just like the animals he knew the people had cared deeply for had been left in a hurry.

He knew Arthur was sick, he knew that he was close, he would never have made it far, he had probably known since seeing Susan's body that he would find Arthur's too.

He was used to tracking animals to hunt, to eat, to survive, to find their hoof prints and broken branches showing their direction, now he was following an obvious trail of slips in mud, bullet shells and blood to find his friend's body, to give him the peace he deserved.

And finally, on the edge of a cliff, head tilted towards east where the sun rose, laid the body of his friend, his skin pale and his face beaten.

Charles had to lift his best friend, carry him down the mountian and up another to be able to forfill his wish, to be faced to the evening sun on a ledge, except Arthur had changed since then, he was no longer the same man so Charles faced him towards the sunrise, so he forever could feel the peace he had hopefully felt in his final moments.

I wonder if Charles went back, tracked John, found out he made it out alive, went back, tracked Dutch as far as he could before realizing it was not worth it before finally giving up and accepting that that was it.

Tilly? Abigail? Jack? Sadie? They had stayed but where did they go? He could track John, he could track Arthur, Dutch, Micah, Javier and Bill but what about the others? Did their bodies lay somewhere? Discharged as quickly as Grimsaw had?

Charles had loved being around others, but at what cost? How many bodies had he buried? How many times had his heart been broken because Dutch had made a mistake that had costed a life?

Maybe it was better being alone in the end.

[syndrossi]

Resonant Trick or Treat Fill #14: Ser Kelwyn's first impressions

The sight of a dragon flying overhead was rare. In all his years in the Saltpans, Kelwyn could recall half a dozen such flights, each of them humbling to behold. The first two had been the king and queen’s mounts, bronze and silver, some three decades ago. Another two had passed overhead years later, Prince Aemon and Prince Baelon, with the famed Vhagar casting a shadow wide enough to swallow entire houses. Prince Aemon’s mount, the much smaller Caraxes, had seemed a child in comparison.

All dragon sightings since had been the Blood Wyrm, his size growing with the years, though his rider had changed. With Prince Daemon wed to Lady Royce of Runestone, it was not so surprising that his path might occasionally cross over the Saltpans.

This time, however, the Blood Wyrm approached from the northwest, circling slowly. And sharp-eyed guardsmen atop the towers of the Castle Cox had reported signs of smoke—then a small group approaching on foot.

Lord Cox was a canny man who had done much to improve his family’s standing since his father had earned his title supporting King Jaehaerys against Maegor the Cruel. He had swiftly concluded that Prince Daemon must be on foot, perhaps wounded, with company—and the household had set a frenetic pace making preparations for his expected arrival.

And so Kelwyn had been summoned to meet the prince on the road, along with young Ser Stennic, to render any necessary aid. They rode at a brisk pace, Stennic’s neck craning upward every few seconds to take in the dragon flying overhead. Kelwyn did not blame him. They were closer to the dragon than most men would ever be in their lifetime.

As they drew closer to the group on foot, it became clear that Prince Daemon was in the company of children, and Kelwyn wracked his memory for whether the prince had any of his own. He did not think so, but with the way the sun glinted pale silver off the crown of one child’s head, he was beginning to doubt himself.

The other child was injured, he soon realized, the cloth of a splint light against his arm. Prince Daemon was clearly keeping his pace slow so as not to tax the child. Kelwyn glanced past them, to the smoke in the distance.

What happened? Who would dare attack a Targaryen child, much less with his father’s dragon nearby?

When he and Stennic were finally upon them, it was clear that something truly harrowing had transpired. Both children were pale and wary-eyed beneath streaks of soot, their clothing burned in places, though they appeared to have escaped any burns themselves. The dark-haired child’s expression tugged at his heart, one of determination worn thin by pain, the clench of his jaw better suited to a wounded soldier than an innocent child.

Prince Daemon, meanwhile, had the bearing of a man nearing some threshold. One arm held a cloth-wrapped bundle, while his free hand hovered near the hilt of his sword, as though he might draw upon any who drew too close. His hair, even braided, was dull and tangled, suggesting that he had been on the road—or air, Kelwyn supposed—for days on end, without stopping.

Whatever had happened, this would require a delicate touch.

“My prince,” Kelwyn said with a bow from atop his horse. “Lord Cox bids you welcome to the Saltpans, and eagerly extends the hospitality of his keep to you.”

Prince Daemon looked them over, some of that tension easing, though not wholly. “A traitor to the crown rode in this direction, by name of Marten Crayne,” he said tersely. “He kidnapped my sons and fled at my approach. If he has entered the town, I would have him arrested.” He looked toward the pale-haired child. “Can you describe the man?”

A kidnapping? Kelwyn quickly gathered his reeling wits at the revelation, though he was freshly caught off guard by the young prince’s comprehensive description, rattled off with a composure many grown knights would envy. And that after having been rescued from captivity!

Stennic hastened back to the town to carry word of the fleeing kidnapper and his ship. Kelwyn remained behind, unwilling to leave their three unexpected royal guests unguarded after so heinous a plot. Prince Daemon remained on edge, even as he detailed his needs. Kelwyn knew Lord Cox would already be preparing appropriate chambers, and the maester could be spurred into action as soon as they arrived. 

They were still fifteen minutes away on foot, and Prince Daemon had turned down his offer to lend him his horse. His elder son, Jon, had suffered broken ribs during his captivity and could not ride.

So that is why he is not on dragonback. Kelwyn looked up at the red dragon overhead, flying vigilant circles around them. He shook his head then. What lowlife would strike a royal child hard enough to crack ribs?

His offer to take the other child, Raymar, was also refused. Raymar did not appear injured, but the mere suggestion had caused Prince Daemon to reach for the child instinctively. The tale emerged during the walk to town, of the week the young princes had spent as captives of this Marten Crayne, and Prince Daemon’s frantic search from the air.

Thank the gods they were not taken from the Saltpans. Whichever lord had been careless enough in his guard to allow the boys to be taken would surely find himself the target of the king’s displeasure.

The children spoke little after Raymar’s lengthy report, their exhaustion plain. Kelwyn hoped they had suffered no other indignities at the hands of their kidnapper. He would have expected tears and whimpers at the end of such an ordeal, not this eerie, stoic silence.

Kelwyn would have dismissed it as Targaryen strangeness, except that Prince Daemon seemed worried as well, filling the quiet with soothing words, promises of a warm meal and a hot bath, a soft bed. That his voice could be so gentle when his eyes held murder was a feat in itself.

When word arrived that the Dancing Myr had fled ahead of word arriving to detain them, Prince Daemon’s jaw clenched, as though he were swallowing a scream. Overhead, his dragon let out a threatening roar, audible even within the walls of the castle.

Kelwyn found himself in the role of chosen protector, tasked with finding three other worthy souls to stand vigil outside Lady Cox’s former bedchamber. He caught only glimpses of the young princes, the most startling one when the bundle Raymar had carried in his arms throughout the walk, which had been partly obscured by cloth, had been unwrapped to reveal a dragon egg, which Prince Daemon had helped him set beside the fire. And not just one—there was another that must have been what Prince Daemon had been holding in his other arm.

A royal kidnapping, a dragon rescue, and now Castle Cox plays host to three princes and two dragon eggs. It was as though he had stumbled into a minstrel’s song, and Kelwyn had the feeling that the intrigues would not stop there, which meant that his protection would have to extend beyond merely the physical. The attacks on incoming ravens took on a sinister new implication.

The children may not have been kidnapped from here, but we were almost certainly the kidnapper’s intended destination to spirit them away by ship.

Lord Cox’s page was kept busy all throughout the evening as Kelwyn coordinated the search for the fleeing ship, along with any sailors who might have remained behind, while keeping half an eye on the door to the room, which saw servants passing through frequently early on as their royal visitors were fed, then provided baths.

Kelwyn looked in at one point, after the bath water had been lugged away from the large tub, and immediately found himself fixed by a wild stare from Prince Daemon, who had moved a chair near the doorway to set up a watch of his own.

“Is there anything you require, my prince?” Kelwyn asked, keeping his voice low. Glancing past the prince, he could see the two children settled into one of the beds, the blankets pulled up over them. And his gaze could not help but be drawn to the oval shapes of the dragon eggs, dark in front of the fire.

“I shall keep watch from within,” Prince Daemon said, settling back in his chair. His hair was still wild and tangled. He must not have availed himself of the bath. And although he had washed his face, it only made clearer the lines of weariness, the shadows beneath his eyes.

His nerves balance upon the edge of a knife.

From what the prince had shared after supper, it was little wonder. Kelwyn could still scarcely believe that Lady Royce, renowned for her honor and justice, could have carried out such a bold treason. She had not even hidden her children far from where anyone would look—they had been passed off as her own nephews, orphans at the Gates of the Moon.

The king’s brother had lost his wife and learned that he was a father and that his sons had been kidnapped all in a single day. By the looks of it, he had hardly slept since. And after such tireless searching, to find that they had been mistreated so…

“We shall let no one through this door,” Kelwyn said, bowing his head.

The words barely seemed to reach Prince Daemon, only a slow nod confirming he had heard them at all, and Kelwyn drew the door to a gentle close.