#greenhouse scene. enough said

[mistysgardenn]

currently feeling insane about foxxay

[joelsrose]

First Date? Part 5

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

My masterlist!

I KNOW CHRISTMAS IS OVER BUT ITS OK PRETEND ITS NOT i'M SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, i have split the last part into 2 because i wanted to give yall something - multiple crying emojis. I LOVE YALLLL AND AGAIN I APOLOGISE

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Maria had asked you to meet her at the greenhouse under the pretense of planting seeds, but you couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to her invitation than pulling weeds.

She knelt beside you in the soft earth, her hands deftly working to clear the tangled mess of weeds from the fragile seedlings. Her movements were steady and deliberate, but her sharp, watchful eyes weren’t focused on the plants—they were on you.

The silence hung heavy, thick with unspoken tension, until Maria broke it, her voice deceptively casual. “So,” she drawled, her tone light but her gaze cutting. “Tommy told me about yesterday.”

Your hands faltered for just a moment, the weeds slipping from your fingers before you quickly resumed, feigning nonchalance as her words hit their mark. “What about yesterday?” you asked, keeping your voice steady, though your chest tightened.

“You know,” she said, her tone deceptively casual, “in the dining hall. With Joel?”

“I already told you what happened,” you muttered, your focus dropping to the soil as if it could shield you from the conversation.

“Yeah, you did,” Maria replied, sitting back on her heels, her expression impossible to read. “But you left out the part where Joel nearly took some guy’s head off. For you.”

You exhaled, leaning back and brushing dirt off your hands. “Maria, it’s just… Joel being Joel,” you said, your voice quieter now. “He’s protective. That’s all.”

“Protective?” Maria’s laugh was louder this time, tinged with incredulity. She shook her head, reaching for another weed. “Honey, Joel doesn’t just get protective over people. Not like that.”

You busied yourself with the watering can, your fingers tightening around the handle as you avoided her gaze. “He does it for Ellie,” you said, your tone defensive. “And Tommy. And you. It’s not—”

“Not that special?” Maria cut in, her voice sharper now, though there was no malice in it. She leaned closer, brushing a hand against her knee to wipe off the dirt.

“This is different, and you know it. Joel Miller doesn’t make a scene unless it’s life or death. And yesterday?” She shook her head, her gaze unwavering. “That was a declaration.”

Your breath caught at her words, your hands tightening on the watering can as you tried to focus on the steady stream of water pooling at the base of the plants. “It wasn’t a declaration,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “He just… cares. That’s all.”

Maria’s brow lifted, her eyes narrowing like she was trying to puzzle you out. “Oh, he cares, alright,” she said, her tone softer but no less sure. “But this isn’t the kind of caring he shows for Ellie, or Tommy, or anyone else. This isn’t just Joel looking out for you. This is Joel claiming you.”

Your heart skipped, the word hitting you like a jolt. “Maria, stop—”

“I won’t,” she interrupted, her voice firm but gentle, her gaze steady as she gestured toward you. “Because someone has to say it. Joel didn’t just stand up for you yesterday. He didn’t just step in. He made it loud and clear to everyone in that room that you’re his priority. You think that’s nothing?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words tangled in your throat. Maria’s expression softened, her voice dropping just enough to make you listen.

“That’s Joel Miller’s language for ‘I care more than I know how to say,’” she said, her eyes locking on yours with quiet intensity.

You sighed, setting the watering can down and wiping your hands on your thighs, your gaze fixed firmly on the uneven soil in front of you. “It’s… complicated,” you murmured, the words heavier than you’d expected.

Maria didn’t back off. She shifted closer, her sharp gaze unwavering, her fingers pausing their methodical tugging at weeds. “So tell me,” she said softly, her tone gentle but edged with curiosity. “What’s so complicated about it?”

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, the loose thread unraveling under your touch as you tried to find the words.

How could you explain it? How could you possibly articulate the way Joel made you feel—like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind catching your breath, thrilling and terrifying all at once? How every gruff word, every lingering glance, every unspoken act of care felt like something delicate and fleeting, something you were too scared to hold for fear it might break.

“I don’t know,” you sighed finally, the weight of your own uncertainty pressing down on you. “He’s… hard to read.”

Maria tilted her head slightly, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Hmm,” she hummed thoughtfully. “Well, I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Even Tommy sees it. He brought it up last night, said he’s never seen Joel like that before.”

Your hands stilled, trembling slightly as her words settled over you, heavy and unrelenting. “What exactly did Tommy say?” you asked, your voice quieter now, betraying the nerves prickling at your skin.

Maria’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk curving at the corners. “He said, ‘Joel’s actin’ like a damn fool,’” she said, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with something deeper. “And when I asked why, he just shook his head and said, ‘Because she’s got him wrapped around her little finger, and I don’t even think she knows it.’”

You inhaled sharply, the words twisting in your chest, warm and fragile and terrifying all at once. “Maria—”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” Maria said gently, cutting off your fumbling attempt at a response as she brushed the dirt from her hands with deliberate care.

Her gaze softened, though her voice held a quiet firmness that left no room for doubt. “But let me say this—Joel Miller doesn’t look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

Maria paused, a small, knowing smile flickering across her lips. “I think you made him soft,” she added, her tone light but carrying a weight that landed squarely on your chest.

“When I’m around him,” you said softly, your gaze falling to the soil as the words slipped free before you could stop them. “I feel… safe. Like nothing could hurt me. Like he’d do anything to protect me.” You paused, your voice faltering as your chest tightened. “I’ve never—” you stammered, swallowing hard. “I’ve never felt like that before.”

Maria didn’t respond right away, letting the weight of your confession settle in the quiet space between you. Her sharpness softened, her expression shifting to something tender, almost maternal, as she studied you. Finally, she spoke, her voice low but firm, carrying a truth you weren’t ready to face.

“Sounds an awful lot like love to me,” she said, the words landing with the force of something undeniable, wrapping around you in a way that felt both comforting and terrifying.

You shook your head quickly, the denial automatic, but it felt hollow, a reflex you couldn’t fully believe. The truth sat heavy in your chest, unspoken but undeniable, like a secret that refused to stay buried. You loved him. You had for a while now—longer than you cared to admit, maybe longer than you even realized.

You loved him with a yearning so deep, it scared you. A love that felt raw and all-encompassing, a love you couldn’t hide even if you wanted to. You loved him, you loved him, you loved him—and it was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

“Maria,” you murmured, your voice barely audible, as if speaking too loud might give too much weight to the feelings you were barely holding together. “Every time we get close, he pulls away.” Your voice broke, a tear slipping down your cheek before you even realized it. “Sometimes… sometimes I feel like he’s about to say something, or do something, to show me he feels the same way. But then he flips, like none of it ever mattered.”

“That man’s been through more than most of us can even begin to understand,” Maria said, her voice quiet but carrying a conviction that struck deep. “But listen to me—this isn’t about you being a risk he’s too scared to take. You’re not some passing thing. You’re the one thing he’s terrified of losing.”

Her words hit like a punch to the chest, knocking loose something you’d been holding too tightly. Because deep down, you knew she was right. Joel had told you himself—the words I’d die for you still echoed in your mind, raw and unshakable, like a vow you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t ignore.

“The other night…” you began hesitantly, your fingers twisting nervously at the hem of your shirt. “He came over.”

Maria’s eyebrows shot up, her entire face lighting with intrigue as she leaned in closer, the teasing lilt in her voice unmistakable. “Do tell,” she urged, her grin already forming.

You winced, immediately regretting opening your mouth. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” you said quickly, holding up a hand as if to fend her off, though the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. “He was just… making me dinner.”

Maria blinked, clearly caught off guard, before a slow, knowing smirk took over her face. “Just cooking you dinner?” she repeated, dragging the words out, every syllable dripping with disbelief. “Uh-huh. Because Joel Miller is the kind of guy who goes around playing chef for just anyone.”

Your face burned, and you groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”

“No,” Maria said with a laugh, shaking her head, her grin widening. “I think you’re not making enough of it. So? What else happened?”

You hesitated, your teeth sinking into your lip as your hands fumbled aimlessly with the nearest seedling. “Well… I… I gave him a massage.”

Maria froze mid-motion, her hand hovering above the soil, her eyes widening as her jaw dropped. “You what?” she asked, her voice pitching higher, loud enough to make you wince.

“Maria, keep your voice down!” you hissed, your gaze darting toward the greenhouse door as though someone might be lurking just outside, ready to overhear.

Maria’s hand clamped over her mouth, but it did nothing to hide the glint in her eyes. She looked ready to burst. Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she leaned in closer, her expression a mix of pure disbelief and delight. “Hold on. You gave him a massage? Like, with your hands? On his bare back? Oh my god—did he take his shirt off?”

The words sent your stomach into a spiral. You groaned, your face falling into your hands, wishing the soil beneath you would swallow you whole. “It wasn’t like that,” you muttered, your voice muffled. “He was sore from patrol, and I offered because he looked like he was in pain. That’s it.” You paused, knowing there was no way to escape the next part. “And, yes… he took his shirt off.”

Maria’s mouth dropped open before morphing into the widest grin you’d ever seen. She let out a delighted squeak, clapping her hands together like a kid who’d just been handed the world’s juiciest secret. “So let me get this straight,” she began, her tone exaggeratedly slow, like she was savoring every word. “Joel Miller—Mr. Grumpy, Mr. Lone Wolf, Mr. Don’t-Get-Too-Close—was shirtless in your house, letting you touch him? Are you hearing yourself right now?”

You threw your hands in the air, the flush on your face deepening. “It wasn’t a big deal!” you insisted, though your voice betrayed you, rising in pitch as the memory of the moment came rushing back. “He was in pain, Maria. Pain. I was just helping him out.”

Maria leaned back, her arms crossing as she gave you a knowing look. “Sure,” she said, drawing the word out with enough skepticism to make you want to crawl under the nearest seedling. “That’s why your face is bright red and you’re stammering like you just got caught sneaking out after curfew.”

“It didn’t mean anything,” you muttered, barely above a whisper. “He probably didn’t even think twice about it.”

Maria snorted, “Oh, he thought about it alright,” she said, her voice ringing with certainty, “Hell, he’s probably still thinking about it.”

Your head snapped up, your brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Maria grinned, leaning closer like she was about to share some grand secret. “You know, late at night.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, her words loaded with meaning.

Heat flooded your face as her insinuation brought a wave of memories you wished you could forget—Joel’s visible arousal, the way his pants had tightened at the crotch, the strategic placement of the pillow he’d used to conceal it. You swallowed hard, determined not to let those thoughts, or Maria’s teasing, derail you. There was no way she was hearing about that.

“Jesus, will you stop?” you nudged her arm, heat prickling up your neck as the implications of her statement hit you.

“You’re so ridiculous sometimes, you know that?” she said, shaking her head as though she couldn’t quite believe the sight of you sitting there, a mess of nerves and denial.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you shot back, though your voice wavered, and the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

Maria leaned in, her elbows resting on her knees, her eyes sharp and glinting with mischief. “It means,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, like she was explaining something painfully obvious to a stubborn child, “that he was probably using every ounce of self-control not to flip you over on that couch right then and there.”

“Maria!” you hissed, her name bursting out of you, sharp and scandalized.

“What?” she said, feigning innocence as she gave a casual shrug. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. He’s a man, after all. And let’s be honest—Joel Miller probably hasn’t had a woman’s hands on him in years.”

You let out a heavy sigh, dragging your hands over your face in frustration. “Ugh, I don’t know, okay?” you mumbled, your voice muffled behind your palms. “I mean… if he did feel that way about me, wouldn’t he have done something by now? At least kissed me or—or something?”

The words slipped out in a rush, unguarded and raw, trailing into a whisper like they might disappear if you spoke them softly enough. But they didn’t disappear.

Instead, they hung in the air between you and Maria, heavy and unrelenting. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, pinned you like a butterfly under glass. Her voice, when it came, was gentle. “You really believe that?”

"Yeah," you murmured, the word brittle. "I mean… wouldn’t he? If he wanted to?”

"Sweetheart," Maria began, her tone steady but kind, "Joel Miller is the most stubborn, self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated man I’ve ever met. You really think he’s just gonna march up to you, bare his heart on a silver platter, and hope for the best? That’s not how he works.”

You frowned, shaking your head as frustration prickled hot at the back of your neck. “So what?” you asked, your voice sharper now, brittle around the edges. “He’s just… never gonna say anything? Never gonna do anything? I can’t just wait forever, Maria.”

“No,” she said gently, shaking her head. “That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is Joel’s spent most of his life believing that caring about someone—really caring—is a weakness. Something that gets you hurt or worse. And then you come along and, well…” She paused, her gaze warm and steady. “You make him feel things he thought he’d buried a long time ago. But that terrifies him, probably more than you realize. Because letting you in? That means tearing down walls he’s spent decades building. That means risking everything.”

Your voice came quieter now, uncertain and aching. “So… what am I supposed to do?” Your eyes found Maria’s again, searching her face for guidance, for answers, for something—anything—that might untangle the knot of doubt tightening in your chest.

“Be patient,” she said simply, her voice a balm to your frayed nerves. “Joel’s a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He knows exactly what you mean to him. He’s just gotta figure out how to stop fighting himself and let it happen. And when he does?” Her smile widened, turning sly as she gave your knee a light squeeze. “Trust me, it’s not gonna be some half-hearted thing. That man will move mountains for you. Hell, he already does.”

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Winnie’s steady gait beneath you was a quiet balm, each step rocking you gently as you tightened your hold around Joel’s waist. Your hands rested over his ribs, rising and falling with his even breaths, the rhythm anchoring you more than you cared to admit.

The world here felt almost untouched, too peaceful for its harsh reality. Overhead, the canopy swayed like a living thing, the leaves whispering secrets to the wind. A bird trilled somewhere in the distance, its song rippling through the stillness like a pebble dropped in glassy water. It felt like the kind of day you could bottle up and save for when the world grew too dark again.

“So,” you started, your voice light, teasing, as you broke the quiet. “You’re really gonna teach me to shoot a deer today?”

Joel’s head tilted just enough for you to catch the edge of his profile—sharp, rugged, softened by the glow of the sun. “That’s the idea,” he replied evenly, his drawl as familiar as the creak of the saddle beneath you. “Long as you listen to what I tell you.” He paused, then added with a smirk, “For once.”

You gasped, overly dramatic, smacking his shoulder lightly. “Hey, I do listen.”

Joel hummed, a low, skeptical sound, and you swore you could feel his lips twitching even though you couldn’t see them. The small, almost imperceptible sound made something inside you warm, like you’d just struck gold.

Truthfully, you’d been surprised when Joel had offered. You’d been at the stables after patrol, brushing Winnie down when he approached and casually suggested you join him the next morning. Hunting, he’d said, like it was the most natural thing in the world to ask.

“Well,” you sighed now, letting the moment stretch as you leaned your cheek lightly against his back, “don’t get your hopes up. I have a feeling we’ll head back empty-handed.”

“Don’t matter,” he said after a pause, his voice quieter now, almost contemplative. “Good to be out here. It’s nice. We’ll make it fun.”

You froze, pulling back, your brows lifted, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Uh, excuse me? Am I having a stroke?”

Joel’s shoulders stiffened immediately, and he glanced back at you, brow furrowed, his tone rough with instinctive gruffness. “What?”

“Joel Miller,” you said, barely able to keep your grin in check, “talking about fun?”

His exhale was short, just shy of a laugh. “You’re a pain,” he muttered, the words carrying no real heat as he turned his attention back to the path ahead.

You laughed, the sound spilling out of you before you could stop it. It felt light and unburdened, a sound that didn’t belong in this harsh world but fit perfectly here, in this pocket of peace—where the trees swayed gently overhead and the sun filtered down to warm your face.

Joel didn’t say anything, but you could feel him relax in front of you, like the sound had smoothed out the edges of him, loosening a piece of the armor he always wore.

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Joel walked ahead, his steps deliberate, his boots barely making a sound. You followed, watching the subtle tilt of his head every so often as he listened for sounds you couldn’t pick up. He was watchful, always, as though the forest could turn on you at any second.

“Stay close,” he murmured over his shoulder, his gaze flicked to yours for a heartbeat before shifting back to the trail ahead.

You nodded, your own steps careful as you matched his pace. Twigs snapped faintly beneath your boots, the crunch of dried leaves mingling with the faint rustle of wind through the trees.

Joel stopped suddenly, his hand lifting to signal you to pause. You froze mid-step, holding your breath as he crouched low. Without a word, he gestured for you to do the same. You sank into a crouch beside him, the earth cool beneath your palms as you balanced yourself.

“There,” he whispered, his voice so quiet it was barely a breath, the heat of it brushing your ear. You followed his line of sight, your heart stuttering as you spotted it—a deer, grazing in the clearing just ahead. Its coat gleamed in the broken sunlight, rich and golden, and its ears flicked lazily as it chewed on the grass, oblivious to the two of you watching.

Joel turned to you, his expression calm but focused, “We’ll take it slow,” he said, inching closer. The warmth of him followed, settling like a weight around you as he crouched beside you. He reached for the rifle, his movements slow and deliberate, before he settled you against a fallen log.

His touch was gentle but firm as he adjusted your position, “Here,” he murmured, the word soft enough to almost get lost in the hush of the forest. His hands covered yours, guiding the rifle into place with a patience that made your pulse quicken.

“You remember, don’t you?” Joel asked quietly, his voice a low hum at your ear. “Keep your grip loose. Just enough to hold it steady. Like we practiced.”

You nodded, swallowing hard as your heart stuttered under the weight of everything—the rifle in your hands, the quiet between you, the solid feel of him so close. He leaned in more, his breath ghosting against your cheek as he tilted your aim slightly.

The deer grazed peacefully in the clearing, its movements unhurried, and you let your focus fall there—tried to drown out the way your skin burned everywhere Joel touched.

“Now,” Joel murmured, his voice softer still. “Take a deep breath. Steady. Slow. You don’t rush this.”

You inhaled, deep and deliberate, the air cool against the tightness in your chest. Joel’s hands stayed on yours, steadying, grounding, and you found yourself focusing not just on the rifle but on him—the way his presence felt like an anchor.

Your finger hovered over the trigger. The weight of the moment settled over you, a knot of nerves and something more twisting deep in your chest. “What if I miss?” you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

Joel didn’t hesitate. He leaned in closer, his voice steady and sure as if it held the power to undo every doubt in your head. “You won’t,” he said, the confidence in his tone like a balm. “You trust yourself. And you trust me.”

You blinked, your breath hitching as his words sank in. Joel didn’t pull away, his face still close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the rough timbre of his voice lingering like an echo.

“Breathe,” he reminded softly, the word curling through you like an unspoken promise.

You exhaled slowly, your shoulders relaxing under his touch as you centered your aim once more. Joel stayed still, his hands steadying yours—not pushing, not pulling, just there, like he always seemed to be when you needed him. The world felt smaller somehow, narrowed to just the two of you and the stillness of the forest.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, your heart hammering in your chest. And then—click. The sharp crack of the rifle firing shattered the stillness, the deer collapsing instantly to the ground.

The forest went quiet again, as if it, too, were holding its breath. You stared, wide-eyed, your pulse thrumming in your ears as the reality of what you’d just done settled in.

Then Joel’s voice broke through, low and steady, laced with something proud. “Hell of a shot.”

You turned to him, chest heaving, a grin spreading across your face—wide, uncontainable. “I did it,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a rush of disbelief and elation. “Joel, I did it!”

His smile was small but real, softening the sharp lines of his face. Pride flickered in his eyes, a quiet warmth that made your heart stumble. “Knew you could,” he said, his voice gruff but gentle, like he’d never doubted you for a second.

Before you could stop yourself, you leaned in—quick, impulsive—pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was fleeting, barely more than a brush, but it was enough to make him freeze. The world around you seemed to pause, Joel going stock-still beneath your touch, his breath catching as if the smallest movement might shatter the moment.

“Thank you,” you murmured softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. The words carried the weight of more than just this one moment, more than just a lesson with a rifle. “For helping me. For—” You hesitated, your voice faltering under the way he was looking at you. “For everything.”

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something there—something soft and unguarded that he rarely let slip. His eyes darted away for the briefest second, a faint blush creeping up his neck and dusting his cheeks.

“Uh—yeah,” he muttered, clearing his throat as his hand went to the back of his neck. “You’re… you’re welcome.”

The gruff awkwardness of it pulled a laugh from you, light and unrestrained, cutting through the tension like a sunbeam breaking through the trees. Joel Miller—this man who stared down raiders and infected with unflinching calm—was blushing because of you.

He began to rise, his hand already extended to help you up so you could see your catch, but you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm.

“Wait,” you murmured, your voice quiet but sure. He stilled instantly, his gaze flicking to yours. Slowly, you set the rifle aside, your movements careful, deliberate. Then, you shifted, turning over to rest your head against the log, your eyes lifting to the canopy above.

The trees towered above you, their branches swaying lazily in the breeze, sunlight filtering through in golden streaks that dappled the forest floor. It was a moment that felt too perfect to disrupt, too rare to let slip away.

“Lay with me,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper, but the words carried weight, a quiet invitation that hung between you.

For a moment, he hesitated, and you thought he might pull back—say it was getting late or that you were being silly. But he didn’t.

Instead, Joel obliged with a quiet groan, sinking down beside you. He stretched out, his head coming to rest just near yours, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of him. His eyes followed yours to the canopy above, where the trees swayed gently, their leaves rustling in a soft, rhythmic whisper.

You stayed quiet for a while, letting the hum of the woods fill the spaces between breaths. Joel’s shoulder brushed yours with each small shift, a touch so faint it almost didn’t count—but it did.

“I have a question,” you murmured, your voice barely above the whisper of the wind through the trees.

Joel hummed softly, a low sound that felt like an invitation, steady and patient, as if he’d wait forever for you to ask.

You hesitated, teeth catching the inside of your cheek, unsure why your heart suddenly felt too big for your chest. “What was your first impression of me?”

Joel chuckled, the sound rough and warm, a quiet rumble that sent a shiver through you. You could feel his gaze shift toward you, even as you kept your eyes fixed on the swaying branches above. “First impression?” he asked, his voice carrying that familiar, low drawl.

“Mhm,” you replied, your lips curving faintly as you tried to sound casual, though your chest tightened in anticipation.

“Let’s see…” He dragged the words out like he was savoring them. “Lazy,” he started, his tone laced with teasing. “Chatterbox. Stubborn as hell.”

Your head snapped toward him, and before you could think better of it, you swatted his arm. “Hey! Be serious,” you protested, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Joel smirked, rubbing the spot like you’d actually hurt him, though his eyes had softened in that way they sometimes did when he wasn’t guarding himself so tightly.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, the teasing slipping away as he leaned back a little, his gaze drifting somewhere far off, like he was digging through memories he hadn’t let himself touch in a while. “I remember Tommy talkin’ about you before we were first partnered for patrol. Said you were a nice kid. Reliable. Good to have around in a pinch.”

He paused, his words settling into the quiet between you. You might have teased him for calling you a “kid” if it weren’t for the way his voice shifted then—lower, steadier, like he was choosing his words with care.

“But then… then I got to know you, and you’re... a hell of a lot more than that.”

“You’re a good girl,” he murmured, the words soft but heavy, landing squarely in your chest and taking the air right out of you. His voice dipped lower, roughened by something real, something unguarded. “Sweet… even when the world tried to take that from you. Didn’t let it. That’s somethin’.”

He let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his face like the next words were harder to admit. “You’re tough. Know how to stand your ground. Don’t let anyone push you around. But you’ve got…” His voice faltered, a slight hitch in his breath. “You’ve got a good heart. And that’s rare. You don’t see that much anymore.”

He turned his head toward you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you,” he murmured, his voice low and weighted with sincerity. “You’re... different.”

“Different?” you whispered, your breath catching.

“Special,” he replied, the word lingering in the air like a quiet confession.

The weight of his words settled over you, pressing against your chest in a way that made it hard to breathe. You blinked up at the sky, pretending the ache you felt was just from the cool air brushing against your skin. You didn’t trust yourself to speak—not now, not when your voice would betray everything you weren’t ready to admit.

Joel shifted beside you, clearing his throat like the moment had gotten too heavy for him too. “’Course, you still talk too damn much,” he muttered, his voice gruff, but it lacked the sharp edge of his usual teasing.

You didn’t swat him this time. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you, the space filled with nothing but the sound of the forest and the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing beside you. Your shoulders brushed again, and this time you didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

"What did you…" Joel started, his voice low and halting, like he was pulling the words up from some place deep inside. He paused, his throat working as he forced the rest out. “What did you think about me?”

You blinked, his question catching you off guard. Joel Miller, asking what you thought about him. The man who could silence a room with a look, who walked through life with his walls so high you were sure no one could climb them.

And now, here he was, his voice so quiet and uncertain it felt like the wind could carry it away. It was so uncharacteristic, so achingly vulnerable, it made your chest feel like it was splintering under the weight of it.

He stayed still beside you, his gaze fixed upward on the swaying trees, but you could feel the tension in him, as though the question alone had cost him more than he was willing to admit.

You swallowed hard, searching for the right words. A soft laugh escaped you, unsteady and a little raw, the memory rushing in before you could stop it.

“I remember Maria warning me before our first patrol,” you said, your voice light but tinged with something deeper. “She told me, ‘He’ll probably ignore you, or say something that might hurt your feelings—but that’s just Joel.’” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, and he let out a huff of air through his nose, shaking his head like he’d heard that before.

“And sure,” you continued, your tone softening, “the first few times, we didn’t talk much. You kept your distance, and I figured that was just who you were. But you weren’t mean. Not once. Never did anything to hurt my feelings. If anything…” You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. “If anything, you were… thoughtful.”

“You let me eat half your food,” you said, your lips curving into a soft, wistful smile as you held his gaze. “You carried my pack even when I argued with you about it.” A quiet laugh escaped you, though it trembled under the weight of your emotions. “And you… you brought me a damn Christmas tree.”

Your smile faltered, the ache of those moments flooding through you—the quiet, selfless things he did without ever needing to say why.

Each one was tucked away in your heart, little treasures you’d clung to, but now they came crashing down all at once, sharp and overwhelming.

You loved him. God, you loved him. And all you wanted to do was tell him.

Your voice wavered, trembling as you pressed on, your chest tightening with every word. “You… you make me dinner. You bring me firewood when it’s cold, even when I don’t ask. You…” Your breath hitched, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as you squeezed them shut. “You take care of me, Joel. In a way no one ever has.”

You swallowed hard, the words I love you hovering on the edge of your lips, too fragile to speak but too real to ignore.

The silence between you stretched on, heavy and endless, the weight of what you’d just confessed hanging in the air like the low hum of the wind through the trees. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, each beat loud and uneven, as though it was trying to drown out the unbearable quiet.

For a moment, you thought you’d said too much, crossed an invisible line, shattered something that could never be put back together. And then, just as the ache of it became too much to bear, something warm and rough brushed against your palm.

You didn’t have to look down to know what it was.

Joel’s hand, strong and calloused, slid into yours with a gentleness that stole the breath from your lungs. His fingers intertwined with yours, hesitantly at first, as though he wasn’t sure you’d let him stay. But when you didn’t pull away, when your hand instinctively curled tighter around his, his grip steadied, solid and unyielding, like it was exactly where it belonged.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared to speak. The tension, the quiet, was no longer unbearable—like the spark of something long denied, long overdue. You didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at you; both of you kept your eyes fixed on the swaying branches above, as if the fragile balance between you would shatter if either of you broke the spell.

The warmth of his hand seeped into you, grounding you, anchoring you to the moment. It wasn’t just a touch—it was an admission, a promise, a vulnerability he’d never offered anyone else. Joel Miller, who had spent years building walls so high no one could breach them, had just let you in. And it was enough to make your heart ache in the most devastating, beautiful way.

You lay there together, the forest whispering around you, the sky shifting above. His thumb brushed your skin, almost imperceptibly, as though he couldn’t stop himself, as though he needed to remind himself you were still there.

And you stayed like that, wordless, motionless, the world around you slipping away until there was nothing but him, and the way his hand fit perfectly into yours.

₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊₊⊹⋆❄︎⋆⊹₊

The ride back to Jackson was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. The sound of Winnie’s hooves hitting the dirt was familiar and steady beneath you, grounding in a way that felt almost intimate. Your arms were wrapped around Joel’s waist, and though the cool evening breeze brushed against your skin, the warmth radiating from him was enough to chase it away.

Joel was the first to break the silence, his voice low and soft, meant only for you. “Told you you could do it,” he said, and there was a thread of pride in his tone, so pure it made your chest ache. “Your shootin’s gotten real good.”

The words sent a blush rushing to your cheeks, and you were grateful he couldn’t see the way you were smiling like a fool behind him. “That so?” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer right away, and the pause felt heavier than it should have. Then, without warning, his hand left the reins and covered yours where they were clasped around his waist. His touch was steady, deliberate—a quiet reassurance that made your heart stumble over itself.

“Steady hands,” he murmured, his voice even softer now. “Steady heart.” His hand lingered there for just a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

Your heart was thundering now, and you were sure he could feel it where your chest pressed lightly against his back. You let your cheek rest against him, the worn leather of his jacket cool beneath your skin. “Guess I had a good teacher,” you said, your voice quiet but certain, the words carrying everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say outright.

Joel let out a huff of air—a sound that might’ve passed for a laugh if it weren’t so gentle. You felt the rumble of it beneath your cheek, a low vibration that seemed to settle into your very bones. “That right?” he said gruffly, but there was no edge to it, only something soft and unspoken.

The silence stretched on, soft and comfortable, broken only by the steady rhythm of Winnie’s hooves against the dirt. The world felt small out here, just the two of you and the trail ahead, cocooned in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“What were you like as a kid?” you asked, your voice soft, almost hesitant, like you were stepping carefully into a part of him he rarely shared.

Joel didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you thought maybe he wouldn’t. But then his voice came, low and thoughtful, “Grew up in Texas,” he said. “Spent most of my time outside. Fishin’, climbin’ trees, gettin’ into trouble with Tommy.”

You smiled at the thought, the image of a younger Joel flashing in your mind—sun-kissed and wide-eyed, a boy too good for the world he’d been handed. “Were you the troublemaker?” you asked, teasing, but there was a softness in your tone.

Joel let out a huff, more breath than laugh, but warm all the same. “Nah,” he said, a hint of fondness creeping into his voice. “That was Tommy. Always gettin’ himself in a mess. I was the one cleanin’ up after him. Still am, come to think of it.”

The corner of your mouth tugged upward, and you shook your head lightly, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sounds like you had your hands full,” you said, your voice laced with quiet amusement. “But it doesn’t sound like a bad way to grow up.”

“Could’ve been worse,” he said simply.

“And you were in construction, right?” you asked, your tone light, almost cautious, as if not wanting to disrupt the delicate quiet between you.

“Yeah,” he said. “Took on whatever jobs I could—houses, repairs, sometimes just fixin’ fences. Wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. Made sure Sarah had what she needed.”

There was something in the way he said her name, a warmth that softened the rough edges of his voice. It made your chest tighten, the weight of everything he’d carried alone for so long pressing against you. “Sounds like you worked hard for her,” you said softly, your words laced with admiration you didn’t bother hiding.

Joel glanced back at you briefly, his dark eyes catching the fading light of the trail. For just a second, his expression softened, the lines on his face easing. “Had to,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “She deserved that much.”

“And were you,” you started, hesitating for a moment as the words danced on the edge of your tongue. You glanced at the back of his head, at the way his shoulders shifted subtly with the rhythm of the horse. “Were you married?”

Joel’s posture stiffened at your question, just for a heartbeat, before he let out a quiet breath. “No,” he said, his voice low, deliberate. “Well… divorced.”

“Oh,” you murmured, the word soft, instinctive. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly wishing he could see you nod, as if it might somehow convey the understanding you didn’t quite know how to voice.

You hesitated, unsure whether to press further, but the curiosity wouldn’t let you stop. “And after the outbreak?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

It felt like uncharted territory—dangerous, intimate. You and Joel didn’t talk about relationships. Hell, you hardly talked about the past at all, and now here you were, asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted the answers to. Or maybe you did.

Joel shifted slightly in the saddle, his shoulders tightening under your arms. For a moment, you thought he might brush it off, deflect the way he so often did. But then his voice came, quieter than before, weighted with a kind of honesty that made your chest ache. “No one after that,” he said, the words slow and deliberate, like he’d been carrying them alone for too long. “Didn’t have the time. Didn’t see much point.”

Relief washed over you, unexpected and sharp, mingled with something darker, something you didn’t want to examine too closely.

You weren’t sure why you wanted him to say no—why the thought of someone else knowing him the way you did, maybe even more, made your chest tighten.

It wasn’t fair, but you couldn’t help it. You didn’t want anyone to know Joel like you did, to see the cracks in his armor he let you glimpse, the moments of tenderness he seemed to reserve just for you.

“Some of us just… don’t get second chances. That’s all,” he said, his voice softer now, like he was speaking more to the shadows of his past than to you.

Some of us don’t get second chances.

The phrase knocked the breath from your lungs, a sudden, raw ache blooming in your chest. Your heart stuttered at the thought—the idea that he believed that.

That Joel, with his quiet strength and steady hands, thought himself unworthy of something so simple, so human. The idea of him carrying that weight, that belief, settled in your bones, cold and sharp.

You wanted to tell him he was wrong. You wanted to reach into the silence and pull him back, tell him he deserved more than he could ever imagine. But the words caught in your throat, tangled in the unspoken feelings you weren’t ready to say out loud.

Because the truth was, you wanted to be his second chance. You wanted to be his, in every way that mattered. You wanted to show him that even in a world as broken as this one, he was still worthy of love and light and everything he’d spent so long denying himself.

“What about you?” Joel asked suddenly, his voice breaking through the stillness. He glanced back, just enough for you to catch the flicker of something in his eyes. Vulnerability, curiosity, maybe even hope. “You got someone waitin’ out there?”

The question sounded casual, almost offhanded, but you felt the weight beneath it—the way his words carried something deeper, something braced. Like he was preparing himself for whatever answer you might give, steeling himself for a name that wasn’t his. Boyfriend. Husband. Someone—anyone—out there waiting for you.

Your breath hitched, and you blinked, your brows lifting in surprise. A soft, startled laugh escaped before you could stop it, not because the question was funny, but because it was him asking. Him, who never asked things like this. Him, who you never thought would.

“Me?” you repeated, your voice higher, breathless with something you couldn’t quite place.

Joel’s shoulders stiffened slightly, his posture betraying the casualness his words tried to feign. “Yeah,” he said, quieter now, rougher. “You. Someone back home, or… someone out there?”

You could see it then, how much he wanted you to say no, how much he needed you to say no. The thought made your chest ache, the quiet yearning in his question making your throat tighten. You shook your head, slow and deliberate, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “No,” you said simply, your voice low, steady, but tinged with something you couldn’t hide. “There’s no one.”

Joel’s shoulders eased—just slightly, just enough for you to notice—and the sound that left him was little more than a hum, low and thoughtful. “No one, huh,” he murmured after a moment, the words quiet, like he was turning them over in his mind. Then, softer, almost to himself, he added, “I find that hard to believe.”

Your heart stopped for a beat, the words sinking into your chest like a stone dropped into still water. The quiet conviction in his tone, the way he said it like it wasn’t a compliment but a fact, left you breathless.

“Why’s that?” you asked, your voice quieter now, a whisper carried on the soft afternoon air.

Joel hesitated, his hands shifting slightly on the reins. “A girl like you,” he began, his voice low, unsteady in a way that made your pulse quicken. “Could have anyone.” He shrugged, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “You’ve practically got all the boys in Jackson lined up. Toby. That Levi guy.”

You shut your eyes, shaking your head in frustration at how blind he was—how this man, so steady, so stubborn, couldn’t see that you loved him with every fiber of your being.

Slowly, carefully, your arms tightened around his waist, the movement deliberate, your grip firm as though you could somehow hold him together in a way no one else ever had. A secret message in your touch—silent, desperate, saying all the things you didn’t know how to put into words.

“I don’t want just anyone,” you said, your voice quiet but steady, trembling only slightly with the rawness of it. The words carried every unspoken truth you’d kept hidden, tucked away in the quiet spaces between your moments together.

You didn’t know if he’d understand—not fully—but you had to try. You had to give him this, even if it was just enough to plant the seed of something he’d been too blind to see.

Joel’s breath hitched, sharp and sudden, the sound cutting through the tension like a lightning strike. You felt it under your cheek where it rested against his back, the way his ribs rose and fell in a shallow, uneven rhythm. He didn’t speak—didn’t turn or shift—but the tension in his shoulders gave him away, his body betraying everything his words wouldn’t.

You let your eyes drift closed, the warmth of Joel’s back beneath your cheek grounding you, his presence steady in a way that made your heart ache. Winnie’s sure, rhythmic pace felt like it could carry you both away from the world, from everything, into a place that was just this. Just him.

I could stay here forever, you thought, the words unspoken but so loud in your chest it almost hurt. My cheek against his back. My heartbeat pressed into his spine. Safe.

The silence stretched, soft and full, until the thought finally broke free, escaping as a murmur that carried with it something raw and fragile as you spoke, “I think we would’ve gotten along back then.”

“I think we would’ve too.”

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

It was Christmas Eve.

You perched on the edge of Maria’s kitchen counter, swinging your legs idly as she moved around the room, her hands busy but her sharp gaze flicking to you now and then.

A Christmas hat dangled precariously on your head—your Christmas hat, patched together from mismatched scraps scavenged over the past few weeks on patrols with Joel. The red fabric had come from a faded curtain in a half-collapsed house, and the fleece trim? From an old jacket no one could use. The stitching was uneven, one side slumping more than the other, but it had heart.

Joel had never asked about it. Not outright. He’d just given you those raised eyebrows of his, paired with that low mutter—“Don’t know what the hell you’re plannin’ on doin’ with that.” And yet, not once did he stop you from stuffing another scrap into your pack.

Maria glanced at you as she slid a bowl of something fragrant onto the counter. “So,” she said casually, a smirk already tugging at her lips, “how was shooting with your man?”

“Oh my god,” you said, your voice rushing out in a flustered tumble. “He’s not my man.”

Maria leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms as her smirk widened, sharp and teasing. “Yeah,” she said lightly, dragging out the words, “but you’re almost there, though.”

You opened your mouth to shoot back some half-hearted denial, but instead, a soft sigh escaped. The fight left you before it even started. “It was sweet,” you admitted, almost to yourself, the edges of your lips curling into a small, unbidden smile. “He’s… sweet.”

The memory of him holding your hand lingered, unshakable.

You wouldn’t tell Maria that, though. No way. She’d have a field day with it.

“You’re in loooove,” she sang, dragging out the word like it was some cosmic revelation.

Your jaw dropped, heat flushing your face as you scrambled for anything, anything, to shut her up. “I—”

Nope. Nothing.

So, you did the next best thing. Reaching over to her cutting board, you snatched up a slice of carrot and popped it into your mouth before she could stop you. “Whatever,” you said around the crunch, waving her off as if her words hadn’t just hit you square in the chest.

“Hey! That’s for dinner,” Maria scolded, her tone caught somewhere between irritation and amusement as she shot you a sharp look.

“Relax, you’ve got like fifty more,” you said, waving a hand toward the mountain of chopped vegetables she’d already prepped.

“Yeah, and I’m counting on you to ruin at least ten of those by sneaking bites,” she quipped, her knife hovering over the cutting board as she gave you a mock glare. “Seriously, get out of my kitchen. I’ve got enough to worry about without you slowing me down.”

“I’m here to help,” you protested, raising your hands in exaggerated surrender, your grin refusing to fade. “I could chop something. Or, like… boil water? I’m a multi-talented individual.”

Maria snorted, her eyebrow arching skeptically. “Oh, sure. And if I wanted someone to set the kitchen on fire, I’d call Tommy.” She waved her knife at you for emphasis, her smirk cutting through the threat. “Go. Living room. Now.”

“Fine, fine,” you sighed dramatically, sliding off the counter with an exaggerated slump of your shoulders. “But for the record, this is the last time I offer my expertise to this household.”

Maria didn’t even look up, her focus already back on the cutting board. “Expertise,” she muttered under her breath with a scoff. “God help us all.”

As you shuffled toward the doorway, dragging your feet for maximum effect, you couldn’t help but shoot a glance over your shoulder, your grin widening as Maria flicked a stray piece of carrot in your direction without looking. You caught it midair, popping it into your mouth with a crunch that echoed defiantly through the kitchen.

“Living room!” she barked, her voice sharp but laced with unmistakable warmth.

“Going, going,” you called back, retreating into the next room with a laugh, your heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

“Hello, baby,” you murmured as the living room couch came into view, the words half a sigh of longing. It practically called your name, and you didn’t hesitate, flopping onto it with all the grace of a potato sack. A groan escaped you, muffled by the cushion as you sprawled out, one arm draped dramatically over your eyes.

For a moment, you stared at the clock on the wall. 4 p.m. Two whole hours until dinner. Two hours until Tommy and Joel got back from patrol. Two hours of absolutely nothing to do but wait—and wasn’t that just the most unbearable stretch of time?

“Maria!” you called out, your voice loud enough to carry back to the kitchen.

“What?” came her sharp reply, tinged with her usual exasperation, followed by the rhythmic chop of her knife against the cutting board.

“Can I take a nap?” you asked, drawing the words out in a mock plea for permission, even as you settled deeper into the cushions.

There was a pause. You heard her muttering, low and unmistakable, and you caught just enough to know she’d said something like “lazy ass.”

You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “Love you too!” you called back, but you didn’t bother waiting for her retort. Sleep was already pulling you under, warm and heavy, the couch a cocoon against the fading afternoon light.

Whatever meddling Maria had planned for the evening—whatever teasing or remarks or too-knowing smiles she had up her sleeve—it could wait. Joel would be back soon, and for now, that was enough.

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

You woke with someone poking your face. Actually poking your cheek.

Your eyelids fluttered open, the haze of sleep blurring your vision as you struggled to make sense of the looming figure above you. It was Joel, his hand hovering suspiciously close to your face, like he was about to do it again.

“You drool when you sleep,” he said plainly, his voice gravelly and low.

“Joel?” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep, your mind still caught between dreams and the dim reality of the room.

“No, it’s Santa,” he replied dryly, a faint flicker of amusement in his tone as he stepped back and crossed his arms.

You pushed yourself upright, blinking around the room to find the clock. The arms of the clock stared back at you: 6:15 PM.

“How was patrol?” you asked, your voice soft and thick with sleep as you rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, still trying to shake off the lingering haze.

Joel chuckled, the sound low and warm, sending a quiet thrill through you despite yourself. He dropped heavily onto the couch beside you, his weight making the cushions sag. His arms stretched out across the back of the couch, his posture relaxed but his presence anything but. You shifted instinctively, making room for him.

“Fine,” he said with a shrug, his voice as casual as ever. But there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes as he added, “Though we got things done faster ‘cause you weren’t there yappin’ my ear off.”

“Please,” you huffed, throwing him a look as you leaned back into the couch, trying to ignore how close his arm was to brushing your shoulder. “You love it.”

Joel shrugged again, feigning nonchalance, but his lips twitched upward in a faint, unguarded smile.

“Can’t believe you were sleepin’,” Joel muttered, tilting his head toward you, his voice thick with a faint yawn. “Shouldn’t you be helpin’ Maria?”

You groaned, leaning your head back against the couch, letting your frustration bleed into an exaggerated pout. “She practically kicked me out of the kitchen,” you muttered, your voice laced with mock indignation.

Joel turned his head, and the faintest smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, how’d I forget? Can shoot a man dead, but can’t even bake a potato.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes as heat flushed your cheeks. Without thinking, you reached for the nearest pillow, brandishing it like a weapon. “Ha-ha. Very funny,” you shot back, tossing it at him with little care for accuracy.

The pillow bounced harmlessly off his shoulder, and to your surprise, Joel laughed—a real laugh, deep and unguarded, rumbling low in his chest. It wasn’t something you heard often, and the sound caught you off guard, striking something tender inside you. You wanted to freeze the moment, hold it tight, and keep it for all the days when he felt a million miles away.

When the laughter faded, a quiet calm settled over the room. Comfortable, warm, and charged with something you couldn’t name. Joel’s dark eyes lingered on you, softer than you’d seen in a long time, his smirk mellowing into a faint, almost shy smile.

You felt yourself staring back, your lips curving into an answering smile before you could even think about it. There was something about him like this—unguarded, at ease—that made your chest ache, your breath hitching before you caught it.

He shook his head, his gaze dropping to his lap for a moment before returning to you. “You’ve got—” Joel chuckled, pausing mid-sentence like he was trying to stop himself. But then he reached over, his fingers brushing against your lip, and your heart stuttered.

“Drool,” he said, his voice low, tinged with something you couldn’t quite pin down. “All over your damn face, you silly girl.”

His touch was fleeting, so light it might’ve been nothing, but it left sparks in its wake, the warmth of his fingers lingering long after he pulled away.

Joel leaned back, shaking his head like he was fighting off a grin, but you caught it—the quiet fondness in the way he looked at you, the way his eyes lingered just a second too long.

For a moment, it was just the two of you. The world outside the living room melted away, leaving nothing but the low hum of the fire, the faint scent of Maria’s cooking drifting in from the kitchen, and the feeling swelling between you.

“Dinner’s ready!” Maria’s voice rang out from the kitchen, cutting through the quiet like a sharp blade, snapping the two of you back to reality.

Joel’s hand, which had lingered just a second too long near your mouth, dropped abruptly, as if he’d only just realized it was there. He cleared his throat, the sound rough and awkward, his gaze darting away from yours. “Better get movin’,” he muttered, his tone gruff, like he was trying to pull himself together.

He pushed himself up from the couch, his movements stiff and purposeful, tugging at the hem of his jacket like he needed something—anything—to do with his hands.

You stayed where you were, watching him as your heart thudded in your chest, the warmth of his touch still ghosting over your skin.

“C’mon,” he said, softer now. “Maria’ll have my head if we’re late.”

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

The dining room was warm, cozy in the way only Maria could make it. The table was set with care, adorned with steaming bowls of vegetables, a mound of golden mashed potatoes, a basket of fresh bread, and little details that made the world outside feel miles away.

“Maria, this looks incredible,” you said as you pulled out your chair, the scent of everything making your stomach rumble.

Maria smirked, hands on her hips as she surveyed the table with satisfaction. “Look how much work I got done without you sneaking bites of my veggies,” she teased, her eyes twinkling as she shot you a playful glare.

“You’re a naughty one,” Tommy quipped, his grin wide as he turned to Maria, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. “You’ve outdone yourself, baby.”

Joel slid into the chair across from you, the scrape of wood against the floor almost lost in the hum of conversation. His gaze caught yours for just a beat—a quiet, fleeting connection—before he looked away, his attention falling to the food in front of him.

“So,” Tommy began, already reaching for the bread as if he hadn’t eaten in days, “Joel and I had quite the day on patrol.”

Joel huffed, his lips tugging into a wry smirk as he leaned back slightly in his chair. “If by ‘quite the day,’ you mean you spent half of it yappin’ and the other half tripping over your own damn feet, then yeah, sure.”

The comment drew a laugh from your lips. Joel’s gaze flicked toward you again, his eyes catching yours, and for a moment, his expression softened.

Tommy, oblivious as ever, was already grinning smugly as he tore into a piece of bread, slathering it with butter. “Hey, I didn’t hear you complainin’ when I saved your ass from that clicker,” he shot back, wagging the bread at Joel like a weapon.

Joel leaned back in his chair, shaking his head slowly. “I had that under control,” he said gruffly, his voice carrying just enough edge to hold back Tommy’s teasing.

Tommy barked a laugh, clearly enjoying himself, but the word clicker lodged itself in your chest like a thorn. The lighthearted chatter around you blurred into static as the weight of the word pulled your attention elsewhere. Your fork froze midair, the food on your plate forgotten as your gaze snapped to Joel.

“Clicker?” you asked, your voice soft but taut with concern, your brows furrowing as your chest tightened. All the humor drained from your face, replaced by something raw and unguarded. Your eyes searched his, desperate for assurance, for some unspoken promise that everything was fine.

Joel’s jaw tightened as he saw the worry etched into your expression. “Yeah,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low and steady, smoothing the jagged edges of the truth. “Just one. It was alone. Nothin’ we couldn’t handle.”

His gaze locked onto yours then, steady and insistent, and the intensity of it made your heart falter. It wasn’t just words he was giving you; it was something more—a silent plea for you to believe him, to let him carry this so you wouldn’t have to.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he added, his tone softer now, like he was trying to calm the storm he knew was already brewing in your mind. Joel wasn’t good at words, not when it came to things like this, but the way he leaned slightly forward, his shoulders tense, told you he felt it—the weight of your fear, your worry.

God, he thought, looking at you, his own chest tightening at the way you seemed to fold into yourself, worry so plainly written on your face. If he were half the man he wished he was, he’d reach across the table, take your hand, and kiss that fear right out of you. He’d tell you, I’ve got you, and make you believe it.

But he wasn’t, so he didn’t. Instead, his hand hovered over the table for a split second, as if it might defy him, before retreating to his lap.

You nodded slowly, but the tightness in your chest refused to ease. The weight of Joel’s words lingered, heavy and uneasy, the thought of him—your Joel—that close to danger settling like a stone beneath your ribs. “Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as your fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of your napkin.

“I’m fine,” he said at last, his voice softer now, almost tentative. His eyes, though, carried the weight of a promise, silent but firm: I’m fine. I won’t let anything happen to me. Not when it would hurt you.

The moment stretched between you, filled with something unspoken but undeniable, before Tommy, blissfully oblivious to the tension, jumped back in with a teasing grin. “Yeah, well, I’m the one who made sure he stayed that way,” he said, tearing into another piece of bread with all the smugness in the world.

“Anyways,” Tommy said, undeterred, turning his full attention to you with his mouth still half-full of bread. “Joel was tellin’ me you shot a damn deer. That true, darlin’?”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, the heat spreading down your neck as you ducked your head. You nudged the peas on your plate with the tines of your fork, suddenly unable to meet anyone’s gaze. “Yeah,” you mumbled, biting your lip. “But Joel basically did all the work.”

“Not true,” Joel cut in, his voice steady and firm, leaving no room for argument. He set his utensils down and leaned forward slightly, his gaze locking on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “She did it all herself,” he said, his tone softening, a quiet pride lacing every word. “Too modest for her own good, as always. She lined up the shot, kept steady, and didn’t flinch—not once. Clean hit, too. Not many folks can say they’ve got that kind of aim, especially their first time.”

Your cheeks burned hotter under his praise, and you dared a glance up, only to find him still watching you, his expression warm and earnest. “Really impressed me,” Joel added, his voice dropping slightly, almost as if the words were meant just for you. “Takes guts to do what she did. Can’t teach that. She’s a natural.”

Tommy let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “Well, damn,” he said, grinning. “Sounds like you’ve got some real competition now, Joel.”

Joel didn’t even glance at Tommy, his focus still entirely on you. “She’s better than I ever was,” he said simply, the honesty in his tone making your heart ache in the best possible way.

Tommy let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair with an appreciative nod. His gaze flicked between the two of you, a teasing glint in his eye, but for once, he didn’t say anything about it. “Well, I’ll be damned. Good job, sweetheart,” he said, his voice warm, the smile he gave you full of pride.

You glanced up, catching Joel’s expression as he reached for his drink. His eyes lingered on you, softer than you’d ever seen, a quiet pride flickering in their depths. That’s my girl, you could almost hear him think, though the words never left his lips.

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

After dinner, the group drifted into the living room, the gentle crackle of the fire glowing steadily in the hearth lulling everyone into a comfortable rhythm.

Tommy and Maria claimed the couch closest to the flames, their silhouettes bathed in the warm amber light.

You lay sprawled out on the floor, propped up on your elbows, your feet swaying idly behind you as you flipped through an old scavenged recipe book Tommy had brought back for Maria on patrol. The room seemed to hum with an easy warmth, the golden light catching on the strands of tinsel Maria had strung up earlier in the week.

Across from you, Joel sat on the far couch, his posture deceptively relaxed, though the way his fingers curled around the glass of whiskey betrayed a quiet tension. The amber liquid swirled lazily as he tilted it in his hand, but his attention wasn’t on the drink—it was on you. You didn’t have to look up to confirm it; you could feel his gaze, steady and unwavering, burning into you with an intensity that made your skin prickle and your heartbeat quicken.

You swallowed hard, trying—and failing—to ignore the weight of his eyes, the way they seemed to see through every wall you’d so carefully constructed. Instead, you focused on the firelight dancing across the room, on the warm crackle of the wood burning low in the hearth, on the worn fabric of the book in your lap that you hadn’t turned a page of in far too long. Anything but him.

But it was impossible. He was impossible to ignore. His face, slightly pink from the fire’s glow and the remnants of the day’s sun, was achingly familiar yet disarmingly softened in this moment. His dark lashes, impossibly long, fluttered with every slow blink, as though time moved differently for him. You caught yourself wondering if he was thinking about you—or if he already knew you were thinking about him.

“Okay,” you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable lull in the room, your voice a touch too bright, betraying the nervous energy humming beneath the surface. You sat up straighter, tucking your legs beneath you, your arms crossing behind your back in a small, self-conscious gesture. “I have a surprise for everyone.”

Maria tilted her head, a flicker of curiosity lighting up her eyes. She raised a single brow, her tone a mix of intrigue and caution. “A surprise?” she echoed, drawing the word out like she wasn’t entirely sure what to expect.

“You’re pregnant!” Tommy blurted out, a mischievous grin splitting his face as he leaned back, clearly pleased with his own joke.

“Tommy,” Joel said sharply, his voice cutting through the moment like a blade. The single word carried enough weight to make his brother immediately hold up his hands in mock surrender.

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, crawling up your neck and settling there as a stubborn flush. But you didn’t look back, didn’t dare meet anyone’s gaze, least of all Joel’s. Instead, you crouched near the corner, your fingers diving into the bag you’d carefully stashed earlier. The familiar texture of the fabric met your fingertips, grounding you as you grasped it.

You turned back to your bag and pulled out the Christmas hats you had made for everyone, holding them up triumphantly with a grin that spread from ear to ear. “Ta-da!”

Maria’s eyes widened, and then her hand shot to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, God, you made more,” she said, though the amusement in her voice betrayed her words.

“Damn right I did,” you replied, your grin unstoppable as you shook out the cascade of red and white fabric, the soft material spilling over your arms like a dramatic reveal.

Tommy leaned forward, squinting at the hats like they were a personal insult. “Sorry, darlin’, but those are some ugly-ass hats.”

“Hey!” you shot back, clutching the fabric like they were precious cargo. “They’re not just hats.” You pointed a finger at him, your grin growing wider. “They’re Christmas hats. Festive, delightful, and mandatory.”

Before Tommy could even open his mouth to protest, you strode toward him and plopped one onto his head with an exaggerated flourish. The pom-pom flopped to one side, the whole thing slightly askew, and yet it was perfect—perfectly ridiculous.

“Maria, help me out here,” Tommy groaned, gesturing toward his head with his free hand like the hat was some great injustice.

Maria shook her head, her own laughter soft and warm. “Sorry, honey, but I think it suits you.”

You turned to Maria, handing her a smaller hat trimmed with red velvet and gold ribbon. “And this one’s for you.”

“Gosh,” she murmured, her tone half-teasing, half-genuine. “You shouldn’t have. Really—you shouldn’t have.”

Next, you turned to Joel. He was watching you.

The weight of his gaze was heavy, grounding, and it stole the breath right out of your lungs. Your steps faltered for a heartbeat, the oversized Christmas hat clutched tighter in your hands like it could shield you from the way his eyes bore into you.

The walk to the couch stretched longer than it should have, each step carrying the ghost of that night—the night of spin-the-bottle.

The memory slammed into you unbidden, vivid and searing: the heat of Joel’s lap beneath you, the solid weight of his thighs pressing against your own. You could still feel it, the way his breath had mingled with yours, warm and shallow, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own. You’d been so close. His breath had ghosted against your skin, and for one fleeting second, you’d thought—hoped—he’d kiss you.

“What you got for me, darlin’?” Joel’s voice broke through the haze, low and rough, his drawl curling around you like smoke. It was quiet, meant just for you.

Your heart stuttered, your fingers clutching the hat tighter as you stopped in front of him. His eyes hadn’t moved—not once.

“This one’s for you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling slightly as it escaped your lips. You hated the way it wavered, like a tightrope swaying in the wind, hated how exposed he made you feel. Like he could see everything—every soft, raw, guarded secret you tried so desperately to keep hidden.

Joel hummed low in his throat, a deep, quiet sound that thrummed through the room and settled heavy in your chest. His fingers reached up—not to take the hat, but to brush lightly over the fabric where it rested in your hands.

His dark eyes flicked from the hat to your face. Then, faint and almost reluctant, the corner of his lips curved into a smile.

It wasn’t the teasing smirk he reserved for Tommy or the polite, distant warmth he gave to Maria. This was something else entirely. Softer. Warmer. And it wrecked you because there was no hiding the truth in it—adoration, raw and unguarded, spilling from him like he hadn’t even realized it was there for the world to see.

From the other couch, Tommy leaned toward Maria, his voice low enough to think you wouldn’t hear. “Joel’d never be caught dead in somethin’ like that.”

But Joel didn’t flinch. He didn’t glance in Tommy’s direction or roll his eyes the way you expected him to. Instead, he set his glass down on the small table beside him with deliberate care, his movements slow and measured.

“Well then,” he drawled, his voice low and rough, laced with something that made your breath catch. “Go ahead.”

Your hands trembled slightly,“You… want me to—?”

He tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking just enough to send your heart tumbling in your chest. “I ain’t puttin’ it on myself.”

The space closed as you stepped closer, your hands trembling as you raised the hat toward him. You didn’t notice the ridiculous green felt or the uneven trim. All you could feel was him. The way his hair brushed softly against your fingertips, surprising you with its texture. The way his shoulders loomed in your vision, broad and unyielding, steadying you even as your heart raced so fast it threatened to undo you.

Joel didn’t flinch, didn’t pull back. He stayed perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on you, unwavering, as if this moment was as pivotal for him as it was for you.

Your heart pounded in your ears as the world around you disappeared entirely. All you wanted—all you needed—was to close the space between you, to sink down and kiss him, consequences be damned.

From the other couch, Maria’s hand darted out, smacking Tommy lightly on the leg, “Oh my God, look at them,” Maria muttered, her voice hushed.

When you finally stepped back, the hat perched crookedly on Joel’s head, you allowed yourself to take him in.

It was utterly ridiculous—the slouched green fabric and the pom-pom dangling lopsidedly made him look impossibly out of place, like he’d been roped into something far beneath his dignity.

But somehow, impossibly, it suited him. Or maybe it was just because he was him—Joel Miller, so rugged and handsome he couldn’t possibly look bad in anything.

Your lips quirked upward before you could stop them, the warmth in your chest blooming like the soft glow of the fire.

“Perfect,” you whispered, the word slipping out unbidden, your voice barely audible.

Joel tilted his head slightly, the faintest breath of a huff escaping him, low and rough. “You happy?” he asked, his voice gruff but quieter than usual, like the words carried a tenderness he wasn’t sure how to show.

“Yes,” you murmured, the word trembling as it left you. “Very.”

His lips pressed together in the faintest twitch of a smile, his gaze flicking away for a second before settling back on you. He shook his head, slow and deliberate, like he couldn’t quite believe himself. “Good,” he murmured, his voice so low you almost didn’t catch it.

And it ached—physically ached—because you knew. Deep down, in a place you rarely let yourself linger, you understood that there wasn’t a single universe where Joel Miller would wear something like this for anyone but you. It wasn’t for Tommy’s teasing or Maria’s amused approval, and it certainly wasn’t for the absurd cheer of the holidays. No, he’d done it for you.

Every glance, every quiet word, every second of stillness as he sat there with that ridiculous hat on his head—he’d done it because it made you happy. Because somehow, in a way neither of you dared to name, you mattered to him.

And it wrecked you. It wrecked you because Joel Miller—this man who had built himself out of iron and grit, who would rather face a swarm of infected or a pack of raiders than do anything to chip away at the unyielding, stoic image he’d crafted—had done this without hesitation. For you. The thought was staggering, dizzying, and when he looked at you again, his eyes softer than they had any right to be, you knew: he’d do anything for you. He’d endure anything. He’d die for you.

“Tommys gonna think I’ve gone soft,” Joel murmured, his voice low and meant only for you.

Your smile deepened, warmth pooling in your chest, and you tilted your head slightly, your voice just as soft. “Have you?”

You were still standing in front of him, looking down at where he sat on the couch, the firelight catching in his dark eyes, making them burn with something unspoken.

“D’ya think I have?” he asked, his voice rough, quiet, the rasp of it threading through your veins and anchoring you to the moment.

You swallowed, the tension tightening in your chest like a quiet ache, the words slipping out in a whisper. “Maybe.”

Joel’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile, though his eyes stayed on yours, unreadable yet devastatingly open all at once. “Then maybe,” he murmured, his tone dipping lower, softer, pulling you closer like a tide you couldn’t resist.

The heat in his gaze felt too much, too raw, and you turned, ready to claim your seat by the fireplace and retreat before it swallowed you whole.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice stopped you mid-step, rough but not sharp, more like a tether than a command. Your breath caught as the word curled around you, pulling you back to him.

“Come sit with me.”

You turned slowly, the quiet invitation pressing against you like gravity. He was still sitting there, his hand resting on his knee, fingers loosely curled, the other gripping the armrest. His broad frame leaned slightly forward, like he couldn’t help but close some of the space between you—as if his body physically couldn’t bear the distance, even in the same room.

His expression was carefully unreadable, a mask you’d seen him wear so many times before, but his eyes—oh, his eyes—gave him away. A silent plea wrapped in his gaze.

“If you want,” he added, almost shyly, his voice dipping lower, like he didn’t want to push too hard.

If you want. The simplicity of it nearly broke you. Joel Miller, a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders without complaint, who never asked for anything, was asking now—for you.

“Okay,” you said softly, your voice barely audible.

Slowly, you settled next to him on the couch, the heat of his body radiating toward you like a magnet pulling you in. Your thighs pressed together, neither of you daring to move away.

Joel shifted slightly, just enough to turn his head toward you, his dark eyes catching the firelight. “That’s better,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, each word like a warm ember slipping into the space between you.

The sound of his voice wrapped around you, soft but steady, and it seeped into your bones, settling somewhere deep in your chest. Your lips twitched, threatening a smile you couldn’t quite hold back.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, but the words carried everything you couldn’t bring yourself to say. “Much better.”

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

One drink turned into two. Two turned into three. And before you knew it, the edges of the world had softened, the flickering firelight blending into a warm, golden haze that wrapped around you like a blanket.

You weren’t someone who got drunk—it wasn’t your thing. You knew your limits, knew when to stop, how to keep control. But tonight… tonight felt different.

Tommy, with his easy grin and mischievous glint, was no help at all. Every time Joel told him to quit—his voice low, tinged with irritation—Tommy would wave him off with a laugh, saying something about Joel having a stick up his ass.

“C’mon, Joel. Live a little,” Tommy drawled, pouring you another drink with all the flair of a showman. And you, caught up in the warmth and ease of the night, shrugged and raised your glass in a tipsy cheer, obliging without a second thought.

Somehow, the night unraveled from there. You’d gone from sitting beside Joel, close enough to feel the subtle heat radiating off him, to sprawling across the living room floor, your head tipped back, your arms stretched wide. Your voice—off-key and full of enthusiasm—belted out Last Christmas like it was your personal anthem, each wobbling note echoing off the walls.

Tommy was in stitches, practically doubled over on the couch as he slapped his knee in delight. Maria shook her head, her smile soft and indulgent as she sipped her drink, her eyes crinkling with barely-contained amusement.

But Joel—Joel stayed quiet. He hadn’t joined in the way Tommy had, hadn’t pushed the bottle toward you or filled your glass with a mischievous grin. He sat on the couch, his broad frame hunched slightly forward, one hand resting on his knee, his dark eyes fixed on you with a quiet intensity.

He wasn’t laughing. His lips were pressed into a firm line, his brow furrowed just enough to make your chest tighten if you weren’t already too clouded to notice. It wasn’t disapproval exactly—not the kind you might’ve expected from someone like him—but something closer to worry.

His dark eyes stayed on you, steady and unflinching, like he was trying to gauge how far you were from the line, how much longer until he might need to step in.

At one point, something small—a bottle cap, maybe—rolled under the coffee table. It didn’t matter what it was; in your tipsy state, it became an immediate priority. With all the single-minded determination of someone far too gone, you leaned forward, hands groping blindly under the table, muttering something about how “everything needs its place.”

You didn’t notice the sharp edge of the table creeping closer, didn’t feel the unsteadiness in your own balance as you reached further and further. But Joel did.

He moved before you even realized - his hand, warm and rough, settled over the crown of your head just as you were about to smack it against the edge of the table. The pressure was firm but careful, guiding you gently away from danger before you could even process it.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured, the words low and instinctive, slipping out before he even realized what he’d said.

You didn’t register it, your focus still entirely on the bottle cap beneath your fingers. “Got it,” you mumbled after a moment, your voice smaller than you intended as you pulled back, victorious and unaware.

When Tommy reached for the bottle to pour you another drink, Joel stepped in without hesitation. His hand closed over the neck of the bottle, firm and commanding, pulling it away before Tommy could even tilt it.

“All right, that’s enough,” Joel said, his voice steady but carrying an edge sharp enough to cut through the room’s hazy warmth.

Tommy blinked, caught off guard for a moment before his easy grin slid back into place. “Hey, man,” he started, his tone light but laced with the slightest edge of challenge. “The girl wants a drink.”

“Quit, Tommy,” Joel said, his tone dropping lower, heavier, leaving no room for argument. His eyes cut to his brother with a pointed sharpness that made Tommy sit back slightly, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Fucking child,” Joel muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch it.

Maria stood then, shaking her head as she picked up the nearest empty glass with a sigh. “Honestly, you two are worse than children,” she said, her voice exasperated but warm, her eyes flicking between the brothers like this was nothing new.

The haze in your mind started to shift then, softening into something weightier, more complicated. The room seemed quieter, heavier, and your cheeks burned—not just from the whiskey but from the weight of Joel’s eyes on you. He wasn’t laughing like Tommy, nor sighing like Maria. He was watching you.

You shifted slightly, your fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans as a quiet embarrassment crept in. Not because of him, but because he could see the truth you weren’t ready to admit—not even to yourself. That you weren’t drunk for nothing. That this wasn’t just another night. Joel saw it, as he always did, and somehow, that made you feel both more vulnerable and more understood than ever.

“You’ve had enough,” he murmured, his voice low and steady as he reached for your glass. Joel leaned back against the couch, his broad frame sinking into the worn cushions.

“I don’t… I don’t get drunk,” you mumbled, your voice unsteady, trailing off as you lay back against the carpet. Your eyes stared upward, fixed on the wall as if it held the answers you couldn’t find yourself. The words were soft, almost more to yourself than to him, but the slight slur in your tone betrayed you. “I’m not drunk,” you added, weaker this time, as if saying it aloud might make it true.

Tommy grinned from his spot on the couch, raising his hands in mock solidarity. “Me neither, sister.”

“Exactly,” you said, jabbing a wobbly finger in his direction as if he’d just made the most compelling argument of the night.

Joel’s voice broke through the room then, low and firm, slicing through the haze like a knife. “You’re drunk.”

Your head snapped toward him, narrowing your bleary focus on the man who’d barely spoken all night. Joel sat back on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His posture screamed patience, but the kind that was wearing thin.

“You’re grumpy,” you said, a weak jab, though the words stumbled on their way out. “And I am not drunk.”

Joel arched an eyebrow, leaning back slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Right. That why you’re lyin’ there like you can’t tell which way’s up?”

Your brows furrowed, defiance bubbling up despite the haze in your head. “Alright,” you said, preparing to stand up. “I’ll prove it to you.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed just slightly, his brow creasing as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “No,” he said, his voice low, steady, and firm. “I believe you. Don’t gotta prove nothin’.”

“See?” you huffed, crossing your arms like you’d just won an argument. “That’s what I thought.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face like he was physically holding himself back from commenting. “Christ,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.

Maria stood then, stretching with a soft yawn and giving Tommy a light nudge. “Alright, it’s way past my bedtime,” she announced. Her gaze shifted to you, her expression softening. “You can stay here tonight,” she offered, her voice resolute. “No sense sending you out like this.”

You opened your mouth to agree, but Joel was already moving. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw flexing as he stood abruptly.

“No,” Joel said, the word coming out firm, final, leaving no room for debate. His voice cut through the room with quiet authority, drawing all eyes to him. “I’ll take her home.”

Maria blinked, visibly surprised. Her gaze flicked between you and Joel, her eyebrows arching slightly as her lips curved into the faintest hint of a knowing smile. “You sure?”

“She’ll sleep better in her own bed,” he said gruffly, the words deliberate but carrying a weight that was hard to ignore.

Maria tilted her head, her brow lifting as if to say Oh, really? But she didn’t argue, just exchanged a quick glance with Tommy, whose grin threatened to break across his face.

Tommy stretched lazily, his grin lopsided as he turned to you with a look that could only be described as fond mischief. “Night, troublemaker,” he said, his voice brimming with affection. His gaze slid to Joel, and the grin widened, his tone taking on a teasing edge. “Be careful. This one’s feisty when she’s drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” you mumbled, but the slur in your words betrayed you, and Tommy’s chuckle made your cheeks burn.

“Sure you’re not,” he said, ruffling your hair like you were a kid. You swatted weakly at his hand, your protest too slow to land, and he laughed again, shaking his head.

He clapped Joel on the shoulder as he passed, the weight of it friendly but carrying a knowing edge. “Good luck,” he added, the words laced with that unmistakable Tommy charm.

Joel sighed, the sound low and heavy, threading with both frustration and a quiet sort of resignation. He didn’t bother responding to Tommy, didn’t even glance his way. Instead, his focus was on you, his dark eyes sharp and steady as he stepped closer.

“C’mon,” he muttered, his voice gruff but softer than you expected. His large hands reached for you, settling gently at your elbows as he helped you up, his grip firm and steady. You wobbled slightly, your balance faltering just enough to make Joel’s hold tighten instinctively.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, almost like a coaxing whisper. His hands shifted, one sliding to your lower back to steady you as you leaned into him without realizing it.

Together, you made your way toward the front door, Joel guiding you with a patience that felt like it shouldn’t belong to someone as gruff as him.

The boots by the door stared back at you, almost mocking in their silent challenge. You blinked down at them, swaying slightly, trying to figure out how you were supposed to get them on when the floor seemed to tilt every time you moved.

“Alright,” Joel said, nodding toward the boots. “One shoe at a time. Think you can handle that?”

“Obviously,” you muttered, though your fumbling hands betrayed your confidence almost immediately. You bent down to grab one of the boots, determined to prove him wrong, only for the room to tilt ever so slightly, the lazy spin of the world throwing you off balance.

Before you could topple forward, Joel’s hand shot out, his grip firm and steady as it curled around your arm. “Thought you said you weren’t drunk,” he muttered under his breath, his tone low but laced with exasperated fondness.

He guided you upright gently, his other hand bracing at your side. “Hold still, or you’re gonna end up kissin’ the floor,” he added, dropping down to one knee in front of you with a quiet sigh.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as heat surged to your cheeks, spreading like wildfire through your chest. Joel Miller, kneeling in front of you, his broad frame grounded and steady against the backdrop of the room, sent your pulse into a frantic rhythm you couldn’t seem to control.

Joel laced the boot quickly, his movements efficient but deliberate, the steady brush of his fingers against the leather sending warmth up your spine. When he finished, his hand lingered for just a moment longer, giving your calf a light squeeze. It was subtle, almost absentminded, but achingly tender—like he couldn’t help himself, like the simple touch meant more than he could say.

“There,” he said softly once he finished, giving your leg another light pat before standing again. He stepped back with a groan, his dark eyes sweeping over you in a way that felt less like he was checking your boots and more like he was checking you, making sure you were steady, secure, okay.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed, your face flushed, hair sticking out in every direction, a picture of tipsy disarray. Joel’s gaze softened despite himself, his lips pressing into a line that didn’t quite hide the tenderness creeping into his expression.

“You’re a mess, y’know that?” he muttered, shaking his head with a soft huff. But even as the words left his mouth, he leaned closer, his hand lifting with a careful steadiness to brush a strand of hair from your face.

“I’m fine,” you argued weakly, even as your feet betrayed you, slipping slightly on the uneven floor.

He turned, grabbing your coat from the hook by the door, shaking it out before holding it open in front of you. “Arms up.”

You blinked at him, your mind struggling to catch up. “What?”

“Arms up,” he repeated, this time with more insistence. When you still didn’t move fast enough, Joel sighed, muttering under his breath as he stepped closer, already lifting your arms himself.

“Jesus,” he muttered, tugging the coat snug over your shoulders with a final, purposeful motion. “You’re worse than dealin’ with a kid.”

“Don’t be mean,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze as your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, your voice carrying the faintest pout.

Joel’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but just enough to send a flicker of warmth curling in your chest, cutting through the biting cold lingering beyond the door. “I’m not bein’ mean,” he murmured, his tone softening, though that familiar gruffness clung to the edges, giving his words weight. “Just tryin’ to get my girl home in one piece.”

The words slipped out so naturally, so effortlessly, that Joel himself didn’t even realize what he’d said. His focus remained on you as he adjusted the coat on your shoulders, his movements careful, deliberate, like you might catch a chill if he left even a corner undone.

You, too tipsy and too focused on fiddling with your gloves, didn’t seem to hear him. The weight of the moment passed unnoticed by you, but Joel froze for half a beat, his hands stilling against your sleeve as the thought settled into his chest.

It didn’t feel strange to him, calling you that—my girl—because somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

When you finally got home, Joel was all practicality. He unlocked the door with ease, nudging it open with his shoulder while keeping a steadying hand on your arm.

He turned briefly to shut the door, but when he looked back, you were gone. “Jesus Christ,” Joel muttered under his breath, his eyes scanning the room until he found you.

You’d somehow made it to the living room, sprawled out face down on the rug like you’d decided it was the most comfortable spot in the world. Your muffled hums filled the quiet space, a nonsensical melody that made Joel sigh deeply, dragging a hand down his face.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered, the words barely audible as he disappeared into the kitchen. A few moments later, he returned with a glass of water, his footsteps deliberate and steady.

“Hey,” Joel said sharply, his voice cutting through your tuneless humming as he stopped a few feet away. His hand rested on his hip, his broad shoulders framed by the soft glow of the kitchen light. “What the hell’re you doin’? Get up.”

You turned your head sluggishly, your cheek still pressed against the rug. Heavy-lidded eyes met his, and for a moment, you just blinked at him, the alcohol dulling the sharper edges of his tone. Despite his words, the concern etched into his brow softened the bite.

Joel let out a sigh, muttering something under his breath as he knelt beside you, the floor creaking faintly under his weight. He held out a glass of water, his hand steady and deliberate. “Drink this."

You reached for the glass, your fingers brushing his as you took it. You drank the water in a few large gulps, the cool liquid grounding you slightly.

“Alright,” he said firmly after you were done drinking, “time for bed.” He extended a hand toward you, palm open and waiting.

“I’m not tired,” you mumbled into the rug, though your traitorous body betrayed you with a yawn that slipped out before you could stop it.

Joel arched an eyebrow, his lips twitching into the faintest shadow of a smirk. “Yeah?” he drawled, his tone thick with dry amusement. “Tell that to the yawn you just tried to swallow.”

His voice softened then, the edge fading as something gentler took its place. He crouched slightly, his hand still extended, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “C’mon. Up. Now.”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face in the rug for just a second longer, drawing out the moment like a child protesting bedtime. “Ugh,” you said, dragging the sound out with exaggerated flair. Finally, with a sigh heavy enough to shake the earth, you reached for his hand. “Fine.”

You reached up, slipping your hand into his as he helped you to your feet, “Atta girl,” he murmured.

Without thinking, without hesitation, your fingers instinctively intertwined with his. The movement was so natural, so effortless, that it didn’t register at first—not to you, and not to him. But then Joel’s gaze dropped to your joined hands, his breath hitching as his mouth opened slightly, the smallest flicker of surprise crossing his face.

Joel swallowed hard, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours, unspoken emotions swirling there. He didn’t pull away—he didn’t dare. His hand stayed firmly in yours, his fingers curling around yours like letting go wasn’t an option he’d even considered.

You blinked up at him, your mind sluggish from whiskey and the creeping warmth of exhaustion, but his steady presence anchored you. “What?” you asked softly.

“Nothin’,” Joel muttered, his gaze fixed on your joined hands. His voice dipped lower, softer, like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “Just… don't usually hold hands.”

The quiet admission hit you like a ripple in still water, gentle yet profound. Your chest tightened, a wave of something achingly tender washing over you. “Oh,” you whispered, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sorry.” You started to pull your hand away, the movement hesitant, reluctant.

But his grip tightened, firm but careful, like he was afraid to let go. “No,” Joel said quickly, his voice rough but urgent, his thumb brushing against your knuckles in the faintest, most deliberate motion. “Don’t.”

He didn’t look at you then—couldn’t—but the tension in his jaw and the quiet plea in his tone said everything he couldn’t.

“Alright,” he murmured after a beat, his voice softer now, gentler. “Let’s get you to bed.”

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

When you finally reached your room, Joel reached out with his free hand, twisting the doorknob and nudging the door open.

He led you to the edge of the bed, your hand still firmly clasped in his. You swayed slightly as you stopped, the whiskey and exhaustion making your balance unsteady, but Joel’s steady grip kept you upright.

He guided you gently to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand still wrapped around yours, steadying you. His grip lingered, his fingers flexing slightly as if testing the moment, like he didn’t want to break whatever fragile thread was holding you together.

“Time to let go, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice impossibly soft. Slowly, reluctantly, you let your hands part, the absence of his touch leaving a faint, lingering ache. You sank into the mattress with a soft sigh, your body sagging into the familiar comfort as Joel stood by your side, his presence steady and grounding.

His movements were careful as he reached for the blanket, pulling it up over you with the kind of gentleness that made your heart flutter even in your sleepy haze. He tucked it around your shoulders, his hand lingering for just a moment before he straightened.

“Go to bed,” Joel said softly, his voice gentler now, though still firm enough to leave no room for argument. As your eyes dipped shut, his hand moved to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, the touch so light it barely registered but sent a warmth blooming in your chest.

“You’ll feel better in the mornin’,” he added.

He turned toward the light switch, his hand halfway there when your voice cut through the quiet, soft and desperate. “Wait,” you said, the word tumbling out before you could stop it. “Don’t leave.”

Joel froze mid-step, his broad shoulders stiffening. He didn’t turn right away, but when he did, his expression was carefully guarded. “You need to sleep,” he said, his tone gruff, his walls snapping back into place. “No more games. Go to bed.”

“I will,” you promised quickly, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying an edge of pleading that you couldn’t hide. “I will, I swear. Just… stay. For a little while. Please.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward the door as though he was considering making a quick exit. But then his shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that you couldn’t catch. How could he possibly say no to you?

“Fine,” he said at last, the word carrying the weight of reluctant surrender. He moved toward the chair in the corner of your room, sinking into it heavily, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back. “But only for a little while.”

“No,” you said suddenly, the word slipping out before you could stop it. You sat up in bed, the blanket pooling around your waist as you blinked at him.

Joel frowned, his brows furrowing as he turned to look at you. “What now?”

“Not there,” you murmured again, your voice softer now, hesitant but insistent as you patted the empty space on the bed beside you. “Here.”

Joel blinked, his mouth opening and closing like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His brow furrowed deeply, his jaw tightening. “No,” he said firmly, shaking his head like he needed to convince himself as much as you. “Not happenin’.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows with an exasperated huff. “Jesus, Joel. Do I have to beg?”

“Don’t,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended, his knuckles whitening as his hands gripped the arms of the chair like it was the only thing tethering him to resolve.

His gaze flicked to the bed, to the empty spot you’d been patting, and you could see the war raging behind his eyes. It was written in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, in the way his chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. The push and pull of wanting and resisting.

“Please,” you whispered, the single word soft, breaking through his defenses like a crack splintering through glass. Your voice wavered, your gaze locking onto his. “I’ll sleep better if you’re close. That’s all.”

Joel’s eyes softened, the fight in them faltering for just a moment. He sighed deeply, his head tilting back like he was asking the ceiling for patience. His shoulders sagged slightly, and you could see the exact second he gave in. Slowly, deliberately, he stood, his steps heavy as he crossed the room.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze dropping to yours. For a long moment, he just stood there, torn between holding his ground and giving in completely. His jaw clenched, his hands flexing at his sides, before he let out another long sigh and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

The bed dipped under his weight, and you watched him. He sat stiffly, awkwardly, like being this close to you was something he hadn’t quite prepared for.

“Joel,” you murmured softly, almost unsure, almost hesitant. “Lay down. Please.”

He sighed again, his shoulders sagging slightly as if the sound of your voice alone had unraveled him. “Alright,” he muttered, the word rough but softer than before.

With slow, deliberate movements, he shifted onto the bed, laying down beside you. His posture was stiff, his head resting on his folded arm, as if he were trying to take up as little space as possible. “You happy now?” he asked, his tone gruff but not unkind, a quiet exasperation bleeding through.

You hummed softly in response, a sound of contentment as you scooted closer, the blankets rustling softly around you. Without thinking, you rested your cheek against his chest, the steady warmth of him seeping into you like sunlight through a window.

Joel froze, his breath catching for just a moment. Christ, he thought, glancing down at you. His arm hovered awkwardly for a beat before it came to rest at his side, his hand brushing against the curve of your back like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“You comfy?” Joel asked finally, his deep voice breaking the quiet.

“Yeah,” you murmured, your smile soft as your eyes flicked up to meet his. “Are you?”

He hesitated for a second, his gaze lingering on you like he was trying to memorize something he couldn’t name. “Yeah,” he said eventually, though his voice was quieter now. He nodded faintly, his expression softening.

“Not gonna get much sleep with your eyes wide open, though,” he added, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You laughed, the sound quiet and airy. Tucking the blanket higher over your shoulders, you tilted your head slightly to look at him. “You know, for someone so serious, you actually have jokes.”

Joel shrugged, the faint smirk fading into something softer, quieter, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment. “There’s more to me than bein’ old,” he muttered.

“You’re not old,” you said instantly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. You shifted onto your side to face him more fully, your expression earnest, a small crease forming between your brows. “Quit saying that.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, his gaze dipping away from yours like he was trying to brush off the warmth creeping into his chest. “It’s the truth,” he said simply, his voice low, though the rough edges softened when he glanced back at you. Got more years behind me than ahead,” Joel said quietly, almost offhand, his voice dipping low like it was just a fact of life.

The words hit you harder than he probably meant them to, sinking into your chest like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward and unraveling the easy warmth of the moment.

You froze, staring at him as the ache that bloomed in your chest caught you off guard. Slowly, you pulled back just enough to see his face more clearly, your gaze searching his, the playful ease from before slipping away entirely.

“Don’t say that,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with a quiet urgency that surprised even you. Your hand moved instinctively, coming to rest lightly on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm only deepened the ache.

Joel glanced down at you, his brow furrowing as he caught the way your brows knit together, your expression tightening. He hadn’t meant for it to land like that, hadn’t thought it would hit you so hard.

“I mean it, Joel,” you said, your voice trembling just enough to make him pause. “Don’t ever say that to me again.”

His lips parted, the words caught in his throat as he stared at you, unprepared for the way the emotion in your voice clawed at something deep inside him. The thought of him not being here—of losing him—was like a sharp blade pressing against the edges of your mind, and you couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t let him dismiss it so easily.

“Hey,” Joel murmured after a moment, his voice softer now, the sharp edges smoothed by the weight of your words. His hand lifted instinctively, covering yours where it rested over his heart, as if to anchor both of you.

Your hand fit perfectly beneath his, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm a subconscious reminder that this was real—he was real. He was here. He was alive.

Joel’s thumb brushed over your knuckles, the movement slow, deliberate, pulling you back from wherever your mind had wandered. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmured, his tone low, filled with a quiet kind of tenderness he rarely let surface. His dark eyes flicked to yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that made your chest ache. “It’s just… the way things are.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” you shot back, your voice barely above a whisper but laced with a quiet intensity.

Joel’s jaw tightened, his throat working as he swallowed hard. “Alright,” he murmured after a beat, his voice low and tender, stripped of the usual gruffness he used as armor.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he said softly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a gentle, grounding motion. “I’m sorry. Promise I won’t say it again—sorry, darlin’.”

You nodded, letting your head sink back against Joel’s chest, his hand moved without thought, slipping into your hair and threading through it gently.

“You gettin’ sleepy’?” Joel hummed, his voice low and soft, vibrating through his chest where your cheek rested.

“No,” you said quickly, your voice just a little too sharp, your body shifting slightly against him. You weren’t ready—not for the moment to end, not for him to leave, not for the fragile warmth that wrapped around the two of you to slip away.

Joel huffed a soft laugh through his nose, his hand pausing in your hair for a brief second before continuing its gentle rhythm. “Don’t sound so sure,” he muttered, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

You tilted your head up, your gaze finding his, and he glanced down at you, his brow furrowing slightly. “Quit staring at me,” he said, his tone gruff but devoid of any real bite.

“Can’t help it,” you murmured, your lips curving into a small, playful smile.

His brows knitted further as he looked at you, his lips parting like he was about to say something, but you beat him to it. “Pretty,” you whispered, the word barely audible, so soft it almost disappeared into the space between you.

Joel’s brows knitted further as he turned his full attention to you, his gaze heavy and intent. “You know I got a bad ear,” he said, his tone gruff but tinged with a faint trace of amusement. “Gotta speak up.”

You blinked up at him, lips parting slightly as hesitation gripped you for a brief moment. And then, as if the alcohol had burned through the last of your reservations, the words spilled out, clear and bold, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I said… pretty. You’ve got pretty eyes and a pretty smile.”

Joel froze. You paused, your heart racing as a grin, small but sincere, tugged at your lips. “Handsome,” you added, softer but no less certain. “You’re handsome, Joel.”

Joel’s face dropped, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at you. His mouth opened, as if to respond, but no words came out. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against your hand like he needed something—anything—to ground himself.

Joel finally shook his head, a sharp exhale escaping him as he muttered, “You’re drunk.” The words came out fast, like a reflex, a shield he threw up to deflect the blow before it could land. But his voice betrayed him, the rough edges fraying with a faint tremor that he couldn’t quite hide.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned in just slightly, your gaze steady and unwavering. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” you murmured, your voice soft but resolute.

Before he could deflect again, you broke the silence, your tone softer now but still certain. “Joel, I have a question.”

Joel sighed, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to gather what little patience he had left. “What happened to sleepin’?”

“Joel…” you began, your voice quiet, fragile. “Why didn’t you kiss me? At Tommy’s birthday.”

The air shifted instantly, heavy and stifling, as if the room itself had stopped to listen. Joel froze, his body going completely still. The hand that had been absently stroking your hair stopped, his fingers hovering like they didn’t know where to go.

His other hand, which had been resting over yours on his chest, slowly withdrew, falling to his side as though retreating from the weight of your question.

The teasing light in his eyes vanished, replaced by something darker, something harder to read. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as he stared at the ceiling, his gaze fixed like he might find the answer buried in the walls.

He didn’t say anything, but the silence spoke volumes. It felt like a door that had been cracked open was now slamming shut, and you weren’t sure whether to step forward or back away.

“I—” he started, but his voice caught, faltering before he could finish. Joel wasn’t expecting this. The weight of your words hung in the air between you, pressing down on him like a physical force.

He ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through his beard, his shoulders stiffening as though he was bracing himself for a blow that hadn’t yet come.

“It’s okay,” you said, though the words felt like they were breaking you apart from the inside. “If you don’t… if you don’t find me pretty, or if you think I’m annoying, or if you just didn’t want to. I just…” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it harder to breathe. “I just need to know why.”

Joel moved instantly, sitting up straighter as his arm pulled away from you. His head snapped toward you at that, his eyes locking onto yours with a sharpness that stole your breath.

They were brimming with something raw, something unspoken and fierce. “Don’t,” he said, his voice rough and firm, the single word cutting through the space between you like a knife.

Your brows furrowed, confusion and hurt twisting in your chest, the ache blooming into something unbearable. “Don’t what?” you asked, your voice softer now as you sat up, mirroring him, the distance between you suddenly feeling vast despite your closeness.

Joel’s fists flexed at his sides, his knuckles white as the tension in his body radiated off him in waves. His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped for the briefest second before snapping back to yours. “Don’t put words in my mouth,” he said, his voice low and strained, trembling with the effort of holding something back. The look in his eyes was fleeting but sharp—like he was fighting himself, fighting you, fighting the weight of the moment.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, shaking his head as if trying to wrestle with the storm in his own mind. “Why’re you askin’ this now?” he murmured, his tone rough, defensive, but there was something else beneath it—something raw, like the weight of the question was almost too much to bear.

“Because I need to stop thinking about it all the time,” you said, your voice trembling as the words tumbled out, unguarded and vulnerable. “I need to stop replaying it in my head.” You hesitated, your breath hitching as you fought to steady yourself, but the truth burned too hot to hold back. “You said, ‘Not like this,’ and I—” The words broke off, catching in your throat as the ache you’d carried since that night threatened to overwhelm you.

Your eyes searched his face, desperate for something—anything—that might explain the way his words had stayed with you, carved into your heart like a scar. But Joel wouldn’t look at you. His gaze stayed fixed on some indeterminate point, his jaw tightening as if he were bracing himself for the blow he’d already dealt.

“What did that mean, Joel?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of longing and hurt.

His head shook, sharp and almost violent, like he was physically trying to shake the question away, to shove it into some dark corner where he wouldn’t have to deal with it. “You’re drunk,” he muttered, the words rough and uneven, cracking under the weight of his own defenses.

“I’m drunk, but I’m not stupid,” you fired back, the frustration slipping into your tone, making it wobble. “I’m asking you what you meant.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, his muscles twitching under the strain as his hand raked through his hair, his exhale shaky and unsteady.

“What do you think I meant?” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse.

“I don’t fucking know, Joel,” you said, your voice rising as your words cracked under the pressure. “That’s why I’m asking. You confuse the hell out of me.”

His hand flexed against his knee, restless and agitated, but his face remained locked in that tight, unreadable mask he wore when the stakes felt too high.

“I wanted you to kiss me,” you said, the confession tumbling out in a whisper that wavered on the edge of breaking. “I wanted you to kiss me so badly that night.”

Joel froze, his whole body going rigid as if the air had been sucked out of the room. Slowly, painfully, his eyes lifted to meet yours, and what you saw in them made your heart twist painfully. It was like he was searching for something—desperately, almost frantically—as though hoping to find some small lie buried deep in your gaze. Because if you were lying, if this wasn’t real, it would destroy him.

“You don’t know what you’re sayin’,” he said, his head shaking almost imperceptibly.

“Did you think,” you began, your voice softer now, quieter but no less resolute as your hand reached for his arm, resting lightly against the warmth of his sleeve, “maybe I got this drunk because it’s the only way I can tell the truth?”

Joel’s eyes followed your hand, lingering where it rested against him like he couldn’t decide whether to pull away or hold on. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head slightly, the motion almost imperceptible. “That ain’t somethin’ you’re gonna wanna say in the mornin’,” he said, his voice rough and uneven, frayed at the edges like he was already bracing for the fallout.

Why? The thought clawed at your chest. Why can’t he believe me? Why won’t he let himself accept that he’s worth loving? The ache swelled, raw and heavy, pressing against every unspoken word between you.

“But it’s true,” you countered softly, your tone steady, carrying none of the sharpness his did—only quiet, unyielding conviction. “Even if I don’t say it tomorrow, it’s still true tonight.”

“Stop,” Joel said, his voice firmer this time, but there was something in it—a thread of desperation, raw and unguarded. It wasn’t an order. It was a plea. “You don’t mean it. You’re just—”

“I do, Joel.” You interrupted him, your voice trembling with the effort to keep steady. Your hand tightened slightly on his arm, grounding both of you in the moment. “Look at me.” The words fell with quiet insistence, steady despite the tremor in your chest. “I mean it, Joel. I’ve always meant it.”

His breathing faltered, his eyes flickering toward yours like he wanted to believe you but didn’t know how. The silence was unbearable, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out, each one carrying a piece of the ache you’d held back for too long. “Fuck, Joel, I care about you,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I more than care about you. I love—”

“Don’t.” The word came sharp and sudden, cutting you off like a knife. Joel’s voice was hoarse, rough, like gravel scraping against stone. It hit the space between you with the force of a blow, making your breath hitch.

His gaze darted to you, his dark eyes stormy with something raw and pained, before he looked away again, like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes. “Don’t say it. Because you don’t mean it.”

The words crushed something in your chest, the weight of his denial suffocating. “Joel—” you began, but he shook his head again, his hand lifting to run through his hair, his movements jerky, restless, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“You don’t mean it,” he repeated, quieter this time, his voice barely more than a rasp. “You can’t. Not about me.” His shoulders sagged slightly, and for the first time, you saw it—the cracks in the armor he always wore, the fear in his eyes that no amount of gruffness could hide. “Don’t do this. Not for me.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening as if a fist had wrapped around it, squeezing until it was hard to breathe. The tears welled in your eyes, hot and stinging, but they didn’t fall.

Your mouth parted, a soundless gasp escaping as your mind reeled. You silly girl, the thought screamed. He doesn’t feel the same. He’s letting you down easy, and you’ve ruined everything. The silence between you stretched, suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest until you thought it might break you.

Then, slowly, Joel stood. His shoulders sagged, his head dipping low as though the act of leaving was as heavy as the words left unsaid. His voice, when it came, was quiet—so quiet it was almost a whisper, but it carried the finality of a closing door.

“I’m leavin’. I��ll lock up.”

You stared at him, frozen, the world tilting beneath you as his words settled in. He didn’t look back. He didn’t stop. And as the sound of his footsteps faded, the tears finally spilled over, carving silent paths down your cheeks.

❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎❅.⊹₊ ⋆❆‧⋆☃︎

yall do i have an angst kink?!

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[basset-babe]

five times: the second.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: unsolicited sexual advances

word count: 3.7k+

a/n: apologies for the late update! i've been sleeping in so bad lately lmao also, please do know that my writing isn't abided by the series' consecutive timeline bcs i just tend take away scenes and themes through s1 to s3 where it would make sense with the fic idea in my head, but all still well within the bridgerton series (S3 SPOILER! also i do not hold any grudge towards lady tilley arnold tho she is the rendezvous love interest of ben in s3, just made sense for me to add her here in this context) but nonetheless, please enjoy the 2nd! ciao belle!

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

spring divider from @thyming and, again, pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

second time.

As the noon sun cast a bright glow over the sprawling estate gardens, Miss Y/N and Benedict strolled along the cobblestone path lined with vibrant blossoms and verdant foliage. The sweet fragrance of blooming flowers mingled with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil, creating an intoxicating bouquet that filled the air. Birds chirped melodiously from their perches in the ancient oaks, their songs adding a gentle soundtrack to the tranquil scene.

Miss Y/N paused by a bed of delicate gardenias, her fingers brushing lightly over the soft petals as she turned to Benedict with a teasing smile. "Have you no other plans than to spend your time watching me procure my plants, Benedict?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Benedict, standing a few paces away with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, returned her smile with a warm, earnest expression. "Actually, I find great pleasure in keeping you company and wandering through your beautiful gardens," he replied, his gaze taking in the lush greenery and the kaleidoscope of flowers surrounding them. In truth, his heart swelled with affection for her, every moment spent in her presence a cherished gift.

A few steps behind, the chaperone lingered near a stone bench, her attention seemingly focused on the distant horizon. Although out of earshot, her presence was a reminder of propriety and decorum.

Miss Y/N sighed softly, her playful demeanor tinged with a hint of exasperation. "We are chaperoned! I mean, probably out of earshot but still," she said, shaking her head slightly as a wry smile curved her lips. "You and your subtle art of flirting."

Benedict chuckled, the sound low and pleasant. "Ah, but where's the harm in a little harmless flirtation amidst such beauty?" he replied, gesturing to the surrounding garden. "Besides, your company is far more captivating than anything." His words carried the weight of his burgeoning love, though he struggled to fully express the depth of his feelings.

As they continued their leisurely walk, the leaves rustled softly in the gentle breeze, and the world seemed to slow, allowing them a few precious moments of stolen intimacy amidst the natural splendor.

"My subtle art of flirting," he murmured, stepping closer and carefully looming over a bed of blooming roses. "Or perhaps it’s not so subtle after all."

She glanced up at him, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I would say it’s as subtle as a peacock in a library."

"Ah, so it’s quite effective, then," he said, leaning in just enough to catch the gardenia’s sweet scent.

"You are impossible," she said, shaking her head but unable to hide her smile. "Even when you called on me, you've brought a grafted rose to plant, of all things!" She laughed fondly.

"Well, I thought it suited you," he said as his voice softened, casting her a glance full of admiration. "A growing thing of beauty, requiring patience, care, and attention." His heart pounded in his chest, the metaphor echoing his own feelings for her.

The sun glowed warm through the greenhouse window pane. Peering from the vines, the sunlight dawned and cascaded over Y/N, rendering her breathtaking in Benedict's eyes. The golden light danced on her hair, casting a halo-like aura that made her appear almost ethereal.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink at his words. "For an artist, you do have a way with words, Benedict," she murmured, a soft smile playing at her lips as she averted her gaze.

Benedict, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the moment, reached out and gently touched a gardenia bloom, his fingers brushing against hers. The brief contact sent a subtle thrill through him, a spark of connection that felt both profound and delicate. "And I mean every one of them, you know," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity and unspoken affection as their eyes met.

Y/N's breath caught slightly, her heart quickening in response. Her gloved hand now in his as he gently held it. The intensity of his gaze made her heart flutter, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. Her lady's maid, the estate, the very garden itself—all blurred into a distant background against the magnetic pull between them.

A gentle breeze stirred, carrying the intoxicating scent of gardenias and roses. Y/N's eyes widened slightly at the depth of emotion she saw in Benedict's eyes, a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something she dared not name yet. Her fingers, still intertwined with his, felt warm and comforting, a silent promise held in the delicate touch.

Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. "Benedict, do you ever, um, find yourself feeling, well, the same way I do in moments like these, when we're together?" Her eyes, tinged with vulnerability, flicked up to meet his, silently seeking a connection that transcended mere words.

Benedict's smile softened, his thumb lightly caressing the back of her hand as he leaned nearer to whisper, "Every moment with you, Your Grace," he said, his voice filled with a gentle ardor. "Your presence, Y/N, for if I revere you a dream, then I no longer wish to wake from my slumber."

Y/N's heart raced at his words, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink. She felt a rush of emotions, a blend of excitement and a tender vulnerability she had never experienced before. Her eyes widening in awe, "You speak as if I am something unattainable, a fragment of your mind," she said, a touch of playful skepticism in her tone.

Benedict's expression softened, nearing her as his gaze full of adoration. "Y/N," he murmured, his voice tender yet earnest, "you are not a fragment of my mind, nor are you unattainable. You are the very essence of my heart's desires, a beacon of light in a world of darkness." He reached out to gently cup her cheek, his touch conveying a depth of emotion beyond words. "To me, you are not just a dream, but the reality I never dared hope for. And I will spend every moment proving that to you, if you'll let me."

Meanwhile, the subtle clearing of her lady's maid's throat, positioned at a respectable distance, acted as a genteel nudge to observe the proprieties of their setting.

"Um, I, uh, apologize, Your Grace," Benedict murmured, his cheeks tinted with a shy flush as he took a small, hesitant step back, seemingly unsure of where to place his hands. "I… erm, it seems I, uh, forgot to, um, maintain my distance. Please forgive me," he added softly, his voice trailing off with a hint of uncertainty. "I, um, really didn't mean to, uh, make you uncomfortable." His eyes, a mix of nervousness and sincerity, briefly met hers before darting away, as if seeking refuge in the nearby foliage. "I'm, um, deeply sorry if I, you know, overstepped," he continued, his tone laced with a sheepish awkwardness as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to find a comfortable stance. "I… I suppose I just, er, got a bit carried away in the moment."

Y/N's cheeks flushed deeper as she felt a rush of embarrassment mingled with amusement at Benedict's sheepish apology. She averted her gaze momentarily, suppressing a nervous giggle before meeting his eyes, she reached out to gently place a hand on his arm. "Oh, Benedict," she began, her voice soft with a hint of laughter, "there's no need to apologize. I… I must admit, I too got carried away in the moment." She glanced around, half-panicked that someone might have witnessed their closeness, but finding the situation more humorous than anything. "It seems we both found ourselves swept up in the enchantment of the garden," she added with a playful wink, her laughter bubbling forth despite her attempts to compose herself.

Benedict let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he returned to a more respectable distance from Y/N. He couldn't help but smile at her laughter, finding solace in her lighthearted response. "Indeed, it appears the garden has a way of enchanting us both," he agreed with a soft chuckle, his gaze lingering on her with fondness. "I guess we ought to keep a closer eye on decorum," he mused with a rueful grin, a playful glint dancing in his eyes.

Benedict entered his studio at the esteemed art academy with a purposeful stride, the faint aroma of charcoal and linseed oil pervading his senses as he stepped within. The grand wooden door emitted a gentle creak as he pushed it open, revealing a space that, while seemingly cluttered, held a unique order characteristic of an artist's domain. It's been days since Mr. Bridgerton had paid visit to Miss Y/N; days since his apparent confession unreturned with an answer, hoping of the most favored "yes".

The studio was suffused with the soft, diffused light of late afternoon, filtering through tall, dust-laden windows. Easels stood in solemn ranks, each bearing sketches and paintings in various stages of completion. The floor was a canvas in itself, adorned with a mosaic of paint splatters and crumpled sheets of paper, silent testament to his countless hours of diligent work.

His gaze was inexorably drawn to the central easel, where his latest sketches of Miss Y/N awaited his discerning eye. Countless hours had been devoted to capturing her likeness, her features indelibly etched into his memory and transposed onto the canvas from myriad angles. The delicate curve of her jawline, the subtle arch of her brows, the enigmatic depths of her eyes—each sketch narrated a different story, a moment either observed or conjured from his imagination.

Benedict set down his leather satchel upon a nearby stool, extracting a well-worn sketchbook and a selection of fine graphite pencils. He approached the easel with a sense of reverence, as one might approach a sanctified space. The quietude of the studio enveloped him, disrupted only by the distant murmur of the academy's other activities.

As he perched upon the high stool before the easel, he paused momentarily, allowing his thoughts to drift back to his latest sitting with Miss Y/N. He recalled the play of light upon her hair, the subtle shifts in her expression as her thoughts wandered. With a deep, steadying breath, he took up a pencil, its familiar weight a comfort in his hand, and resumed his sketching. He became immersed once more in the intricate dance of lines and shadows, bringing her presence to vivid life upon the paper.

As he worked, Benedict would lose himself in the intricacies of her likeness, his mind consumed by the challenge of translating her beauty onto paper. Every stroke of his pencil would be deliberate, every line a reflection of his perception of her essence.

In this intimate space, surrounded by the tangible evidence of his devotion, Benedict would pour his heart and soul into each etch, striving to capture the true spirit of Miss Y/N with every stroke of his pencil.

"Someone seems smitten, don't you think, brother?" Anthony's teasing voice broke through Benedict's intent stare as he drew, jolting him out of his reverie. A faint blush tinged Benedict's cheeks as he glanced up, his hand pausing mid-stroke.

Benedict's older brother stood in the doorway, a playful smirk playing on his lips as he observed the tableau before him. Benedict chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of embarrassment. "I'm merely capturing her likeness as an artist," he protested, though the affection in his gaze betrayed his true feelings.

Anthony's grin widened, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Of course, dear brother," he replied, his tone dripping with amusement. "But one might argue that your portraits of Miss Y/N are a tad... shall we say, inspired?"

Benedict rolled his eyes good-naturedly, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps," he conceded, returning his attention to the paper before him. "But can you blame me? She's quite the muse."

With a knowing laugh, Anthony stepped further into the studio, his presence injecting a sense of levity into the room. "Indeed she is," he agreed, his gaze drifting to the scattered sketches of Miss Y/N that adorned the walls. "But do try not to get too lost in your musings, brother. The real Miss Y/N might start to wonder what's keeping you so occupied."

Benedict nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Point taken," he said, his focus returning to his work. But as he etched his pencil into the paper once more, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the enigmatic woman who had captured his imagination—and his heart.

"Oh, and a letter arrived. It's for you," Anthony handed as sealed letter, "from a Lady Tilley Arnold. Seems urgent." Benedict stopped as he looked at his older brother whose held a knowing look. "I am not one to pry for I am one with your contentment, brother, but it seems you have unfinished business?"

"It is not what you are implying, brother. We are done. Lady Arnold had bid me done then. It is probably purely audience." Benedict replied focusing back to his work.

"Then I shall leave you to it, brother." Anthony left the letter on the stool and stepped out the studio closing the door, leaving his brother with his thoughts.

After his brother's departure, Benedict found himself unable to shake the lingering thoughts about why Lady Arnold had sought his audience. Their relationship had long evolved beyond the realms of a passionate love affair, and any such intimacies had faded into the past. Instead, he now saw himself as a respectable bachelor, poised to fulfill his societal obligations and perhaps find a suitable wife.

Despite this unexpected shift in their dynamics, the unexpected summons from Lady Arnold had stirred a curious blend of nostalgia and apprehension within him, prompting him to ponder the nature of their current connection.

As Benedict retired to his townhouse for the evening, his mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts about the impending meeting with Lady Arnold. While he harbored no romantic, nor amorous, feelings for her, the prospect of their encounter tomorrow left him feeling decidedly uneasy. After all, he had been actively courting Miss Y/N, and the mere notion of being seen with Lady Arnold had the potential to ignite scandalous gossip.

But then a knock sounded. In the dimly lit parlor of Benedict's townhouse, a cloaked woman stood before him, an air of melancholy clinging to the elegant form. "Lady Arnold, good evening! Do come in." He moved aside as the women entered. "To what do I owe--" He was cut off as Lady Tilley spoke, her expression tinged with a mix of determination and vulnerability. "Benedict, I sought you out because I'm leaving London soon. I wanted to bid you farewell before I go."

Benedict nodded politely, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his eyes. "Of course, Lady Arnold. It's kind of you to say goodbye."

But as their conversation unfolded, Benedict couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Lady Arnold's visit than a simple farewell. Her demeanor seemed to betray an underlying tension, a sense of urgency that belied the pleasantries of their exchange.

"Lady Arnold," Benedict began, his voice laced with a hint of concern, "is everything alright? You seem... troubled."

Lady Arnold hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering uncertainly before she squared her shoulders, as if steeling herself for what was to come. "Benedict, there's something I need to tell you," she confessed, her tone serious. "Something I've been meaning to say for quite some time." Taking a deep breath, she forged ahead, her words measured yet tinged with emotion. "I... I've realized that I can't bear the thought of leaving without expressing how I truly feel."

Benedict's eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of her confession. "How you feel?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lady Arnold nodded, her gaze unwavering as she held his gaze. "Yes, Benedict. I know the risks of me being seen here in your residence but it seems that you have not responded to my correspondence... I have come here to say that I've been thinking about us, about our past, and... I can't deny that I still feel something between us."

Benedict's mind flew to the letter he placed on his desk earlier the night he reached his townhouse. He didn't even want to open it knowing what it could contain. A rakish past he, quite possibly, no longer wants to open. Benedict, then, felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him, memories of their shared history flooding back with startling clarity. Yet, beneath the surface, a sense of unease gnawed at him, a silent reminder of the boundaries he had vowed to uphold.

"Tilley," he began tentatively, his words hesitant as he struggled to find the right response. "I… I'm not sure what you mean. Our past is just that, the past."

But Lady Arnold was undeterred, her resolve unwavering as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But what if it doesn't have to be? What if we could recapture the passion we once shared?"

Benedict's heart quickened at her words, torn between the allure of nostalgia and the reality of his present circumstances. "I... I don't know, Tilley," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Things have changed. I've changed."

Undeterred, Lady Arnold reached out to touch his hand, her touch soft and pleading. "Benedict, please. Don't you remember how good it used to be? Just one last time, before I leave."

Benedict felt a surge of conflicting emotions welling up inside him, his mind spinning with indecision. "I… I can't," he finally answered removing his hand from hers, his voice heavy with his conscience. "It wouldn't be right, just like you decided."

Lady Arnold's eyes gleamed with a mixture of longing and sorrow as she looked at Benedict. "Do you remember, Benedict," she began, her voice soft yet laden with emotion, "those nights we shared? How the world seemed to disappear when we were together? Every stolen moment, every secret touch… it was as if time stood still just for us." She took a step closer, her gaze never wavering. "The way we used to laugh, our whispers filling the darkness with promises only we understood. We explored each other's souls and bodies with such intensity, such reckless abandon. Every touch was a symphony, every kiss a sonnet. Our passion burned so bright, like a flame that could never be extinguished."

Her voice faltered slightly, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "We were invincible then, weren’t we? Bound by nothing but our own desires. It was a love that consumed us, left us breathless and wanting more. Even now, I can feel the echoes of those nights, the way your touch could ignite something deep within me, a fire that no one else could ever hope to spark."

She spoke of memories shared, of passion ignited long ago, and hinted at desires yet unfulfilled. Despite his best efforts to maintain composure, Benedict found himself ensnared by her magnetic presence, a faint echo of their past intimacy stirring within him as she caressed his jaw.

As the tension between them reached its zenith, Lady Arnold's advances became bolder, her fingers trailing lightly along the curve of Benedict's jawline as she leaned in for a kiss. For a fleeting moment, their lips met in a passionate embrace, igniting a spark of longing that threatened to engulf them both.

But as quickly as it began, Benedict pulled away, a confused expression clouding his features. "I am afraid it has ended," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "This... it no longer feels right." His words hung heavy in the air.

Lady Arnold's expression softened, a hint of sadness clouding her eyes. "I know things have changed, Benedict. We have changed. But those memories... they still linger. A testament to what we once shared, a rendezvous that defied everything and everyone."

She reached out, her fingers grazing his hand. "Tell me you remember, Benedict. Tell me that those moments meant as much to you as they did to me."

Benedict felt a lump form in his throat as Lady Arnold's words washed over him. Her memories mirrored his own, a testament to the bond they had once shared. He swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to respond.

"Of course I remember," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "Those moments were among the most exhilarating experiences of my life. We had an affair, some rendezvous that was."

Lady Arnold's eyes softened at his confession, a flicker of hope igniting within them. "Then why can't we have it again, Benedict? Just one last time, before I leave. Let me carry that memory with me."

Benedict sighed, "Because things are different now," he said gently. "Our lives have moved on. What we had was rousing, but it's part of a past that no longer exists."

Lady Arnold's expression crumpled slightly, her hope waning. "But why?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why can't we hold onto it, just for a little while longer?"

Benedict took her hand in his, his touch both firm and tender. "Because it wouldn't be fair to either of us," he replied softly. "I can't give you whatever temporary high you want, not when my heart belongs to someone else now. It would be a lie, a betrayal of what we both deserve."

Tears shimmered in Lady Arnold's eyes as she listened to his words. "I understand," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "I just... I had to try."

Benedict squeezed her hand gently before letting go. "I know," he said. "And I'm grateful for what we shared, Tilley, truly. But we both need to move forward, to find happiness in the lives we've chosen. You know it, this cannot be."

Lady Arnold nodded, her shoulders sagging with resignation. "I suppose this is goodbye then," she murmured, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes," Benedict agreed, his voice tender. "Goodbye, Lady Arnold. I wish you all the best."

With a final, lingering glance, Lady Arnold turned and walked away, leaving Benedict standing alone in the dimly lit parlor. As the door closed behind her, he felt a profound sense of closure, mingled with the bittersweet pang of lost love. He knew he had made the right decision, but the echoes of their past would remain with him, a poignant reminder of a passion that had once burned so brightly.

taglist: @novausstuff // @pussyslayerhd // @amoosarte // @jupitervenusearthmars

again, please do send me a message or comment down if you would like to be added on the succeeding taglists for the five times series!

[hollowed-theory-hall]

My Hogwarts Castle Design

Some of my notes regarding it can be found here and some of my rambling about the castle's architecture here.

In this post, I'm just going to post the images I came to as an amalgamation of all book quotes regarding the castle's structure merged with the basic structure and some floor plan elements from Hogwarts Legacy (since the castle is gorgeous and similar in aesthetic to the movies versions. I'm saying versions because every movie had a differently designed Hogwarts).

Maybe I can make a post regarding all the book quotes that went into this design like Ron saying the lake is to the south of the school (PoA), the DADA and the Transfiguration office have a view of the Quidditch Pitch (OotP, PoA) and the Quidditch Pitch is near the lake (OotP), the lawn for the flying classes is on the opposite side of the grounds to the Forbidden Forest (PS) and the Whomping Willow is visible from the Herbology Greenhouses (CoS), the moving staircases aren't accessible from the ground floor near the Great Hall (PS), Myrtel's bathroom near the DADA office (CoS), hidden passage with the trick step being near the DADA office on the 2nd floor (location mentioned in HBP, but the passage itself is mentioned in multiple books), etc.

So without further ado, my attempt at a Hogwarts floor plan:

There might be some inaccuracies, becouse this was a crazy puzzle to try and make sense of so I tried my best based on various quotes in the books. Locations we know exist but aren't told anything about where they are, were just placed down where I thought reasonable.

I kept the common rooms/dormitories layout similar to that in Hogwarts Legacy (since it's pretty), but I made sure all of them would have enough dorm rooms and bathrooms (which isn't the case in the game).

(I hope my calligraphy is legible enough. I advice zooming in if you want to read all the details on the images)

Dungeons:

Left - Lower Dungeons, Slytherin's Common Room.

Right - Dungeons, Potions Labs, Snape's office, Detention Chambers, the obstacle course under Fluffy's room.

Basement

Left - Actual Basement - Kitchens, Hufflepuff Common Room.

Right - Half floor between Basement and Ground Floor - Hufflepuff Girls Dorms.

Ground Floor

Entrance Hall, Great Hall, Staff Room, Filch's office, Viaduct Courtyard.

1st Floor

Classrooms 1-15, Hospital Wing, Viaduct, Greenhouses, DADA classroom, History classroom, Muggle Studies classroom.

Classroom 11 is said to be on the ground floor, but I placed it on the 1st floor, which is technically the ground floor of the second building. It just worked better with everything else.

2nd Floor

Classrooms 1B-15B, Transfiguration classroom, Ancient Runes classroom, DADA office, Moaning Myrtle toilet.

3rd Floor

Classrooms 1C-11C, Fluffy's room, Charms Corridor, Charms Classroom, Trophy Room, Armor Gallery, Library.

I tried to make the scene in which they accidentally run into Fluffy's room after the Trophy Room, and I think this sort of works for what Harry describes if you squint. The description just doesn't make much sense when trying to keep the general structure seen in the movies/games.

4th Floor

Classrooms 1D-8D, Restricted Section.

5th Floor

Classrooms 1E-5E, Ravenclaw Common Room entrance, Prefect's bathroom, Arithmancy Classroom.

6th Floor

Classrooms 1F-2F.

7th Floor

Classrooms 1G-2G, Gryffindor Common Room entrance, Divination Classroom, RoR.

Towers

Left - Floor 8 - Headmaster's Office, Owlery

Center - Floor 9

Right - Floor 10 - Astronomy Tower

[kefiteria]

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Summary: Satoru’s birthday takes an unexpected turn when you're the one to spoil him with cake and cryptic, way-too-romantic words. Between teasing, flustering, and trying to keep your cool, it’s a lot more than just a slice of cake… and maybe Satoru’s finally met his match. cake cake 🎂! let's celebrate his birthday through this fic ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✨

Words: 4419

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

The bustling corridors of Jujutsu High were alive with activity. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, painting golden streaks across the hallways as sorcerers went about their business. Shikigami hovered in near silence, and cursed tools gleamed faintly at sorcerers' sides, pulsing with restrained energy.

Satoru walked with his usual swagger, hands buried in his pockets, exuding a confidence that demanded attention. Heads turned as he strolled past, his carefree demeanor contrasting sharply with the disciplined environment.

As he rounded a corner, his sharp blue eyes locked onto you. His grin appeared almost instantly, the same familiar, mischievous smirk you’d come to expect. With a dramatic spin on his heel, he sauntered toward you.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “Look who decided to show their face. Miss me that much?”

You didn’t respond to his antics, your eyes fixed on his as you stepped forward. Without hesitation, you grabbed his hand.

“Satoru.” you said, your tone sharp and direct, silencing whatever flippant remark he was about to make.

His grin widened at the sound of his name, but his usual playfulness faltered under the weight of your steady gaze. He gave your hand a firm, almost instinctive squeeze, though his usual cockiness quickly resurfaced.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, his voice softening just a touch. “Starting to think I’d have to—”

“Enough.” you interrupted, cutting him off. Your tone left no room for argument. “Follow me. Now.”

Satoru blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then, his grin returned, sharper this time. “Your place?” he asked, tilting his head with mock curiosity. “How forward of you. Couldn’t wait for a little alone time with me, huh?~”

You didn’t respond. Your grip tightened on his hand just enough to make your point. The cold finality in your expression told him this wasn’t a request.

For once, Satoru didn’t push. “Alright~” he said, his tone light but his curiosity undeniable. “Lead the way. I’m all yours.”

As you walked, the air shifted. Students and sorcerers alike turned to stare, their whispers following in your wake. None dared approach, their attention torn between your unwavering focus and the enigmatic Gojo trailing behind you.

Satoru, ever the center of attention, ignored the onlookers entirely. His gaze stayed fixed on you, curiosity simmering beneath his usual smug exterior. He matched your pace with an effortless stride, his teasing grin softening into something more thoughtful.

Whatever awaited at your home, you weren’t in the mood to explain and he wasn’t about to ask.

The glass greenhouse exuded tranquility, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. Plants of every shade of green stretched toward the fading light filtering through the glass walls. Fragrance from the blooms and earth filled the air, while the soft rustle of leaves added an intimate, peaceful charm to the space.

Satoru followed behind, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. A low whistle escaped his lips as he took in the picturesque scene.

“You’ve been busy~” he remarked, his tone light but tinged with admiration. “Didn’t know you had a little haven like this tucked away.”

Crossing your arms, you maintained a neutral expression despite the slight twitch in your jaw. “It’s nothing special.” you replied curtly, your voice measured. “Just a place to get away from everything.”

Not buying your downplaying for a second, Satoru smirked, leaning against the chair you’d motioned to earlier. “Nothing special?” he repeated, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Don’t be modest. This place screams effort. And money. Let me guess, you were going to keep this secret forever?”

A slow exhale left you, trying to steady your expression as his grin widened. “You’re the one who spoiled me with this idea in the first place.” you said, attempting to deflect.

His smirk deepened, clearly enjoying himself. “Ah, so you do admit I’m the mastermind behind this. Knew it. I remember calling in a favor to get this custom-built. Never imagined you’d actually use it to create… this.” His hand gestured lazily to the vibrant greenery around him. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

A sharp look shot in his direction. “Sit down, Gojo.”

Raising an eyebrow, he smirked further. “Bossy today, aren’t we?” he teased, but complied, settling into the chair with a smug grin. “Still, I’ll give you credit. The view’s incredible.”

Shifting your gaze to the glass walls, the sunlight softened into fiery hues of orange and gold. It was almost 5:30; the timing had to be perfect. Clenching your hands tightly behind your back, you forced yourself not to fidget.

Tilting his head, Satoru watched you closely. “You’re awfully quiet.” he commented, his tone casual but his eyes sharp. “That’s not like you. Got something on your mind?”

A quick glance flicked to him, your expression unreadable. “I don’t have time for your guessing games.” you replied curtly. “Just sit there.”

Placing the cake box on the table, you opened it, releasing the soft aroma of baked goods that mingled with the floral scents in the air, adding a cozy sweetness to the space.

Immediately, Satoru’s eyes lit up at the sight of the cake. A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Cake? Now we’re talking~” he said, reaching out to poke at the frosting.

Before he could touch it, your hand moved like lightning, gently swatting his fingers away. “Behave.” you said firmly, narrowing your eyes at him.

He blinked at you, momentarily startled, before leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “Fine~” he muttered, feigning defeat. “But you’re killing me with the suspense. What’s so special about 17:30 that I can’t even taste the frosting?”

Ignoring his question, you sat back, crossing your legs as you kept your eyes fixed on the clock. “Just wait.” you said evenly.

Satoru chuckled, leaning back further in his chair, hands behind his head. “You’re really something, you know that? Drag me into a greenhouse, dangle a cake in front of me, and then tell me to wait. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Silence settled in, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the faint ticking of the clock.

As the clock struck 17:30pm, the golden light of the setting sun bathed the greenhouse in a final blaze of warmth. Straightening, you looked directly at Satoru.

“Happy birthday, my precious Satoru.” you uttered faintly, the words slipping from your lips as softly as a whisper.

[ennn]

The kiss did kill Agatha but it was because she made it happen. "That's cute, but you know that [absorbing Rio's powers] would kill me" they had that line for a reason and having the line again on the previously on was to remind the audience of that. So a normal agathario kiss wouldn't cause death, but Agatha actually absorbing Rio's powers while kissing definitely would.

That being said, I agree with all the things you highlighted that you liked. May I ask which things you would've done different or didn't love as much, maybe?

Also, from the most neutral point of view, do you think Agatha still loves Rio? Did she ever?

I agree with that read! Note: this also means Rio would have needed to let her magic go into Agatha. Agatha can only take when blasted with magic, not by touching people, so Rio was aware she was killing her but it was Agatha's choice to take it on the mouth

Ooh good questions, time to play editor / script doctor for a bit. This is probably going to be long... and can be negative so I'm keeping it under a cut.

Things I did not love / would have done differently — not comprehensive — just off the top of my head:

For the love of god use a different ghost SFX. I hate the current one with the fire of 10,000 suns. It makes it hard to see the actor's performance, their outfit, and it messes with their body language as well. Outside the fantastical reality of the Road, it's too distracting.

Burn that white-grey wig for ghost!Agatha. Between this and the SFX I was struggling to focus on the scenes and their pathos. I think Episode 5 wasn't so bad because Evanora didn't really do much except float around in a smock and say some mean lines but Agatha's moving around, talking a lot, and trying to land some emotional beats.

The whole showdown in the garden feels weird to me, and I think you can tell that they only Aubrey Plaza for a limited time: she barely seems to be in the same frame except for the kiss? I suspect that's why we have shots focused on Billy hitting the greenhouse, Death on the house, and a very very short magical fight. You also don't get proper reactions from Rio on what could have been a couple of revealing beats like when Agatha initially offers Billy up and walks away.

The big one: I'm not convinced Agatha had a proper arc here. If it was planned I don't think it landed for me. You get a hint of Agatha making some peace with how death just happens at the end of the earth trial: "Sometimes boys die" – beautiful moment -– but it doesn't seem to follow through? Yes, she ultimately makes a choice that allows Rio to continue pursuing her (because Rio would have kept her word if Agatha handed Billy over). But coming to terms with her grief and Nicky's death? Has she forgiven Rio? Has she forgiven herself? It feels unresolved to me imho.

Agatha being protective of Billy is... some development I guess but she was already instinctively protective of him in like Episode 3, and by then she already knew he wasn't Nicky. I needed more growth from Agatha, I think?

I'm not sure about the whole mental messaging power of Billy's. Is it supposed to imply he's also reading Agatha's mind? Did he not say it out loud because then we'd have to get a reaction from Rio and Plaza isn't available?

Cast a younger kid for Nicky lol. I know there are production limitations but to me that kid looks too old for a 6-7 year old. Is it just me? I don't usually hang out with kids.

Streamline the flashbacks with Agatha and Nicky. We get it: she loves him, it's their song, he's not a fan of the murdering, he dies. I'd fit in a scene (it can be a short one) to underline how Rio did care about Nicky (she visits him?) and show Agatha having conflicting feelings about loving but fearing Death.

In an ideal world, not have Billy in his superhero outfit because that should have had some build-up for a reveal. I know it's Marvel and they need to sell merch and stuff but there really was enough stuff going on and how the hell did Billy get that suit anyway? The crown I can overlook but the rest is weird to me. --

For your last question about Agatha loving Rio I'll tackle it in another Anon Ask coming up that's similar!

[lactosa2]

Yep, another of Omen bc im in love

STANDING ON BUISSNES

5:34 AM

You were in the kitchen preparing something to eat when you felt a hand on your shoulder, the sudden contact in the middle of the darkness made you jump and look back in shock, you laughed softly with a hand on your chest while Omen looked at you confused.

"Omen…" you whispered with a small laugh of relief and swallowed, standing up straight and waiting for him to say something, which he didn't. "What happened?" You asked and looked at him calmer, knowing that he wouldn't bother you for anything.

He didn't respond, he was too embarrassed to speak or declare himself, he just wanted you, as always, to read his mind and support him, your hand grabbed his in silence and then you nodded, he didn't let you let go of his hand and took you to the room. another section of the base, where his bonsai was located

Once there you yawned and sat in the nearest chair, letting go of his hand. "So… Cypher is still charging you?" You asked, your voice quiet and sleepy.

For a long time, Omen had been begging Cypher to help him discover his past, it was not until Iso appeared in the scene that Cypher agreed, only with the condition that Omen would have to pay him an absurd amount, the main problem, Omen did not He really has income, the supplies for weaving were a gift from Sage and the bonsai is part of the protocol greenhouse, only it is under his personal care, unlike the others, Omen was not human nor did he cover basic needs, therefore he never They gave him a salary, now it is a bigger problem

"I don't know what I'll do…" he whispered embarrassedly as he focused on his bonsai, he didn't change it but he did stare at it, clinging to those thin branches, with the only hope that everything would be okay. "Think positive, he couldn't kill you," you said, trying to joke as you got up from the chair and walked over to him, your hand caressing his shoulder.

"How much is it?" You whispered with a serious voice - "You're not going to-" Omen tried to protest but you interrupted him, "how much" he remained silent, you knew he wouldn't let you pay for him, you knew he felt ashamed of not having a salary as such, And although he had it, it was still not enough, and at the rate of his income it would never be.

"120,000 credits" he said with a low voice, you were surprised and gasped in disbelief why Cypher would charge him so much, you didn't complain, but you took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll deposit it for you tomorrow," Omen's body language froze, not believing that you would pay his debt for him. "You don't have to," he complained and turned around standing upright, looking intimidating because of how tall he is. (yummy)

"just accepts that I'm going to do this for you" you wanted to explain to him that you appreciated his friendship and would help him, but you understood that it would be difficult for him to believe only in words. You once told him that you would do anything for him, and a number is no obstacle to promises, and he needed actions.

He nodded shyly, your hand went to the side of what would be his face, his aura was calmer and more relaxed, without warning, Omen brought both arms around your torso and hid his head in your shoulder, pressing you against him. . You didn't complain, you just laughed softly and hugged him back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

"Your rice burned," Omen whispered in your ear as the smoke alarm began to sound throughout most of the base. "I know," you whispered back, laughing softly when he held you close to him.

[marinettesaltprompts]

Cat in the Belfry (Part 1)

Adribaten x Gotham City Sirens

Prompt by @somereaderinblue

OP NOTE: I got sent this prompt but posted them in the wrong order. Sorry😅

Instead of Marinette/LB going to Gotham & finding the Batfam, what if Adrien did it instead? So, Fu & LB continue to leave CN out of the loop. Their partnership deteriorates thanks to secrets, miscommunication & the whole Lila dilemma. In their civilian life, Mari’s already written Adrien off as a ‘traitor’ & gives him the cold shoulder whenever he tries to be civil or offer some modicum of support outside of class. One day, CN tries to ask LB if she’s made any headway on HM’s ID & she blows up on him, ranting abt how stressed she is from her responsibilities as the Guardian, hero & team leader and verbally attacking him, calling him a bad hero, a worse sidekick & a nuisance. 

CN is hurt. He’s dialed back on the flirting, esp after Plagg gave a stern talk abt boundaries when Lila went too far. He fires back at LB that she wouldn’t be so stressed if she let him help only for her to once again remind him of all his shortcomings. They go back & forth until LB just yoyos away.

Adrien decides that if she won’t let him help her, he’ll do it on his own. Instead of hiring a normal PI, he takes it a step further: tracking down the Bat Family themselves. The fact that his dad is going on a business trip to Gotham soon is the perfect opportunity.

He tells LB he’ll be absent. She scoffs, unsurprised that he’s ‘slacking off’ & smugly says she’ll get the temps to fill in for him. At least they know how to do their jobs & respect her leadership. Instead of anger or jealousy, CN just feels….pity. And worry the more he imagines the temps doing what he does: being the distractions at best & meatshields at worst.

He has to find the Batfam ASAP.

Here’s where some deconstruction kicks in. He tells himself he’ll wait for the Batfam to show up at a crime scene. While looking for said scene, he stumbles upon Catwoman who’s fighting with Penguin over a relic both of them want to steal. CN intervenes to save the relic & can’t help but save Catwoman too. Then the cherry on top comes: Firefly who decides to burn the place down bcz clearly someone has to die tonight.

Luckily, before CN could lose 1 of his 9 lives, Harley & Ivy arrive as Catwoman’s getaway & CN is brought along for the ride. Cue a car chase that’s intense enough to push CN into unlocking a new ability: Black Storm. Plagg is so proud.

And that’s how CN found himself sitting in Ivy’s greenhouse, stroking Bud & Lou while Harley demands Selina explain who how when & where she got her new stray. Sipping Ivy’s herbal tea, he awkwardly clears his throat & reveals he’s looking for the Batfam. Harley continues to prod until CN ends up telling her everything.

“You must think I’m crazy.” he says at the end….only to remember he’s talking to Harley Quinn & 2 other women who were born in Gotham and bred to bleed for it.

This leads to some research & after seeing footage of the fights and more concerningly, the imbalanced power dynamic, Harley asks CN more questions that confirm their worst fears: that he’s unknowingly being abused & worse, has likely been abused before he put on the mask. 

It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but the Sirens show him more support than he’s gotten since Plagg. It’s already 5 AM but those hours he’s spent with them got months worth of stress off his chest. Sadly, all things must come to an end & he reluctantly prepares to leave.

S: Are you still going to look for the Bats?

CN: I have to try. 

S: Wait, you told us Hawkmoth’s source of power is a piece of jewelry, right?

CN: Yeah, a brooch. Why?

Selina gives him a cheshire grin & he realizes that detectives could solve mysteries but thieves could steal jewelry. Plus, Selina loved a challenge & what could possibly be bigger than magical jewelry? Payment-wise, Adrien had already accumulated some Gabriel accessories to pawn off. Also, compared to the vigilantes, Selina has more freedom to leave Gotham.

(Selina would also be lying if she said she wasn’t a little bit tempted to see more of CN’s potential.)

And thus, Selina books a ticket to Paris. Oh, and Harley & Ivy come too. Time to psychoanalyze the hell out of the Parisians & check out the gardens.

[darkscorpiox]

Utena - Analysis on the opening

I don’t know if someone has already done it, but here’s my interpretation of the opening.

Warning: very, VERY long post and mention of scenes from the show, enough to be considered spoilers (sorry 😅)

Edit: I’ve made an analysis on the first ending as well

Let’s live heroically, let’s live with style. (Just a long, long time.)

The opening starts with our two main characters naked and in a fetal position, indicating their status of “newborn” in the story. Then, they are clad in the garbs of their respective roles. Interestingly, despite facing and leaning toward each other, their eyes remain close. In the case of Utena, it symbolizes her inability to see beyond her own narrative of the heroic prince saving the princess. As for Anthy, it’s her resignation to not see anything beyond her role of Rose Bride which she has played for decades/centuries, hence the long, long time.

Even if the two of us are torn apart… (Let go of me…) …take my revolution.

In the next sequence, not only are they not looking at each other, but they are also back-to-back, another indication that they are positioned to be at odds with each other, whether they want to or not. Still, despite the obstacles thrown at them, despite Anthy’s attempts to make Utena give up on her (“Let go of me…”), the latter doesn’t stop telling her to take her hand (revolution) and that’s what she did.

In the sunlit garden, we both joined out hands.

Miki’s sunlit garden is an idealized memory, so it makes sense to compare Utena’s goal of becoming a prince to the former. Also, the tower, where her journey is supposed to end with her heteronormative “happily ever after”, is where she and Anthy join hands and the latter’s revolution begins.

The sequence where Utena walks with the male students has a “one of the boys” kind of vibe and that might have been the intent. The tomboy character may appear progressive by refusing to conform to traditionally feminine gender norms, but that’s instead a sexist concept because it implies that Utena’s gender, her femininity (and by association, anything branded as “girly”), is the one thing that makes her less than her fellow male schoolmates. Also, she looks over her shoulder, something or someone (Anthy?) catching her attention which stops her from blindly following the other boys’ lead.

Drawing close for comfort, we both swore…

In Anthy’s case, due to her hair and skin color, the vibe she emanates as she walks with her fellow female schoolmates is “not like other girls”, another trope which hurts women by marginalizing the few ��different/special ones” from the “normal/average ones” or vice versa. However, the reason she turned around (Utena? Her perspicacity?) is what helps her preserve the part of her identity which is still deep within her. So being different isn’t a bad thing as long as every person, especially girls, are given the same courtesy.

If you read the Japanese lyrics, you would know chikai (from chikau, meaning “to swear/vow”) is at the beginning of Anthy’s sequence, when we see the gates of Ohtori, where she swears to find Utena again.

(Also, did you notice that their respective sequences begin with a shot of where their story in Ohtori ends?)

…never again would we ever fall in love. (Every time.)

This line is sung as our two protagonists stand face to face in Anthy’s cage-like greenhouse, where the cycle of the quest for revolution always (re)starts. That vow of never falling in love again, along with that Every time, makes me wonder about how many games had taken place before Utena. How many times had Anthy been engaged to a “chosen one”? How many of those “chosen ones” did she grow to love, yet still choose to betray? How many times did she swore to never love another again only to do so despite said promise to herself? Utena, by ending the cycle, makes the vow mentioned before much sweeter: she and Anthy choose to never fall in love again because they have pledged their love for each other till death do them part (like a married couple 🥰🤵🏻‍♀️👰🏾‍♀️🥰).

I see that photo of us standing cheek to cheek… …and place a bit of my loneliness in our smiles. (Revolution!)

At this moment, the past represented by Utena and Anthy lying down, facing each other, and the future represented by the lyrics paralleled each other.

Past: a (naively) smiling Utena and a (falsely) smiling Anthy -> Anthy gives the white rose, the symbol of the Prince and by association, patriarchy, the source of her eternal pain, to Utena who is unaware of the dark history connected to it -> (failed) Revolution by dueling (transition to the dueling arena)

Future: the photo at the end of Episode 39 -> Anthy’s longing for Utena -> (successful) Revolution by leaving Akio

Even if I dream, even if I cry, even if I get hurt… …reality keeps on coming recklessly.

This sequence is about the Duelists.

Utena being the one who dreams is self-explanatory.

Saionji, if you pause at the right time, is seen with tears in his eyes. Behind his arrogant attitude is nothing but a mentally weak and insecure boy who throws violent tantrums when things don’t go his way.

Juri is no doubt the one most hurt in the series, not only because of her gender, but also because of her sexual orientation (I’ve made a post about it).

Miki and Nanami being the ones hit by reality makes sense due to the knowledge they idealize the relationship they shared with their respective siblings when they were children.

But what about Touga? Maybe it’s the confidence that he could get the power to revolutionize the (his) world if he emulates the system which had hurt him only to realize that such way of doing things won’t get him closer to his goal. Or, since he’s the first antagonist of the show, giving us a taste of what Akio, another male character whose inside is the opposite of his princely front, could do to girls, maybe he represents the reality/truth of the (imperfect) world.

All these Duelists, these teenagers, fight each other for a purpose and that later turns out to be futile after they find out that the rules they play by are a cover for a much more sinister plot.

I wanna find my own place, the value of being…

The first half, we focus on Utena who raises her sword with a determined look as the blue sky turned golden and the dueling arena crumbled. Utena rejects the narrative Akio wants for her and in the process, breaks the world he has created (and kept Anthy in).

While we zoom in on Utena, symbolizing her will to move forward, it’s the opposite with Anthy. Expression blank, she put some distance between her and Utena/the viewer(s), letting herself (her true self) disappear with Akio’s self-made world.

This sequence foreshadows what will happen in Episode 38.

…the person I’ve been until now…

But as it is shown in Episode 39, Anthy didn’t disappear in the fall of Akio’s world and stood up against her brother (riding a horse), mirroring Utena.

Also, we see Dios opens his eyes as the dueling arena crumbles to dust.

In Episode 13, Akio is conversing with a “sealed” Dios who “glare[s] at” him for wanting to bring the Prince back into the world. Dios had been “sealed away” because playing Prince had been killing him. Anthy had become the world’s sole target of their hatred so that he would no longer carry that great burden on his shoulders ever again. Dios is angry at Akio for not only trying to turn her sacrifice into a fruitless endeavor, but for also taking part in her eternal torment by making her an accomplice in his scheme.

Akio has internalized the teachings of patriarchy. He now idealizes the Prince, forgetting that his current self isn’t the result of Anthy sealing the latter’s power away. He had, of his own volition, casted away his “nobility” and enjoyed the privileges of his gender. He was free of the duties expected from the Prince yet chose to not use that freedom to search for a way to save his sister without taking on that mantle again. Protected by a patriarchal system, Akio is in fact afraid of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders again despite his desire to return to his “glory days”. He wants to be the Prince again (regression), but also doesn’t want to give up his life of privilege. There is no step toward self-improvement. And that’s why his quest for revolution is nothing but a pretext to play people like a fiddle, especially the vulnerable ones like children and women. I think he subconsciously knows he’s maintaining a perpetual cycle meant to end in failure, but he’s too lost in his self-centeredness to take a third option, to destroy the limits of his coffin. In other words, Akio must let patriarchy (manifested through the game and the dueling arena) disappear in order to regain the lost part of him that is Dios, because what the latter really wants is to live in a better world, one where Princes aren’t needed anymore.

Let’s find the strength to throw it all away. Strip down to nothing all.

Utena having the strength to throw everything away references her decision to give up on the heteronormative “happy ending” given to her at the cost of Anthy’s well-being.

Anthy being stripped of everything references her true (naked) self within her coffin.

Become like rose petals, blowing free!

Honestly, that part was a bit difficult to interpret. We do see petals blown in the wind when Utena beats boys at basketball, but the only time I saw them concerning Anthy (and by association, the duels) was when the Duelist gets “deflowered”, and I didn’t get a feeling of freedom from it. Or so I thought at first. Knowing that the duels are part of Akio’s plot which is nothing but a wild goose chase, it makes sense in the context that losing means some time away from Akio’s control and thus, a chance to reflect and for self-improvement. Also, if the dueling arena is like a groomed flower, then its rubble is the petals. This might be foreshadowed in Episode 9, when Anthy falls with rose petals scattered everywhere as Utena tries to catch her.

Even if the two of us are torn apart… …I swear that I will change the world.

We have a return of Even if the two of us are torn apart… (Let go of me…) / …take my revolution. This time, there’s no request to let go of the other party and Utena is taking the next step toward (self-)improvement. If you pause at the right time, you can see she is not in a fetal position like at the beginning of the opening. Now, it looks like she is opening herself to the real world.

Anthy is not present, but that’s because she hasn’t reunited with Utena yet. Until that day comes, the latter will keep fighting for the world both deserve to live in.

In conclusion, the opening is a summary of the entire series and foreshadows how it would end.

[marsmarbles]

If you have the time, could you maybe do a scene with bigb teaching grian how to bake his famous cookies? Or maybe something a bit more angsty, like one of them getting to the other only to find their leftover items? Or whatever you want honestly! Thx for the secret soulmates food! :p

I had an idea for this request but it would be too much to draw so I’m actually gonna try and do some writing instead. Sorry for those who don’t like reading. It’s kinda long.

Golden Light to Silver Shadows

Grian nervously stood before the Food Crew’s bakery entrance, clamping his sweaty hands on a present he had spent all day preparing for BigB. Turning the knob of the door and pushing it open activated an alarm system set up by Fwhip. A bell rang and a few note blocks could be heard. It was a charming little jingle to welcome customers. The bakery was cozy with cherry plank walls and coffee colored spruce floors. A few circle tables were sprinkled in the center of the room with booths lining the walls. Lanterns, succulents, and baskets of flowery bushes hung from the ceiling. BigB was sat behind the counter. He was examining the creases in the floorboards with his head resting on his hand. He had been daydreaming. BigB loved his bakery, but it was admittedly boring to wait for customers. The door jingle alerted him to Grian’s presence.

“Grian!” BigB lit up in excitement, his antennae wiggled with joy. The genuine excitement to see Grian was more than enough to make Grian’s face flush. “Hey, BigB. I uhhh… made something for you.”

Grian slid a bag of cookies across the counter with shaky hands. They were neatly wrapped in a shimmery clear bag, tightly fastened with a blue ribbon with gold accents. “This was my first time ever making cookies, so sorry if they’re bad. Maybe you can show me your secret recipe,” Grian laughed nervously.

BigB gleefully loosened the blue ribbon holding the bag shut, took a cookie, and ate it whole. It was crunchy and thin and….hollow(?)…they weren’t bad by any means. For Grian’s first time, BigB appreciated the love and effort he put in. He had waited all day for someone to show up to the bakery. And the fact that it was Grian made it even better. He didn’t want him to leave just yet.

“How about we make some cookies together! The cocoa beans should be ready in the greenhouse,” BigB suggested, gesturing to the entrance to the greenhouse just behind him.

“I’d love to!” Grian quickly replied. The word ‘together’ was enough.

After BigB stashed away the cookies for later in the top cabinet, he and Grian made their way to the back door to the greenhouse. Grian had to do an awkward shuffle around the counter to keep up. The greenhouse was gorgeous. Golden light shone through the semi transparent overhang and broke through the flowers and leaves. Parrots chirped and bees buzzed. Luscious plants swayed in the gentle breeze. Glow berry vines slung from the ceiling as axolotls and frogs popped out from the ponds, curious of the new visitor. Grian stared in awe. This was more of a massive nature preserve than any greenhouse he’s ever been in.

“Grian?” BigB broke Grian out of his trance. “The cocoa bean farm is over here.”

“Uh right,” Grian said, adjusting his glasses and wiping his mouth and chin with his coat sleeve (just to make sure he didn’t drool while distracted).

BigB led him to a cluster of jungle trees. They reached high, popping out the top of through the ceiling. Podzol and bamboo were dotted around in clumps. Just past the cocoa bean farm was the end of the greenhouse. Through the transparent walls could be a seen an expansive jungle forest, stretching well beyond the world borders. BigB pulled off a ready cocoa bean plant and inspected it for abnormalities. After checking that it was good, he held it out for Grian. “Why don’t you try to break this one open?”

“Uhh I dunno,” Grian held his hands up, unsure.

In that moment, Grian took a pause. Actually, the whole world felt in slow motion. Something unseen had disturbed the peace. His Watcher senses were tingling, so to speak. Something was about to happen….. Suddenly, as the world picked back up in speed, BigB’s calming smile was shot down with an excruciating pain all throughout his body; every muscle, every ligament, every organ, each and every follicle of hair. The cocoa bean plant dropped and exploded on impact with the earth. A jolt went up his spine and his legs went out on him. He tumbled to the ground. He had no process time to scream or cry out in pain. He just fell.

“BIGB!!!!” Grian shrieked, dropping to his knees to assist him just as fast as BigB fell. “B-BIGB WHAT HAPPENED ARE YOU OKAY??”

“I-I…I think I’m going…J-Jimmy…he-”BigB managed to get out with a weak shaky breath.

“BigB! BigB! Please I need you to stay with me BigB,” Grian frantically cradled BigB in his arms. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He checked chat…

…Jimmy had fallen to his death…

Oh, fucking of course, Grian thought. Grian hadn’t considered Jimmy being in control of BigB’s lives, but with that confirmation he’d might as well think of this as his final moments with his secret soulmate.

“Grian….” BigB mustered the strength to caress Grian’s cheek and wipe away a tear. “…it’s ok….i’ll be right back….it’s just one life….”

“BigB….” Grian quietly whined, taking BigB’s hand, keeping it held to his cheek. He felt it go cold and his arm become heavy. Grian saw the last of the light in BigB’s dark eyes fade as his body became limp. Grian pulled his lifeless corpse into one final hug. And as BigB dissipated into smoke and billowed away…..Grian was left alone.

All the light and magic that the greenhouse had greeted him with was gone. The birds went silent, the bees hid back into their hives. The trees and flowers went grey and the golden light became silver shadows. Silently, Grian collected BigB’s fallen items, keeping his head down to hide his tearful look. And as he slowly closed the chest he stored BigB’s items in, he heard voices in the distance. It was a collection of people, most notably Scott, Martyn, Fwhip, and Joel, with a tomato faced Jimmy stomping ahead of them.

“Jimmy!!! We’re sorry!! We didn’t think you’d miss the water!” Scott cackled as he tried to explain himself to Jimmy.

“It was bad maths!! Bad maths!!” Martyn pleaded with a giggle.

“We didn’t think you’d die!!” Scott added, trying to breathe through his laughter.

“IM NOT HAVING ANY OF IT!!!!” Jimmy snapped back at them. “PLAYING BUNGEE JUMP WITH FISHING RODS IS THE LAST THING WE SHOULD BE THINKING ABOUT DOING IN A PLACE LIKE THIS!!! WHAT DO YOU THINK IMMA TELL BIGB, ‘THAT IT WAS JUST A PRANK’!!??”

Jimmy stormed into the bakery, and as he slammed the door, Fwhip’s voice was cut off; “but it was just a prank-“

Grian could here Jimmy stomp about in the bakery. He must’ve been looking for BigB. Jimmy ran out into the greenhouse and froze to find Grian and the aftermath of the incident. Grian stood there with a clenched fist and a chest by his feet. He gave Jimmy a stone cold glare with his dark eyes. Jimmy flinched at the sight of his expression.

“I put BigB’s stuff in this chest,” Grian said almost robotically, pointing to the box.

Jimmy desperately wanted to apologize, but Grian looked like he would accept nothing; not even a notch apple. Grian stiffly walked past him.

“I’m sorry….about BigB…” Jimmy made an attempt at an apology, hoping that Grian could find it in him somewhere to forgive him. Grian paused.

“It wasn’t your fault, Tim….” Grian said without turning back to him. “It was their’s….”

Grian continued walking, leaving Jimmy to wallow. He made his way to the bakery and took a seat at one of the circle tables. The room felt cold and desolate compared to before. Like it was a completely different place that the greenhouse had spat him back out into. He shuffled his chair forward and laid his head down, waiting for BigB’s return.

I actually had a lot of fun writing this, even though I wouldn’t consider myself a very skilled writer(and there’s most definitely a lot of mistakes I made lol). I felt like it was easier to depict a full scene compared to a comic(which would’ve probably taken me weeks). So I’ll do more writing like this in the future.

[turbulentscrawl]

Luchilyne Snippets

Just some various scenes of Luchino x my Oc, Evelyne again! This will most likely be the last I share of them as these snippets themselves are a bit old and I haven't made much more for them...but I hope you enjoy! Once again, you're welcome to imagine this as reader insert instead.

No NSFW, but it's under the cut for length.

warnings: mentions of body horror, crude language, hints at cannibalism

A Meal

There was meat on her plate.

Evelyne knew it by the meal’s presentation, but she couldn't ascertain exactly what kind. It was smothered in some kind of fragrant sauce, which blocked the color and smell. The shape could be anything. She needed to cut into it to see the texture…. She ought to.

She ought to do something, she thought, before everyone noticed her hesitation, her shiftiness, the haunted expression she knew she wasn't hiding well.

She began reaching for her silverware, hands cold and weak, but before she picked them up another knife and fork appeared in front of her. Evelyne felt herself seize as they pressed into the mystery meat and cut. And cut. And cut. It was split into several thin rows before being pressed sideways, exposing the white flesh inside. She released a breath she hadn't known she was holding. The fork took a piece from her plate, and she followed its journey to the Professor sat next to her, who fearlessly ate it.

Luchino chewed thoughtfully, and whispered when he'd swallowed it, “It's chicken.”

Chicken, she repeated internally as she watched Luchino return to his own meal and conversation, unbothered. She supposed she could trust that.

Uneventful Company

“What's this?” Evelyne asked, looking over the small spread in the greenhouse. There was a cloth over the metal table, and a tray with two glasses, a filled pitcher, and an assortment of snacks. The room was warm and herbal like ozone. The evening sun tinted the room faintly orange. She and Luchino were the only ones there too, it seemed, and how he had gotten Emma Woods away from her garden she could only guess.

“Iced tea,” Luchino says, lifting his filled glass to look at it curiously. “I've been told you won't drink it hot, though if I'm being honest I find this a bit odd.”

“Did you add any sugar before it cooled?” Evelyne asked while walking over. She reached for the pitcher, but Luchino grabbed it first and filled the other glass. She took a curious sip.

“A bit,” he replied. “I don't care for it being overly sweet, myself.”

“Try a bit of fresh lemon next time,” she suggests, taking a seat in the opposite chair. “But you didn't answer my question.”

“We're sharing some tea and conversation,” he said, smirking. “Were you expecting something else?”

She was, in truth. She had spent several occasions now with the professor in his bed. And on his desk, in the smoke room…. They socialized during the day, too, but her point was that all their alone time up to this point had been spent in debauchery. (And somehow still not frequently enough for Evelyne’s liking. Luchino had been true to his word, when he said he'd ruin any other man for her. And yet he often promised his pleasures to others as well.) She knew that he knew that, too.

“We've never done this before,” she mutters against the rim of her glass.

“There's a first time for everything,” he says. “May I be blunt?”

“I much prefer when you are,” Evelyne said. Luchino quirked an eyebrow, looking amused and pleased.

“I've seen your behaviors changing faintly, as of late. I'm now under the impression that you require comfort deeper than my cock alone can reach, so I thought we should just talk.”

Evelyne heard what she thought was someone choking just outside of the greenhouse. Luchino turned to look for an evesdropper over his shoulder, but Evelyne refused to let anyone else see her now-burning face. Part of it was due to that line of his being overheard--though she didn't know why; Luchino had told her several times before that the others would know how they were spending their time. The other part of it was…flattery? That a man as desired as him would seek to know her despite her secrecy.

In Which Luchino Feels a Lot of Pain

The Professor was a private man, but after having spent so long at the manor there was not much he refused to speak about at all. Today, however, was a day which involved one such remaining subject.

The mutation from himself to his Hunter form had already begun, finished, and vanished long ago. His body was in stasis now, unchanging, unaging, and the Evil Reptilian existed separate from the original Luchino Diruse. But some days, for some reason, he felt as if it were happening again. A sick trick of the mind, perhaps, or a cause the manor has decided he'd earned. Regardless, the topic was taboo not because of any punishment or estrangement he felt he'd face, but rather because there was no worthwhile payoff for trying to explain such a convoluted time-defying event. That was, according to everyone else, the Evil Reptilian had been at the manor before the Professor, despite both of them knowing that was not the case at all. Even if he did convince them of the truth, though, no one could help the Professor with his phantom pains in any meaningful way. It simply would not matter in the end.

And so on the days he awoke and felt his bones shifting, muscles tearing, cells morphing with all the relevant and acute pains, Luchino stayed in his room. He abandoned his work, social habits, even meals, and remained writhing in bed for the day. Generally, everyone left him alone. If someone in the manor isolated, it tended to be for a reason, and Luchino’s closest friends especially treated his room the same as his office and kept away.

Which was why he answered the door when Evelyne knocked. He expected an emergency, not simple nosiness. Least of all from the strange female Butcher.

“Why weren’t you at breakfast or lunch?” She stared at him suspiciously through the crack he opened in the door. Straight to the point, it seemed. “It’s not like you to skip meals.” Luchino might have processed some surprise and flatter–knowing Evelyne was not the ‘outreaching’ sort–if he weren't so busy trying to hide that he was feeling his ribs break. He failed, and he saw Evelyne's eyes narrow when his shoulders shuttered and caved in.

Luchino tried to slam the door shut on her, but the sluggishness imparted from his pain was just enough for her to get her foot wedged in the frame.

“Evelyne–” Luchino snapped at her, but any rebuke on his tongue died when he was suddenly wracked with another full wave of pain that sent him crumpling completely forward. His knees buckled and he fell into the door. Simple bodyweight was less of an obstacle than intentional pushback, though, and Evelyne stubbornly began shoving her shoulders through the gap her foot held.

“Let me in,” she whispered with urgency. Despite his best, weakened efforts, she slipped inside his dark room. The door slammed shut, and Luchino could not fight the long and miserable groan or buckling of his knees; he slid down to the floor. Evelyne knelt next to him and looked for a cause of the apparent pain. But there was nothing obvious, which he was sure she found more than disturbing. In matches, even when he was bloody and bruised, Luchino merely breathed heavily and chuckled. He was the type to growl in pleasure, not pain. Which made the sight of him curling up all the more distressing to her. “What's going on? What's wrong?”

Luchino merely shook his head at her and dropped to his elbows, unable and unwilling to answer both. His back hunched as if that would stop the phantom break-expansion of his ribs. His muscles flexed to keep them to whole and unripped, fingers clawed grooves into the floor like he might ward off his agony with sheer will. And when his body released it was with a gasp of exhausted effort.

His braids fell over his shoulder, obscuring the tight screwing of his face and the snarling clench of his teeth from the woman he faintly recalled was afraid of his mouth. Less faintly, he was surprised when she touched his face to push the hair back. When his body allowed him to look at her, there was indeed a seed of nervousness in her eyes. Her hands were steady, though.

“I shouldn't have been cause for you to get up, back to bed with you,” she said softly. Bit of a non-apology, that, he thought with a chuckle. But Luchino let her brace under his arm and help him back to his feet. Together, they limped back to his flail-tossed bed, where he collapsed just in time for an actual shout of pain to be muffled by his pillows. He curled into the sheets and growled and roared because he felt his skin erupting with scale-growth burns, his spine separating at each vertebra and spreading out. His shifting and writhing eventually put him on his side, where he opened his screwed-shut eyes and saw Evelyne still nervously knelt next to his bed.

“You can go,” he told her when he had breath enough to spare.

“I–” she hesitated. “Isn’t there something I can do?”

“No,” he choked. “It will pass with tim–” his words dissolved into a feral cry. He flinched and swung a fist back at his headboard, punching it hard and loud. The pain that bloomed in his hand was a poor distraction from the worse sensations, but he would take anything–anything at this point. And that was when Evelyne grabbed his hand.

“Stop that,” she said. The second his fist uncurled, her hand slipped and locked into his. Her spare hand stroked his bleeding knuckles. “Just squeeze my hand.”

He wanted to tell her not to linger. Not to waste her time. Not to do this when he might very well break her hand in a fit, without knowing. But she sat steadfast on the floor next to him, braced and determined. She was odd, this one.

“You’ll be alright,” Evelyne whispered when the next bout came.

And as Luchino turned and roared into his pillow again, he realized, in the back of his mind, that he couldn’t recall the last time anyone had said that to him.

After Death

Luchino awakens faster than the others after his total loss of a match. That's common for him; he suspects it has something to do with his scales, the beginnings of a hunter body with its seeming immunities. As soon as his eyes are open, his feet hit the ground.

And Luchino does something unwise then, something he's not sure isn't punishable by the manor: He marches his way down the hall to Evelyne's room. It's still locked because she's not yet returned from the match, not fully back to herself. But Luchino chooses to take a page from his other self and gives in to his impulses this time. He takes out a tiny pocket knife and jams it into the keyhole, forcing his way in.

When Luchino slips in, her room is quiet. Evelyne is tucked into bed, but there's something odd about her form. She's hazy, shimmery, not fully formed. He's not entirely sure she'll be there when he reaches out to touch her. The dirt and grime are gone from her skin, but fast-fading scars linger on her face almost like being covered by makeup. She looks peaceful, but he feels like she's still there somewhat, lingering in replays of the match's trauma.

Luchino shuts her door behind him (The lock might be broken, but he'll fix it himself later.) and strides over to climb into bed with the once-predator woman. When his knee hits her mattress it stirs something in a way that makes him want to regret this. Evelyne's face twists out of peaceful sleep and she sobs half-consciously. (It might have been his name, but he doesn't let himself be stunned out of action so easily.) He's quick, coils around her through the thin sheets separating them and hushes her. It works, for now. When she fully awakens he's sure there will be more and worse (she didn't handle death well, he's noted before) but at least he will be there, ready.

CoA VII: Foreign Body

“I don't understand how you haven't given up yet,” Evelyne mused aloud.

Luchino was busy with the latest version of his serum, carefully measuring tiny vials of tinctures and powders. He was in his casual wear–something she'd learned he only donned when in private, away from the nervous eyes of the others in the Shelter–and she figured it was something he kept from his days as a Professor. A hint of nostalgic normalcy. His infected arm was still wrapped up, though, with silky mycelium strands slipping through the gaps of cloth. But he hadn't had any flare-ups yet that day, and he was taking that as an opportunity to finish some of his more delicate mixing work. Evelyne was sat on the gurney he'd swiped from the medbay for her treatments.

“Humanity deserves better than weak resolutions,” he answered absently, eyeing a flask’s measurements.

“Does it?” She asked. When she looked at her own hands, she still saw the blood of old sins crusted around her nails, venom in the veins beneath. The tiny blooms of black mold beneath the first layer of her skin were negligible. Part of her always wondered if the mold saw her as a partner rather than a host because she was a kindred pest from the very beginning. “Plenty of bad in humanity. Maybe the moral scales finally tipped and this is our punishment.”

“Plenty of bad, yes, but plenty of good. I don't believe that all is lost,” Luchino responded. He looked over his shoulder, back at her. “Do you?”

Evelyne did not reply again, lost in her own melancholy musings. Luchino felt a bit bad for her. The state of the world was far from good. Everyone lived in fear, save for the few like himself who instead wallowed in rage. He was able to turn his emotions into action, to fight back against this fate, but most people were not that strong-willed or rational. He was trusted among the remaining general populace, but still had to cover his currently-controlled infection when in their company. Evelyne’s ‘infection’ was far less obvious, but the circumstances of it meant she had to be sequestered away to her room or this lab for safety. He did imagine that the limited and very tunnel-visioned company of the exploration team got a bit old.

He paused his work to observe the solemn woman. Comfort was not the Professor's specialty anymore. He was too jaded, tired. But he decided it was worth trying now, and picked up a small glass display from his desk. He held it out for Evelyne to see when he stopped in front of her, and her eyes fell over a collection of pressed plants she hadn't seen in years. “There's more to the world than simple good and bad. If humanity has not earned your concern, then consider, as I do, that nature holds no morality. It has earned no punishment, and certainly not extinction. And make no mistakes; right now you are a rare shred of hope for life as we know it. As much as I enjoy destroying the fungus with fire and violence, that will not save us from an internal enemy. Science, medicine, and rare cases such as yourself and Emil will be our saving graces. Even I am proof of that. If it weren't for you being here, I might have already been consumed by my infection. Whatever ‘bad’ haunts you, surely this is redemption enough for humanity. For you.” Her eyes moved to the silvery strands floating about his forearm, drifting on the smallest wafts of air like fine hair.

“I'm not doing anything, Mister Diruse, but sitting here and letting you poke and prod me with needles and the like,” she mutters.

“And very grueling work it is, if I might say,” he chuckles, gesturing to his own infected elbow, littered with injection marks from testing his own medicine. “At the very least, you're keeping me alive and free. I'm quite thankful for that.”

Evelyne rolled her eyes a bit, fighting back a pointless smile. She dared to touch his displayed hand, ghosting over his tainted knuckles. “Well, I suppose if I do any good,” she sighed. “It ought to be for you.”

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Hi! Requesting Thranduil x female reader with the prompt Snowman (Modern AU only). Thanks and looking forward to reading!

Pairing: Modern! Thranduil x Fem. Reader (second person POV)

Themes: Soft/Fluffy

Warnings: None

Wordcount: 700+ words

Summary: After finding the gardens covered with snow, Thranduil comes up with a fun activity for you both.

Minors DNI

Divider by @estrelinha-s

It was cold. So very cold. The storm had blown over the city of Mirkwood while its citizens slept, bringing with it biting winds and ice and thick puffs of snow. Then the storm departed as quickly as it came, and everyone opened their eyes to a world covered in thick layers of snow.

At least it is not snowing, Thranduil reflected. And the wind is no longer howling like a living thing.

He had been awake for most of the night, impatiently pacing his study, and with his attention fixed firmly on his phone. There were no calls the night before, nothing from his Marchwardens, and certainly nothing from his son. Legolas would have found a way to alert his father had something gone horribly wrong, and he had not. He did, however, call an hour after dawn to inform his father that all was well and he would be joining Tauriel, Elros, and the others for breakfast, before they commenced rounds of the city again. 

I should be out there with them, he thought. But Legolas said there was no need.

Perhaps he would go later, and join them anyway. As their leader, it was only proper that he did so.

Thranduil padded over to a window and peered into the back garden. Vast and well-kept, it was now covered in snow that gleamed weakly in the dim morning light. His lips curled up at the corners.

Tis a perfect day for some fun in the sun. Thranduil sighed softly and drained the last of his coffee. He grimaced. It had gone cold while he stood there, looking out into a world that reminded him of some magical kingdom. Thinking he had spent enough time indoors, he left his mug on the table and headed out into the parlor.

The rest of the house was as warm and cozy as his study, and smelled faintly of beeswax and cinnamon and the slivers of orange that were dried and hung on wreathes of glorious green. The snow-covered garden called out to him again, and he, not wanting to deny it, sped upstairs, searching for a companion to join him.

Your bedroom was as silent as a tomb when he entered it. “Wake up, y/n,” he called softly. “It is past nine.”

“Thirty more minutes, please,” you mumbled, and burrowed further into your pillows.

Thranduil laughed. “You sleep like one of the dead, y/n,” he observed, and he stood by the door. It was a marvel to him really, how you were able to sleep through last night’s storm. “Come now, and open your eyes. You have had an entire night’s worth of sleep.”

“This dead person thinks a night’s worth of sleep is not enough, and demands thirty more minutes.”

“Come with me, y/n. Please.”

All the grumbling in the world would not have dissuaded him. Thranduil stepped out into the corridor to let you wake up and wash the sleep out of your eyes in peace. He paced impatiently again, this time in the corridor, while you indulged in a hot shower and dressed for the day.

“Alright,” you declare, and you pull the thickest sweater you could find over your head. “What do you want to do today?”

Thranduil took your hand and led you straight to the back garden. Everything was covered in snow: the trees, the bushes, and the greenhouse by the back wall. Still, it was exceedingly breathtaking, and when Thranduil sank to his knees, you were overcome with ravenous curiosity.

“Snowmen cannot make themselves,” he insisted. His cheeks had grown rosy, and his buttery-yellow hair lifted gently with the wind. “Come on, y/n, and help with this.”

It was too pretty a scene to resist. You walked through the snow and settled on your knees beside him. First came the base, a large ball of snow that had to be flattened at the top. Then came a second ball of snow that was smaller than the first. Then came the third and final ball of snow. Thranduil returned to the house, and when he came back not long after, it was with an old woolen beanie, a worn red scarf, tiny lumps of coal, and of course, a carrot.

“This is perfect,” you remark, and fix the beanie to the head of the snowman. The scarf was next. The coal kept falling off, but Thranduil succeeded in sticking them on in the end. The carrot was last. By the time the two of you finished, the snowman stood tall and proud in its woolen cap and beanie. Thranduil was pleased with the end result, and wanted to make more of the same. You, wanting to indulge him, agreed.

tags: @ryantryan6969 @asianbutnotjapanese @the-fandoms-georgie @@esmeralda-tupi @shadow-singer123 @p-polaroid @desert-fern @stormchaser819 @jinxxangel13 @snowtargaryen

[lore-of-the-mushroom-kingdom]

The Kong Archipelago Location

So in an old developer interview from 1994 found on shmuplations, Miyamoto claims that "The Mushroom Kingdom looks to be on the outskirts of Donkey Kong's homeland, as seen in the game's ending…" in reference to DK 94's ending. So that seems to make it an open and shut case, DK's home is near the Mushroom Kingdom. Wellllll.... probably not. So with newer information from other games this piece of info in this interview has effectively been retconned. Thus DK's Tower is either not part of DK's homeland, or they went to the Mushroom Kingdom for the ending of the game. Why do I say this?

It's because in Donkey Konga 2 you can seen in the background of the menu, and from a scene from the story mode there appears to be a city in the distance across the water from Donkey Kong Island. In addition we actually see parts of this place for some of these levels for this game. This is more than likely the shoreline of the Metro Kingdom and would lead to Big Ape/ New Donk City. This would place the Kong Archipelago near the Metro Kingdom. Interestingly enough there is 2 sets of Islands on this Odyssey map near the Metro Kingdom that could fit the bill.

This would explain some other things. In Donkey Kong Country Tropical Freeze we see Stanley's Greenhouse from Donkey Kong III in the level Fruity Factory. This makes some sense, DK Snr. traveled on this island and gave Stanley trouble while on his way home. This also explains why it was so easy for the Kongs to get to Big Ape City in Donkey Kong Land. With that being said due to the trees I believe Mario Bombs Away would take place on one of these islands as well.

[whenshesayshush]

Thinking about that time gap between s1 and s2 that Riven and Musa got to be around each other enough for her to call him ‘Riv’ at the pub!? Like, they were being way too casual for that to be the first time they hung out since the ‘red flag’ debacle. Which calls for a deleted scene drabble during that time period, me thinks..

...I may have gotten carried away.

———

Musa’s been with Sam long enough to recognize that despite her lips currently searing a path down the side of his throat, it’s not his low groan echoing off of the walls of the greenhouse. He hears it too, puts some distance between them by pushing against her shoulders. “Dad?”

Her heartbeat speeds up even more at the thought of being caught mid-make-out by her boyfriend’s father and her Professor, but to her it sounded more like they’re not the only couple to realize the greenhouse is one of the few places in the school unoccupied after eight pm, so she pulls her hands from underneath his shirt and steps away, towards the door separating the classroom from the infirmary.

It’s slightly ajar, and she pulls it open all the way to reveal Sky’s friend Riven. He’s sitting on one of the beds, torso twisted to allow the meager light from the lamp on the bedside table to illuminate his arm. The armor-plated vest of his new uniform is next to him on the covers, a dark liquid saturating a large section of the torn sleeve around his bicep, which he is palpating with his opposite hand, his face scrunched up in discomfort.

“Oh, it’s you,” Sam spits from behind her, and she frowns at his tone. Riven’s pretty much an asshole by definition, but he hasn’t actually said or done anything yet.

“Delighted to see you too, Junior,” Riven retorts, then nods his head at her. “Red Flag. Not normally one to cockblock, but I’ve got a bit of a situation here.”

There’s a gauze pad, a rolled bandage and medical tape lying in his lap, but he’s clearly a hand short to be able to apply it by himself.

“Sounds like a you problem. Let’s go, babe.” Sam grabs her hand and pulls her arm back, but she resists his tug.

Riven’s eyes flick from her face to his shoulder, then back to her. The now third-year Specialist is hard to miss around the school, but they haven’t spoken one on one since their spat during Training Day last year. Ever since Sky and Bloom have made it official, though, there are rare days when he isn’t hanging with Beatrix and Dane and instead tags along with his roommate, and she’s been spending more time with Bloom while Terra takes up shifts in the greenhouse, so they’ve been part of the same conversation a couple of times.

It’s how she knows it’s his pride that prevents him from asking, not the hostility she can feel rolling off of Sam. She aches to take it from him, settle him down, but she won’t risk it in front of Riven.

She sighs, “Sam, he’s injured.”

“I can see that. Bitter pill, isn’t it, a taste of your own medicine?”

“You know what, Wallflower—”

“Stop,” Musa commands, not sure how all of her time with Sam lately keeps spiraling into this — him wound up in all the wrong ways, her feeling everything but the absence of chaos.

“I’ll meet you back in your room,” she mutters, closing her eyes in preparation for the disappointed sigh she knows is coming. It does, and then she feels the warmth of him retreat, senses his thundercloud of emotions drifting away as he steps through the outside wall.

Riven has the common sense to only raise a suggestive eyebrow at the display. She crosses the distance and lowers herself onto the bed behind him.

“Things are… tense, with Professor Harvey and Rosalind,” she defends her boyfriend’s actions in spite of herself, then quickly deflects. “Can you get this shirt off?”

He grabs the collar of the lycra half-zip and pulls it over his head. She takes over at his shoulder, helping the fabric down his arm, careful to avoid the sizable open gash right where the Alfea logo is positioned on the sleeve. His eyes follow her movement, his head tilted sideways.

“Andreas?” she asks.

“Got it in one.”

She quickly rubs her hands together before resting her fingers on his skin, carefully prodding. She registers the way his body instantly loses just a little bit of its tension. He is still on guard, still rigid, but his shoulders lower half an inch, and his skin moves under her fingertips as his muscles uncoil.

“Well, I’m not a Harvey, but I don’t think it’s deep enough to require stitches.”

“It’s not. Just help me bandage it and you can get back to the guy you were planning to undress.”

She tears open the sterile packaging and positions the gauze over the wound, securing the edges with strips of tape. “Pretty sure that’s out of the window for tonight.”

He hums, amused. “Doesn’t have to be. Just say the word.” 

The brash frivolity is just what she needs. “What, three is a crowd, four is a party?”

Riven snorts in surprise, twisting his body further to look at her, and the side of her mouth pulls up into a smirk as she envelopes his arm to circle the bandage around it.

“You’re wasted on him,” he murmurs in a low voice.

Her face falls, and she gives a sharp pull on the loose end of the bandage, causing him to grimace, before tucking it underneath the layer below. “You don’t get to judge him.”

She stands up, looking down on him for once. “You sided with the people who are turning this school into some kind of totalitarian military camp. You’re not as dumb as you act sometimes; you can’t be surprised that people didn’t take kindly to that.”

“You don’t understand,” he bristles, and she turns before he can see her eyes go purple. She can’t hold off the wave of indignation, mixed with a desperation that should be out of place, but is awfully familiar to her instead. She’s known that his overconfidence is a mask for his ache to belong for months, senses it every time he’s even remotely near.

“No, I don’t,” she confirms, moving towards the door. “But for what it’s worth, if you ever decide you want to tell your side of the story, I would try to.”

[queen-scribbles]

Unbalanced

Finally wrote Endrali and Senya having a conversation that's been floating around in my head for longer than I care to think about. 😅(aka one of two scenes standing between Ardrali and the Unmasked Regret convo👀👀👀)

---

Endrali had learned early and well after forming the Alliance to take days of peace when she got them. Even now, the larger dangers settled--Eternal Empire dealt with, Fleet pacified and under her command--there was still plenty to keep busy. From threats like Tassar or the Sith on Ord Mantell to people who simply wanted a neutral arbiter and sending aid to... everyone, her to-do list hadn't gotten any shorter.

So when a day like today came along, the whole thing to do as she pleased, she took it without hesitation. Most of this one was going to be spent with her flowers. The snow orchids were thriving in the beds that framed her personal landing area--she checked after meditating with Arcann, since she was right there. That had her in a good enough mood to be humming as she headed for the room off the Force Enclave she'd turned into a greenhouse for some of her acquisitions less suited to Odessen's climate.

She'd left the tending to droids for too long. It would feel good to get her hands dirty--perhaps literally--seeing to them herself today. This was one of the best ways she'd found to help her mental balance with all the demands on her time and attention. It was, she had to admit, also her favorite. Something about the connection to and care of other living things centered her better than just about anything.

There was someone already here.

Her stride slowed at the recognition, her senses reaching out to determine who.

An unnecessary effort, as Senya stepped around one of the large planters in the middle of the space. She smiled. "Hello, Commander."

Endrali matched the smile and greeting both. "Hello, Senya. I wasn't expecting to find anyone here."

"I can leave, if you were wanting to be alone," Senya said with a glance at the door.

Endrali shook her head. "Not at all. It's just I thought most, if not all, of the Alliance had forgotten this room exists. If you were planning to meditate or something I can be very quiet."

"I finished." Senya chuckled and shook her head. "I was enjoying the atmosphere." She reached to brush her fingers lightly along the petals of a Balmorran ashmantle. "There is a sense of peace here that has helped greatly... in the aftermath."

"I'm glad." Endrali shifted. "It provides the same sense for me."

Senya cocked her head. "Are you responsible for this, then? I do remember Lana mentioning you have a talent for it."

Endrali nodded, casting a fond look at the vibrant plant life that filled the room. "My favorite way to relax."

"Don't let me get in your way," Senya said, raising her hands apologetically and stepping toward the door. "I know how rarely you get a chance for that."

"Oh, you can stay, I don't mind," Endrali said quickly. "I'm happy someone else is enjoying it. Today's just the first time I've had in a while to take care of them myself, and it surprised me to find someone else here, too."

"I believe I'll take you up on that, then," Senya nodded. She smiled again. "Just tell me if I'm in the way."

"I will," Endrali smiled back, and turned her attention to the black and gold blooms nearest the door. They were thriving; she should split them or shift to a larger planting bed... The contentment of losing herself in her favorite hobby soon had her humming again, the same tune as before.

It was only a few moments before a flicker of emotion rolled off Senya, surprise mingled with something less tangible. Bittersweet and melancholy. "I... didn't know you were familiar with Zakuulan music, Commander."

"Hm?" Endrali spun in her direction, hair slipping loose of her stubby ponytail. I'm not, really...

"That song. It's a Zakuulan lullaby." Senya smiled despite the emotions Endrali had sensed and slowed by a tall plant with curling yellow petals. "I used to sing it for my children." She shook her head as Endrali opened her mouth. "It's a good memory, not a painful one. It just caught me off-guard here, from you. It's been awhile, since..."

"Ah. I... don't even know where I heard it, to be honest," Endrali admitted with a sheepish laugh. She paused to think as she fixed her ponytail, but the last few weeks had been absurdly busy; she'd been everywhere in the galaxy it seemed, except Zakuul. And it wasn't like Arcann was the type to sing to fill silence during the time they spent together. (Which was most of that running around.)

"A little mystery," Senya said, something mischievous or knowing at corners of her smile. She was silent a few moments, fingers running along leaves as she moved on, pacing by the the dark green gold-splotched fern, the climbing vines from Yavin 4, the drooping white bells of Leaders Heart.

Endrali worked contentedly in the silence. Some of the Felucian violets were starting to wilt, and a quick check of soil composition showed why. She'd just set about replacing it when Senya spoke again.

"I've been meaning to thank you, Commander--again, I know." She studied a shade lily in one of the recessed corners. "For trusting me. When we first met, and about Arcann, both times I asked it."

"Of course," Endrali replied (as she had before), tamping the fresh soil around the violets. "Everyone deserves a chance at redemption." Atonement. She snorted softly. "Even those who feel like they don't deserve it." Besides, Arcann was hardly the first she'd extended that mercy to.

"Still. I am aware it couldn't have been a... popular decision, even if you found it easy. And it warms my heart to see the faith you've placed in my son."

"He's earned it." Endrali brushed dirt from her hands as she faced Senya. "It was apparent he's changed, I'm happy to give the chance to prove it."

"Oh, you've done more than that," Senya chuckled. "Some would say anything short of execution was second chance enough; confined to Odessen in an advisory capacity, banished from known space, something... less pleasant. Not many would trust him with assignments, let alone watching their back."

Endrali briefly rubbed the scar at her ribs as she crossed her arms. "He's earned that, too." Smiled at the ironic truth of her next words. "There are few here I trust more." Even if he was trying to kill me less than a year ago. "We make a good team."

The knowing smile was back. "So I've noticed." Senya brushed aside a trailing tendril of ivy that draped against her shoulder. "You've been good to him. Good for him; helping bring out the man I knew he could be."

"I do enjoy making things grow," Endrali joked lightly, gesturing to the greenhouse surroundings. "And he's become a good friend, Senya." The warmth twisting in her chest made friend feel like the wrong word, but that's all... that's what they were. She cleared her throat and shook off the wrongness. "Aside from watching my back and saving my life several times, I like talking to him." She focused on picking dirt out from under her nails rather than Senya's smile that made her feel too seen. "Or, more talking at him. It frequently turns into him listening to me chatter, which I appreciate. I'm always willing to listen back; I know part of why he'd quiet is he's... carrying a lot, and not undeserved. I can pick up on it sometimes when we meditate."

There hadn't been any sense of that the last few times, however. Including that morning.

A glimmer of satisfaction--contentment--rippled from Senya as she leaned against a planter. "He knows he can talk to you," she said softly. "And trusts you enough to do so."

Endrali bit her lip to hold back a threatening grin, the warmth dancing in her chance again. "I'm glad."

Senya chuckled. "It's the mark of a good leader who can make friends out of enemies and gain their trust." She pushed off the planter and headed for the door. "I've taken more time than intended for what was supposed to be a simple thank you, so I'll let you go back to enjoying your free time." The shimmering satisfaction lingered as she paused in the doorway. "But as I said, Endrali; you're good for him. Thank you."

Thoughts knocked askew by the heartfelt emphasis of the words, Endrali managed a nod and murmured thanks of her own.

"He's good for me, too," she whispered to the Felucian violets, which nodded in turn from the rush of breath as if in agreement. It was a struggle to get back her equilibrium with the words ringing in her ears, but Endrali (eventually) shook it off and went back to tending her plants, humming under her breath once more.

"The burning star of Izax bathes the sea in light..."

[animehouse-moe]

Mobile Suit Gundam - The Witch From Mercury S2 Episode 9: What We Can Do

What a massive episode, there's so much going on. So, so much that starts with the realizations of the sheltered students of Astacassia, moves onto the struggles of the Benerit Group, moves into Quiet Zero, and then finally recenters on Suletta and the Earth House. An absolute world of content to talk about.

I'll just start with this clip right from the start.

Shaddiq is a terrible, terrible person. Regardless of significance, regardless of realization, it's important to understand that this is a terrible event, and even the Earth House that resents the Spacians understands it as that. Anyways, why's it a great scene? Because it shows suffering. It shows confusion. It shows fear. It shows Spacians, those entirely untouched by their own policies and actions, being dunked underwater finally as well. To understand what it is that Earthians are so upset about, to understand what it's like to live like them, under the constant threat of violence and destruction for something they never did nor were a part of. It's really great that way.

Especially when we get to the Tomato scenes. Weirdly enough? Tomatoes are very symbolic in this episode and show. Take for example the notion that Miorine hasn't been at Astacassia for a while now while Suletta tends to the tomato greenhouse. During that extended period, Suletta didn't give these tomatoes out, she didn't even do anything with them. Paralyzed with indecision and the words of Miorine, all she did was squirrel them away (aside from the amount that was already being shared with Earth House). But now, now that Suletta has her own words to abide by, now that she can take action and make those decisions, she chooses to share those tomatoes with the refugees of Astacassia, with the help of Earth House. It's a great moment that shows that even if the greenhouse is destroyed, the sentiment and importance of it remains with Suletta, and that she's now able to share that importance and experience with others. It's a huge step forward for her character.

Alright, quick rewind here to this scene with Guel. I really really like it, in showing how isolated and alone Guel is. Carrying the weight of arresting his friend from school, of being a part of the suffering and violence that appeared on Earth, of being unable to stop the destruction of Astacassia. This poor young man carries the weight of the world and so much more on his shoulders, and has nobody to lean on. I know the English Gundam Twitter account already said no shipping Suletta and Guel, but I really do need this pair to meet again so that Guel's able to let it out. Miorine is his business partner, Lauda is his younger brother who can only look up to him. Suletta is the only person Guel can really be vulnerable with, and I need my best boy to just let it all out once more.

Now, onto Shaddiq. This is the look of a man who doesn't regret his actions, who doesn't understand the gravity of what he's done, who refuses to admit to himself that he's wrong. Hiding behind a peaceful expression and cooperative tone is the true Shaddiq, drowning in rage, steeped in frustration, and more likely than not, devoid of any sense of guilt. He's a great character, and to be honest, has been better approached in the vein of revenge than Prospera. There's not a huge amount to take out of his interrogation with Miorine, but that doesn't mean there's nothing. It's just smaller pieces that build a bigger picture of how Miorine sees herself in this retaliatory cycle.

This introspection doesn't last for long though as Peil Technologies moves to rat out the Benerit Group and begin the movement of Quiet Zero. Once more, I'll be honest and say that it's a lot of political stuff that goes on between this admission and the appearance of Quiet Zero. It'd take a mountain of words and probably a few diagrams to explain, so I might leave that all to someone else. The gist of it though is that the Space Assembly League is moving on Quiet Zero/the Benerit Group, intent on shutting them down, interestingly enough, with Mobile Suits in tow. I find this incredibly interesting because it's the same approach to the Vanadis Incident that started this whole story years ago.

Of course, this isn't 21 years ago anymore, and this isn't the same Prospera and Eri fleeing from violence. No, this is Prospera encouraging that violence, daring it to appear in front of her. And she massacres it. The entirely inhuman approach of freezing these men and women in place to aim to destroy not only the mobile suits, but the pilot within, is nothing short of evil. It's an incredibly great sequence for Prospera imparting that indiscriminate and one sided violence that she experienced on Fólkvangr all those years ago. My only wish is that they didn't give her so much "It's all for Eri" vibes during these moments. I feel like it dampens the rawness of her violence and aggression towards these Spacians, and paints her in more of a 'crazy mother' light than a 'I will enact my revenge upon everyone through this calculated plan' one.

Anyways, we return to Astacassia to continue our Suletta story arc, as she gets asked to pilot a Gundam that isn't Aerial. I think it's a great piece. It's terrible, but it's great. It forces Suletta to come to terms with the life that she's experienced this far, and to suffer the burden of what she's been spared of up until this point. It's an outstanding piece that serves to right one of the last wrongs that exists within Suletta, and will also provide more suffering to MIorine. The Gundams of the Vanadis Institute, the Gundams involved in Plant Quetta and Astacassia, the Gundam of Earth, and now, the Gundam set to go up against Quiet Zero. It's incredibly well placed to further intertwine the stories of Miorine and Suletta, all the while forcing a gulf between them on Miorine's end.

And so, at the end of it all, we find an enraged Lauda staring down a Jeturk Heavy Machinery Gundam, cursing Miorine.

I think it's really really great and compounds what we've seen of Miorine this far. It's her turn to be crushed under the weight of reality and her actions. She was already feeling it because of Prospera, she was further dragged beneath by Quiet Zero going online, and now she's being targeted by Lauda and will have to suffer Suletta getting into the mecha. And we can't forget that her father is still in a coma. It's her turn to go through the Gundam grinder and come out a new person, and I'm really looking forward to it. Will she break under the pressure and bow out? Will she turn into her father and shun Suletta even further? What will she do, will she become better or worse because of it? Regardless of that though, I'm incredibly interested to see where we go in the next episode.