#i surely think nothing ever bad will happen to them :)

[ladyloveandjustice]

I mean, Legend of Lattes did have a conflict, her coffee place straight up burned down? It wasn't a major focus for most of the book but it happened.

I've only read a few cozy fantasy things, and didn't find a few of them super memorable myself, but the definition of cozy fantasy is pretty broad from what I've seen. Emily Wilde is categorized as that and it is FULL of conflict and action and has some great and memorable characters.

But people have always liked stuff that's low tension/stakes/fluffy. See coffee shop aus in fanfic, or fanfic tagged fluff. See slice of life anime where characters are just hanging out. It's not a new thing. People have always wanted to watch or read things that just give cozy vibes and allow them to hang out with characters. The book industry realizing there was a market for that was inevitable. If it's not for you, it's not for you, but it's obviously for someone or it wouldn't be doing well.

I also think this is a good example of how condescending we can get when talking about a genre we don't like. Rather than say "it's not for me, I don't find the characters memorable and want better stakes, maybe there should be more variety" (which was more where OP was at) it has to be somehow bad for people to read it and write it. like...

And so sometimes it feels impossibly challenging to write any book except one where nothing bad happens and nothing is in danger and nobody is really bothered or worried about anything and everything is mostly fine and there aren't any major setbacks…..

That is a hell of a condescending assumption to make about those writers. Jesus. I'm a professional author too, but I would not want to make these assumptions about my fellow writers.You don't know if they're doing it because it's easy, or if they're doing it because they felt there was a need for it, or it was just an idea they liked writing. You don't like it, great. That doesn't mean those writers are slacking off or doing something wrong somehow. You don't know that they don't also write books with tension and conflict. I feel like most of them probably have, actually. Assuming they sat down and thought "omg this will be easy I'm so lazy" is just...do you make the same assumption about romance writers? It can get pretty formulaic, but that doesn't mean it's easy to write. Have you tried to write a cozy fantasy and sell it and make it do well? If not, I don't think you should talk about how easy it is.

But that leaves readers cold.

I mean not all readers obviously, since it wouldn't be doing well or selling well?

And frankly, I don't feel like it does much of anything to nourish either our souls or theirs.

It feels like eating a bag of potato chips for dinner instead of going to the effort of even just heating up a frozen dinner that has a vegetable in it.

Why does reading HAVE to "nourish your soul", whatever that means? What's wrong with eating a bag of potato chips? You teach college, so I wonder if you've ever run into a colleague who thinks this way about regular fantasy and sci-fi. Where they think that genre fiction is inherently more disposable and less challenging than literary fiction. I've sure as hell run into those professors, that look down on readers and writers of "commercial fiction", and I've seen the bad impact they have on their students. Do you agree with them? Because you're sounding a lot like them right now. This is the exactly the kind of argument they'd make.

You don't know whether these people don't also read books with more stakes or a variety of genres as well. Low effort reading has it's place, it just maybe shouldn't be the only thing you read if you want to actually experience the breadth of literature.

And I see this a lot in the book community, but dissing the stuff people are into and saying they need to challenge themselves more or they won't be smart like you (I see this with YA a lot too) is not going to convince them. It frames reading as a chore, and people often don't like doing chores in a life full of them, and reading is a hobby for a lot of people. Rather that say "you need to read this to better your mind" say what can be interesting or intriguing about these books that are more challenging, what kind of cool things you can get from them. Sometimes it seems to me like the point of these arguments is to feel superior, rather than actually convince people.

Nothing's wrong with reading low effort books or watch low effort shows--it's when say, a YA reader says books are inherently flawed if they don't spell things out like YA sometimes does or has more challenging themes. Or a cozy fantasy reader acting like all books should be cozy fantasy and books with tension are bad. Those are the people that ruin the discourse. But, doing the inverse isn't any better.

idk, man. I've taught university classes about this shit, but what do I know.

I teach grad school classes on writing, (I don't like to pull that card, since it's not like teachers can't have flawed ideas about their subject but since we're here) and have taught similar lessons. Yet, here's what I think I do know: telling students the genre they write is wrong is not something a teacher should do. Those literary fiction professors love doing that, and I'm not them.

As a teacher with a variety of students in a variety of genres, I have to read genres I don't like all the time--god I hate most 'dark romance' and man do I not get or like omegaverse, but I sure as hell had to read both. But just because I don't like them doesn't mean they're worthless, or there isn't a market for them, or it's wrong to write them. So I put those feelings aside, think about what kind of help the student needs to be successful in their chosen genre, and what the audience would want, because that will help them improve. (though I do try to hint if something seems like, incredibly sexist, that maybe we should reconsider that, or look at it from all angles and decide if it's something the story needs). And at the same time, I do teach them basic lessons on how to structure a story, and what's good about conflict, stakes, etc.

But I wouldn't tell any of them they're wrong for writing cozy fantasy even if it's not always my cup of tea, because there is a market for it, and I want them to do well at it and do what they love. What pays the bills pays them, and if you actually like what you do, that's also important. Writers do need to challenge themselves, which is why I encourage students to be open minded about all genres, try out writing them, try writing different POVs, different stuff even if they don't publish it, because that can only help them get better at what they do. But if what they publish is cozy fantasy, hey, it gets them good money and they like doing it, that's more than I can say for most jobs.

Cozy Fantasy and Why It Doesn't Work

I think I am among many who feel like they should love cozy fantasy and have found it an incredibly lacking genre.

This newly branded "cozy fantasy" genre that has taken readers by storm since 2020 and while it is new that books are now marketed as cozy, the genre itself isn't new. Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones is a great example of the genre before it was labeled and also how to make it work.

Cozy fantasy is defined by many as fantasy with low stakes. Fantasy aesthetic but less sword fights. On paper, it sounds great. But the execution has been less than stellar for readers like me. The lack of physical stakes has also impacted the emotional stakes of these books, creating forgettable characters with boring problems. As a romance reader, I find this frustrating. Romance is known for being a predictable and formulaic genre, the now defunct Romance Writers of America defined romances as needing happy endings, a term romances have continued to follow. Yet these romance texts manage to have low physical stakes (how to date your neighbor, how to confront your toxic friends, etc) while still maintaining high personal stakes that keep readers invested and begging for more. So I was initially confused why cozy fantasy authors struggle to write texts that connect to readers like me.

I think I have found the answer which is the genre is just here for vibes. It is all about aesthetic, not even worldbuilding that fantasy is known for as most cozy fantasy I read have so many problems as soon as you ask one question. It is hard to acknowledge that a genre that is pitched to work for readers like me doesn't work for many of us. Especially because occasionally there is one that works beautifully to my taste.

I often say my favorite cozy fantasies that are more contemporary are short and visual, which I plays into the idea of the genre being an aesthetic. The Bakery Dragon by Devin Elle Kurtz is a good example because it is a simple story that is given the perfect amount of pages and gorgeous visuals without dragging on when the message is very clear and easy to understand. Books like The Phoenix Keeper and Legends and Lattes have absolutely nothing for me, their very clear message hitting the reader over and over so the readers don't miss it and focusing on the aesthetic of worldbuilding rather than the reality of the fantastic elements within the world.

I guess my point is. . . I realize this genre isn't for me since I have realized it is more of an aesthetic than anything. .. .but I want it to be. Should I let it go and put my efforts elsewhere? Or should I keep exploring this new trend and find the hidden gems?

[coolemmasulivan2]

A Beautiful Mess | 2

Pairing: Lando Norris

Summary: Two neighbors who can’t stand each other, until an accidental kiss changes everything.

Word count: 3125

You can read part 1 here

Do we need somebody Just to feel like we're alright? Is the only reason You're holding me tonight 'Cause we're scared to be lonely?

It had been a week since you last saw Lando. After his visit to the school, it was like he had vanished. You knew he was home because, as always, he made sure you knew that, but beyond that, there was no sign of him.

The touch of your lips has haunted you ever since. You cursed yourself, telling yourself that you should have pushed yourself away the moment your lips met, you shouldn't have frozen.

"You're not getting it! Our lips touched." You practically yelled at your sister over FaceTime. She burst out laughing. "It's not funny. I hate him."

"If you hate him so much, why are you this worked up?" She teased you.

You frowned. "Are you implying I felt something?"

She shrugged. "Did you?"

"NO!"

At the same time, Lando was telling Max, who was stuffing clothes into his suitcase, since he was going back to Lonon, what had happened.

"It was an accident, dude!" Max said, watching his friend with amusement. "Just forget about it."

"I can't forget it!" Lando groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Our lips touched, Max. I'm getting goosebumps just thinking about it."

Max snorted. "Sounds like you liked it."

Lando spun around. "Are you insane? I meant goosebumps in a bad way. Like… I feel sick."

"Yeah, sure." Max smirked, barely holding back laughter.

You downed the last sip of your coffee, grabbed your bag, and stepped out of your apartment. Today was going to be a good day. You could feel it.

You had woken up early, gone for a run, had breakfast, and still had time to stop by your favorite bakery at the end of the street. Everything felt perfectly in place.

For once, Lando Norris was the last thing on your mind. Or at least, he was supposed to be.

You stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the ground floor, as you shifted your bag onto your shoulder, but then, just as the doors were sliding shut, a hand shot between them, forcing them open.

Your stomach dropped.

Lando locked eyes with you, before stepping inside. He didn't said anything and neither did you. The doors closed, sealing you both inside the small space. The building had a few years, so the elevator was not that spaceous.

He looked at his watch and run a hand through his curls. He looked like he was in a hurry.

Just five more floors.

Four.

Three.

Then... A jolt.

The elevator shuddered violently before coming to a stop. The lights flickered once, then settled into an unsettling dim glow.

You both froze. Then Lando sighed, pressing the emergency button. Nothing happened.

"You've got to be kidding me." Lando muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Just my luck." He let out a long sigh, pacing in the cramped space. If the elevator had felt small before, it felt suffocating now.

You, far too calm for his liking, pressed the emergency button a few times. "Can you stop moving?" You snapped, growing irritated.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I bothering you?" His voice dripped with sarcasm.

You shot him a look. "Yes, actually. You've been bothering me for a while now. Thanks for finally noticing."

Lando scoffed. "Excuse me if I'm not as relaxed as you!"

You could see he was nervous. "If you keep panicking like that, you're going to run us out of oxygen."

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide. "What--?! Aren't you supposed to be a teacher? That's not how you tell someone to calm down!"

"You're not a kid, are you?"

Lando let out a fake chuckle. "Fuck. Why did I have to get stuck with you?"

You crossed your arms. "Trust me, I'm wondering the same thing."

He let out an amused breath, shaking his head. "Please! This is probably going to be the highlight of your day."

"You really think you’re that special? You're just an idiot, Norris." You said, crossing your arms over your chest.

Lando smirked, taking a deliberate step closer. "Well, then it seems we're not that different, princess."

"Don't you have anything better to do? Grow up, please. That pretty face of yours isn't going to get you out of everything forever."

"Oh..." He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "So you think I'm handsome?"

You exhaled sharply. "That's the only thing you got from what I said? You're impossible."

Somehow, the space between you had vanished. You weren't sure who had moved first, but suddenly, he was close. Closer than necessary.

Lando's gaze flickered down to your lips, as he licked his own. The air grew thick. The bickering stopped and he elevator fell into silence.

Your breath caught in your throat. Every logical thought screamed at you to move, push him away, to say something, but you didn't. Neither of you did.

Lando's hand twitched at his side like he was debating whether to reach for you. His chest rose and fell in deep, controlled breaths, but you could see it. He was just as caught in this moment as you were.

Then, just as his face leaned closer and your lips were about to touch, the elevator jerked back to life.

You stumbled slightly, as you immediately took a step back away from each other. He run a hand through his hair and you looked away from him. The air was thick, but neither of you acknowledged it.

The doors slid open and without hesitation, you stepped out, ignoring the concerned doorman who asked if you were okay. You didn't spare him, or Lando, a single glance as you strode out of the building.

Lando watched you go, jaw clenched, hands on his hips. He let out a breath and muttered under his breath: "What the fuck just happened?"

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Even surrounded by a classroom full of energetic kids, you couldn't shake the thoughts swirling in your head.

Why hadn't you pushed him away? Why hadn't you moved? Had you actually… wanted to kiss him? The questions run in your mind, each one making you more frustrated than the last.

By the time you got home, you felt exhausted, not physically, but mentally. You barely made it to the couch before grabbing your phone, dialing your friend number without hesitation.

"Let's go out tonight!" You blurted before she could even say hello.

A beat of silence. Then, suspicion. "Go out as in... clubbing?"

It had been a while. You weren't exactly the party animal type, so your sudden enthusiasm was unexpected.

"Yes!" You confirmed, already sitting up. "I need a distraction. Let's get dinner and then let's go out. Call the others."

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my responsible and sensible friend?"

"Just be ready."

Determined to wipe the morning from your mind, you took a long shower, letting the heat ease the tension from your shoulders. Then, you dug through your closet, finding a dress you barely remembered owning: it was a red dress that hugged your body in all the right places. Paired with black heels that made your legs look like they belonged on a runway and a swipe of bold red lipstick. You felt powerful and it was just what you needed.

Lando leaned against the DJ booth, his drink on his hand as his friend, Martin Garrix, animatedly talked about his upcoming tour dates.

The club was packed, people moving to the heavy bass, neon lights flickering across the dance floor. It was the perfect place to blow off steam, to forget about the week.

Or at least, it was.

But the moment you walked in with your friends, all thoughts of relaxation evaporated.

Lando stiffened, nearly choking on his drink. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

"WHAT?" Martin shouted over the music.

Lando gestured toward the entrance. "Do you see that group that just walked in?"

Martin followed his gaze, spotting a group of friends laughing as they stepped into the club. "What about it?"

"The girl in the red dress. It's my neighbour!"

Martin's eyebrows shot up. "Wait... The neighbor? The one you kissed?"

Lando rolled his eyes. "We didn't kiss."

"Yet!" Martin smirked, clearly enjoying himself seeing Lando's annoyed face. He turned back to glance at you again. "She's beautiful."

Lando made a face, scoffing like the idea was ridiculous. "She's a nightmare, that's what she is." Martin chuckled, seeing right through him. "And she's a kindergarten teacher, bet it's gonna be real awkward for some parents to see their kid's sweet little teacher dressed like that."

Martin laughed, draping an arm over Lando's shoulder. "Dude, you're so jealous already."

"Shut up. What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's obvious!" Martin smirked. "You like her. And you hate that every guy in this club is about to spend their night looking at her. I can practically see smoke coming out of your ears, mate."

"Fuck off."

Your feet ached, but you didn't care. You were having the time of your life. Hours had passed in a blur of music, laughter, and drinks, and you and your friends hadn't left the dance floor for more than a few minutes at a time.

The alcohol had done its job: Lando hadn't crossed your mind all night. (Well, except maybe now. But that doesn't count.)

Leaning against the bar, you waited for your drink when a man approached you. Tall, broad shoulders, very handsome. And exactly your type.

He flashed you a smile. "Do you come here often?"

You blinked at him before bursting into laughter. "Oh my god. That pick-up line does not match your face."

He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, that was terrible. I panicked."

You smirked. "I can tell."

"Not much of a flirt, I guess." He admitted, laughing along with you.

"Clearly."

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Eric, by the way."

You shook it, still grinning. "Y/n."

Lando leaned against the railing, beer in hand, eyes fixed on the bar. He told himself he was just people-watching, just casually scanning the room, but his gaze kept landing on you.

And the guy standing way too close to you.

The guy who looked like he'd stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. Tall, charming, and irritatingly good-looking. The kind of guy who knew exactly how to play his cards.

Lando took a sip of his beer, jaw tightening as he watched you laugh at something the guy said. You were drunk and from the way the guy leaned in, so was he. Too close. Way too close.

"You look like a creep." Martin shouted over the music, snapping Lando out of his glare. "Stop looking at her."

"I'm not looking at her."

Martin snorted. "Right. You're just analyzing the guy she's with." He nudged Lando's shoulder. "Worried she might take him home?"

Lando scoffed, tearing his eyes away. "I don't fucking care."

"Sure." Martin smirked, taking a sip of his drink. He didn't press further, letting his friend drown in jealousy.

You stumbled outside, the cool night air hitting your flushed skin like a slap. Eric followed closely behind, his hand steady on your back as he helped you sit down on a nearby bench as you waited for the cab.

"You're really nice, you know that?" You mumbled, tilting your head to look at him as he sat down beside you.

Eric smiled. "Thank God. I was worried I screwed up my chances with that terrible pickup line."

You laughed softly, resting your head against the cool metal of the bench. "You saved yourself."

"I'm glad!" He admitted, his voice warm. "I had a good time tonight."

"Me too." You sighed, your stomach swirling uncomfortably. You cleared your throat, barely above a whisper as the words slipped out. "I wish you were him."

Eric frowned. "Who?"

Before you could answer, a voice interrupted you. His voice.

"Y/n?" You and Eric both turned, and there he was. Lando. Hands in his pockets, his gaze locked onto you.

Eric's eyes widened in recognition. "Wow. Lando Norris?" He sounded excited, most likely a fan.

But you barely registered his reaction. Your stomach twisted again, and before you could stop it, you shot up from the bench, turned away from them both, and emptied your stomach onto the pavement.

Lando instinctively moved toward you, but Eric was faster. He was by your side, gathering your hair in his hands and rubbing slow circles on your back.

Lando clenched his jaw, watching the way Eric took care of you. It shouldn't bother him, but it did. The guy was too perfect. A walking green flag.

"Are you okay?" Eric asked gently. "Think you can stand?"

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, groaning as you nodded. Eric helped you to your feet, keeping you steady against his side. "Where's that damn cab?" Eric muttered under his breath, glancing around.

"I'll take her home," Lando said suddenly.

Eric turned to him, brows raised. "What?"

"We're neighbors. She's most likely going to pass out on the way back."

"Yeah, we drank quite a lot." He looked between you and Lando. "Y/n? You okay with that?"

"Hm?"

"Are you okay with going with Lando? Is he your neighbour?" He asked you, and Lando could almost hear himself rolling his eyes. The guy was seriously too nice.

"Yes!" You confirmed. Lando took a step forward and stretched his hands. You blinked up at him, your head heavy. "You're so annoying. Why are you always everywhere?" Despite your grumble, your hands slowly found his.

Eric's lips twitching into a sad smile. He gently let you go as Lando pulled you closer, steadying you against him.

"Thanks for taking care of her." Lando said.

"It was my pleasure." Eric replied, his gaze soft as he looked at you. "She's something special. And I just met her, so…"

You chuckled. "I like you, Eric."

He smiled. "I know, Y/n." Then his expression flickered, just for a second. "But I'm not him, right?"

Lando frowned, watching as you only groaned in response.

Eric let out a small breath before leaning in and pressing a kiss to your cheek. Lando's grip on you tightened.

"It was nice meeting you." Eric said. "Call me sometime, yeah?" He turned to Lando, extending a hand. "Big fan, man. Nice to meet you."

Lando shook it briefly. "Yeah. You too."

Eric gave you one last glance before walking off.

Lando glanced down at you, your body leaning heavily into his side. "Come on, let's get you home."

You hummed, already half-asleep. "Still annoying."

"Yeah, yeah."

Lando pulled into his parking spot, turning off the engine with a quiet sigh leaving his mouth. When he glanced to his right, he wasn't surprised to see you fast asleep, just like he'd predicted.

Your head rested against the window of his McLaren, your mouth slightly open, breaths slow and steady. One of his Quadrant hoodies was draped over you.

Lando exhaled, leaning back against the seat as he stared at you. He'd never really taken the time to look at you before, not like this. You looked… peaceful. And you were indeed a very beautiful woman.

His fingers moved on their own, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear.

"What the hell am I doing?" Lando muttered to himself, running a hand down his face, he groaned under his breath. "I must be crazy."

Shaking off whatever the hell that was, he reached over and carefully pulled your head away from the window. Then, he stepped out of the car, circling around to your side and pulling the door open.

"Y/n?" He called, his voice quiet but firm as he nudged your arm. "Wake up. We're home."

"Hm?" You groaned, keeping your eyes firmly shut.

"Wake up. Come on."

He turned your face into the seat, snuggling deeper into the warmth. "Let me sleep!"

Lando huffed, crossing his arms as he glanced around the dimly lit garage. "If you don't wake up, I'm leaving you here." Nothing. "I cannot believe her." With a sigh, he leaned down, sliding one arm beneath your legs and the other behind your back. He hesitated for a second before carefully lifting you into his arms.

You instinctively curled into his chest, your face pressing against the crook of his neck, a small sigh leaving your lips. Lando froze for a split second, his heart racing in his chest.

Lando stepped into the elevator, shifting you slightly in his arms to press the button for his floor. You were still dead weight against him, your warm breath fanning against the side of his neck. He clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the way you seemed to fit perfectly against him.

When the doors opened, he carried you down the hall, stopping in front of your apartment.

"Alright, time to go home." He muttered, adjusting his grip. "Where's your key?" You mumbled something against his neck, your lips brushing against his skin. Then, before he could even react, you wrapped your arms around him, holding him close. "Y/n." He tried again, shaking you gently. "Where's your key?"

Another muffled murmur. He sighed, dropping his head back against the door in frustration. Since you refused to answer him, and since he couldn't exactly rummage through your purse while holding you, he had no choice.

"Alright, you're coming with me." He muttered, carrying you across the hall to his own apartment.

He walked straight to his bedroom, gently lowering you onto his bed. As soon as your back hit the mattress, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. But just as he moved, you reached out, your fingers curling into the fabric of his white shirt, right where it gaped open.

"Stay." You murmured, eyes still closed.

Lando froze. "You're drunk!" He reminded you, gently prying your fingers off him. You groaned but refused to let go, gripping his shirt again, this time tighter. His breath hitched as your fingertips brushed against his bare chest. "Y/n!"

"Lando!" You snuggled against the pillow, your grip unrelenting. "Stay." You whispered.

Lando clenched his jaw. He should go. He needed to go. But the way you held onto him, the way you looked so small and vulnerable in his bed… it made something twist inside his chest.

With a heavy sigh, he gave in. "Fine! But just until you fall asleep." He told himself that.

And yet, as he laid down beside you, feeling the warmth of your body so close to his, he had a sinking feeling that this was only going to make things a lot more complicated.

Tags:

@lilorose25 @downsideup1989 @anayaverse @ln4-cl16-world @chlmtfilms @444-leqz @joannaln4 @notarshia

[damiansgoodgirll]

can you please give us damian having to tell readers he got moved to smack down and she’s on raw please ❤️❤️❤️

damian priest x reader

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

‼️some feels, love and angst‼️

stay, somehow

“y/n…” damian starts, his voice tight like a rope about to snap. he won’t meet your eyes. he’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides like he’s bracing for impact.

your stomach churns. you don’t like this. damian is always so confident, so sure of himself, but now he looks… afraid.

“what’s wrong?” you ask, stepping closer.

he flinches. just barely. but you see it.

he exhales sharply through his nose and finally looks at you, eyes dark and stormy “i got the promotion, smackdown.”

for a second, you don’t understand why that’s bad. this is something he’s worked so hard for. countless nights spent training, perfecting his mic skills, practicing new moves until his body hurt.

you should be happy for him. and you are. but something isn’t right.

“that’s amazing!” you say happily “but… why do you look like someone just died?”

and then it clicked.

you were, are on raw.

he swallows hard. his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but can’t “i have to leave you behind.”

oh.

everything inside you goes still.

“what?” your voice is barely above a whisper “no, no damian…you will still see me…not as much as we use to” your heart broke “but nothing will change”.

“it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. if i say no, i might never get something like this again but i can say no. i can ask them to keep me on raw” he knows they don’t have many plans for him on raw but he can stay, for you. he will stay.

it makes sense. of course it does. but logic doesn’t stop the ache blooming in your chest.

“look at me, you’re not leaving me behind” you say, and it’s not a question. you tried to bring him some comfort that was missing.

his hands finally unclench, and now they’re shaking “i have a choice, i can stay on raw.”

you laughed “damian…it’s not the end of the world, we can work it out. we always do.”

you’re going to miss having him driving you to the arena, and then straight back to the hotel. you’re gonna miss him carrying your luggage, him pretending to be annoyed by your whines about how heavy your luggage is.

or the sleepless nights spent together making love in a random hotel room. the sleepless nights spent watching movies that none of you cared about.

but he has this new opportunity and you aren’t the reason he is going to fuck up his career.

silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating.

he looks at you like he wants to argue, like he wants to fight back, but instead, he just says, “i love you” he takes a step forward “i do. i love you, te amo y/n. this doesn’t change that.”

“it doesn’t. you are my everything.”

he was going to miss you.

one or two days a week were left for you.

how was he going to survive? how were you going to survive?

he reaches for you then, fingers ghosting over your wrist, hesitant “please don’t hate me.”

your emotions fizzles out just like that, because how could you ever hate him? you’re not mad, you’re a little hurt, but beneath all of it, you still love him too.

so you let him hold you. his arms wrap around you tightly, like if he holds you close enough, maybe he won’t have to leave at all.

you let yourself lean into him, just for a moment.

you couldn’t lie. you were going to miss him. you got used to stay with him everyday, all days.

he sensed you were thinking about the whole situation.

“what happens now?” you ask against his chest.

his grip tightens “i don’t know.”

neither of you do.

but when he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, something in your chest settles. because no matter what happens next, no matter where he goes, you were going to be there for him. even if it meant seeing each other once a week.

and somehow, that’s enough.

[amyispxnk]

OK I went through a LOT of emotions during this chapter.

"Hi," he whispered to her after her naps. "Did you sleep well? Huh, pretty girl? C'mere."

She made tiny, thoughtful expressions like she was really listening to him. Her little hands were always reaching, always curious. Right now, she was watching the lights with those big brown eyes, mesmerized by the slow shift of the shadows on the ceiling, her mouth parting slightly in wonder. Her fingers curled absently in his shirt, barely grasping, like she just liked knowing he was there.

Before he could stop himself, he pressed another kiss to the side of her head, then another and another, half a laugh escaping him when she wriggled in delight, her little fists stretching open, her eyes squeezing shut like she could feel the warmth of it sinking in.

omg this is too fucking cute I'm gonna explode actually

Joel almost laughed, because—yeah. Yeah, he’d drop dead before refusing that. “‘Course,” he said, voice low but certain. .....

...Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, and her knuckles paled with how tightly she gripped it. “You’re welcome home anytime, Joel. My door’s always open for you.”

"Maya loves you so much."

I SCREAMED SO LOUD. MY HAPPY FAMILY IS COMING TOGETHER

The door was open again. And that was the thing about doors.

They worked both ways.

SCREAMINGG crying throwing up the writinggg omg

...But then she spotted him.

Her entire little body bucked, like the excitement was too much for her tiny limbs to contain. A bright, panting laugh bubbled from her mouth, and her hands curled, fists flailing like wanted to launch herself toward her.

Joel sighed. That was it. No walking away now.

HE LOVES HER SM AND SHE JUST FUCKING ADORES HIM AND UGHHHH HES SUCH A DAD AND IM CRYING AGAIN

And goddamn him, but he loved it. Loved the small breaths puffing against his collarbone. Loved the way she looked up at him, slow and sleepy, tapping her tiny knuckles against him like she was checking to make sure he was still there. Loved that he didn't have to think about anything, not feel like the whole world was closing in.

Bawling this is so sweet

The kid he’d sort of raised, playing with the baby he was yet to.

WHAT IF I JUST FUCKING DIED.

“It’s… good, y’know? You having this nice thing.” She waved a vague hand toward the baby, toward Leela. “You don't usually let yourself have nice things. Something that’s not just me.”

Losing my mind. I love him sm this is so sweet please nothing bad ever happen to any of them ever thank yyou

This chapter is one of the best fics I've ever read like EVER. omg.

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part iii)

summary: Joel’s delicate attachment to Leela and baby Maya deepens along with—her resistance, his denial, and the slow, inevitable way he’s always finding his way back to them. As they navigate a freak accident, Ellie sees it. He does too. Almost.

a/n: ah-woohooooo more of Joel being a thickheaded numpty, so enjoy! I would love to hear all your unhinged, lovely thoughts!

It had been a quiet few weeks for Joel.

Not the kind of quiet he liked—the stillness of early mornings, with the wind rustling the trees and a guitar strumming in his hands. No, this was the one that came after a storm, when the air was dense with the scent of rain and the world felt... upside down. Unsettled. The kind of quiet where the damage had already been done, and all that was left was to pick through the wreckage.

The kind of quiet that made a man think too much. It pressed into him, heavy and suffocating.

Since that night in the car, since he’d seen her unravel in real time, the tacit MO had changed. On more welcome news, Mal had stopped coming around. No thanks to him, of course.

Joel saw him through the window the first morning he returned to Leela's place. Mal was coming up the path with the same easy stride, hands in his pockets like he had a right to be there. God, just once, he wanted to knock the teeth off that goddamned kid.

Joel set down his hammer and exhaled through his nose. Bless Tommy for leaving the fun part to him. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and stepped out onto the porch before the kid could even knock. The heavy door groaned on its hinges behind him, and he let it.

Mal spotted him and gave a lazy wave, stepping forward. “Hey, man. I’m just here to—”

Joel shifted in front of him. Not aggressive. Just there. An immense wall of quiet warning.

Mal stopped short, blinking up at him.

Joel wasn’t even trying to stand taller, but he didn’t need to. He just crossed his arms over his chest, let his shoulders square out naturally, let his stance say everything. He wasn’t fucking moving.

The kid hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. “Uh—is there a problem?”

“I’ll take it from here,” Joel said, voice even.

Mal frowned. “What?”

“I said, whatever it is, I got it.”

There was a pause. A moment where Joel could see the gears turning in Mal’s head, where the kid was piecing things together a little too slow for his liking.

“Okay, but Tommy said—”

“Yeah, well.” Joel leaned forward, just enough to be felt. Watched Mal’s jaw tighten, and watched him shift back on instinct. “Not anymore.”

That finally landed. Mal thankfully rocked back on his heels and rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced past Joel, toward the house, then back, brows knitting together, trying to make sense of what was going on. What he'd done wrong.

"Uh... do you want help, at least?" he offered, cautious.

Joel let out a slow breath, something close to a laugh—if you could call it that. There was nothing warm in it. "You run along now."

Mal lingered for another second, like he wanted to argue, but thought better of it. And like a kid being told off, he tucked his tail and left.

Joel didn’t bother to watch him go. Just turned on his heel, grabbed the door, and went back inside. “Fuckin' pest,” he grumbled under his breath.

The house was quiet—only the soft creak of the stairs, followed by the sound of careful, steady footsteps.

He looked up and saw Leela was making her way down, one hand carefully bracing against the railing. She was in sweats and an oversized sweater, her hair pulled into a low-hanging bun. There was something different about her face today—sharper, cleaner, blanker maybe. Or maybe he was just seeing her in a better light now.

She caught him staring. "Was that Mal?"

Joel simply lied, "No."

She pressed her lips together. Not quite disappointment, not quite relief. Something in between. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Maybe later.”

Joel hooked a thumb through the loop of his tool belt, retrieving the hammer he’d slung there. He twirled it once, catching the handle in his palm.

“Don't worry about it. He’s a busy guy,” he said, keeping his voice light as he crossed her on the staircase. “Lots of shit to fix around town.”

More importantly, Leela didn’t ask why or how. Soon enough, she stopped looking for Mal. Didn’t even question when Joel started showing up every day instead with his old tool belt slung over his shoulder, standing at her door like it was the most unassuming thing in the world. She just looked at him—one glance, one unreadable flicker of those dark, tired eyes—and then moved on like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t there at all. Stiffing him, essentially.

And Joel knew that kind of distance. This gaping rupture, widened between people when something sore and hideous had been exposed. When someone had seen too much; known too much. Leela knew she’d overstepped, and now she was pulling back.

Joel knew that feeling. He’d done it plenty himself. That instinct to retreat, to pull the shutters down, to make yourself small. Hell, he’d lived it. Had become it.

So he let it happen. He let her pretend again. Didn't push, didn't say anything. He simply worked.

The nursery was coming together, slowly but surely. The pendant lights were fixed, casting warm pools of gold over the room. The shelves stood straighter, stocked with whatever Maria had been sneaking in—baby books, folded blankets, onesies, wooden toys. And the old fuchsia rug he’d found in Leela’s storage? It tied the whole damn thing together, like a relic of a forgotten life, all lived-in and warm for the baby girl.

Joel stood in the centre of it all, Maya cradled in his arms, rocking slightly on his heels. Not that she could appreciate any of this yet. A safe space of her own.

He had never been the kind of man who cooed at babies either. Hadn’t been that way when Sarah was small, hadn’t been that way in the years since. There was something about them—so soft, so fragile—that made him cautious, like he had to hold back, keep himself in check.

Maya made it easier.

"Hi," he whispered to her after her naps. "Did you sleep well? Huh, pretty girl? C'mere."

She made tiny, thoughtful expressions like she was really listening to him. Her little hands were always reaching, always curious. Right now, she was watching the lights with those big brown eyes, mesmerized by the slow shift of the shadows on the ceiling, her mouth parting slightly in wonder. Her fingers curled absently in his shirt, barely grasping, like she just liked knowing he was there.

She’d been a fussy one lately—tired, restless, wanting to be held more often than not. Lonely. And with a mama like Leela, who drifted too easily and got lost too deep in her own head, Joel figured it wasn’t a bad idea to show her around. Give her something new to look at.

“What do you think, baby girl?” he murmured, shifting her closer, his palm smoothing down her tiny back. “Did I do okay or what?”

Maya blinked up at him, her whole body stilling for a second before she let out a soft, breathy coo.

Joel grinned. “Yeah?” he chuckled. “That a yes?”

She wiggled in his hold, that gummy little smile coming alive, kicking lightly against his ribs, and Joel felt himself exhale—deep, easy, something loosening inside him. She liked it. The nursery. The lights. Him. Maybe none of it mattered in that little head of hers, but she wasn’t crying. She wasn’t fussing. She was looking at him like she trusted him, and God help him, but he wanted to deserve that.

He took her toward the shelves, kneeling carefully with her in one arm, balancing his weight as he pointed to the row of paint cans. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s pick a colour. What’s it gonna be, huh?” He tilted them slightly, exposing the faded labels. “We got white. Some kinda blue. Green.”

Maya reacted immediately, tiny fist stretching out, fingers grazing toward the muted green.

Joel huffed a small laugh. “Yeah? That your favorite?”

Her fingers brushed the side of the can, fascinated by the cool metal, a quiet coo slipping from her lips.

Joel hesitated for a second, then gave in. He really couldn't help himself. At that moment, he just had to. Slowly, carefully, he shifted her closer, lowering his head and pressing a kiss to the soft crown of her unsteady little head.

She smelled faint and sweet as always, like baby powder and fresh linens, and he let himself linger for a second longer than he should have, feeling the heat of her through his shirt, the tiny weight of her against his chest.

Maya wiggled in response, not in protest, but excitement, legs kicking slightly.

Joel exhaled, something breaking loose inside him.

Before he could stop himself, he pressed another kiss to the side of her head, then another and another, half a laugh escaping him when she wriggled in delight, her little fists stretching open, her eyes squeezing shut like she could feel the warmth of it sinking in.

Maybe she could. Maybe she knew, in that small, primal way babies knew things, that Joel was someone safe. That he wouldn’t let her fall. That he really fucking loved her.

A rustle at the doorway made him glance up from a kiss. Leela stood there, her hand lightly braced against the frame, watching him.

Joel was caught off guard, leaning away from Maya a bit, settling her lower against his chest. “Hey,” he greeted, voice low. “Just givin’ her the lay of the land.”

Leela’s expression didn’t change. She only flashed a tight, fleeting smile before stepping forward, arms extending toward Maya. “You wanna take a bath with mama?”

Maya twisted in his hold, cooing eagerly now, little hands reaching for her mother. Even after everything, her mother was still her favourite person.

Joel let her go, careful as he passed her over to Leela. Their hands brushed, warm skin against warm skin, and he ignored the way it lingered, how her fingers barely curled in his before she took Maya into her arms.

“She’s been good,” Joel muttered.

Leela nodded, running a gentle palm over Maya’s back. “There’s lunch downstairs if you’re hungry.”

Joel studied her for a beat, his fingers brushing idly against his tool belt. “…Did you eat something?”

She hesitated. Too long. Then nodded, slow.

He didn’t call her on the lie. Instead, he nodded back, watching as she turned on her heel, shifting Maya closer against her shoulder. She left him with another tight, fleeting smile before disappearing down the hall.

Joel breathed out a sigh, glancing back at the half-finished room. Maya’s soft, content coos still lingered in the air. The green paint sat on the shelf, waiting.

And for some damn reason, he felt lonelier than he had in a long, long time.

It had taken him eleven days. Too long for a man like him. But he hadn’t rushed at all. He should’ve, but he didn’t. Had he been the same old Joel—good ol’ Texas Joel—this would’ve been a job done in a heartbeat. A blink, and he’d be out of her way. He wouldn’t have noticed things. Wouldn’t have lingered like a moron.

Maybe it was because of the way Leela barely spoke to him anymore. Or that she wouldn’t look him in the eye when she checked on his progress in clipped words and hums, wouldn’t even glance his way when she passed Maya to him like clockwork, a silent, wordless thing between them.

Maybe because when she leaves him standing at the porch at the end of the day, the door closing shut in his face, it didn’t feel like closing a chapter. It felt like a fucking wall going up.

Joel found her in the kitchen that evening, standing by the counter, wrist-deep in soapy water. It was late, Maya was snoozing her little head off upstairs, the house dim except for the overhead light humming low above them.

She didn’t stagger when he entered, didn’t look at him either. Just kept scrubbing the hell out of a plate, though he was pretty sure it was already clean. He dawdled near the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to figure out what the hell he was doing.

He should’ve left. Should’ve let the silence settle. But he couldn't just leave it alone.

Instead, he cleared his throat and stepped forward, leaning a hip against the counter. “Y’know, you got a dishwasher. It's half the effort,” he pointed out.

Leela gave a small huff. “Electricity’s scarce.”

Joel snorted. “So is water, darlin’.”

She finally glanced at him, just a flicker, then back to the sink.

He tapped his fingers against the counter, searching for something—anything—to keep her in this moment with him. “Made good progress today,” he said. “Maya... she tried to turn on her side. The nursery; well, I just need to fix up that dresser and—”

“Look, thank you. But I’m really tired, Joel.”

She said it without looking at him, her voice level, no bite to it. Just a statement. A locked door. He should’ve expected it, should’ve shrugged it off and moved on. Instead, something about the words, directed at him, sat wrong inside him. All that hurt-people-hurt-people-drivel that Maria used to say came back to bite him in the ass.

He hesitated, shifting his weight onto his feet. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I should get going.”

She said nothing. Just shut off the faucet, dried her hands on a towel, and walked past him, close enough that the damp heat of her skin lingered for half a second longer than it should have. And despite fighting the urge to glance back at her as she left the room, he watched her disappear down the hall.

Joel stood outside her door for a long moment, which he had conscientiously locked, staring at the chipped paint of the doorframe, jaw clenching. His eyes flicked to the porch swing. It swayed slightly in the cold breeze.

Was it juvenile to think maybe she’d prefer his company? Was it fucking brainless of him to crave somewhere to belong? A purpose? Was he meant to die alone in a strange house and surrounded by empty whiskey bottles? Maybe. Probably. But hell if he didn’t wish it anyway.

Joel didn’t want to admit it—not directly, not even to himself—but he wanted to talk to her. Not about anything in particular. Not about that night in the Maranello, or how her little, breathy laugh was possibly the best thing to hear after those roars and clicks of the world beyond, or why she’d started looking at him instead of through him.

He just wanted something. Because before, there had been something. It wasn’t like talking to most people, where you had to pick your words apart before they even left your mouth, where you had to navigate bullshit small talk or forced pleasantries. With Leela, it had been... easy. Unspoken. A warm kind of quiet, the kind where he didn’t have to think too much, where he could just be.

He'll admit it, just this once—he liked that about her. He liked that a moment didn’t have to be forced. That he didn’t have to overthink, that they had a rhythm, a delicate system between them, one that made sense even if neither of them ever put words to it.

But now?

Now, she barely looked at him. Nowadays, when she passed Maya to him, it wasn’t with that quiet, knowing ease or a friendly grin, no matter how tired it had been—it was mechanical, transactional, like handing over a set of keys. Like a reminder that he wasn’t supposed to be here, and he didn’t know what to call that. Didn’t like the way it made his instincts turn over, uneasy, in his chest.

All that lingering had finally paid off, and Joel had found his way in. He wasn’t going to show it, of course—wasn’t gonna give himself away like some fool—but damn if he wasn’t relieved.

After days of unending cold shoulders, after all that stiff distance, this was the first real opening he’d gotten. An excuse. A way to talk to her without forcing it.

He had been fixing a flickering wall lamp that had been bugging him for some time now, in the second-floor hallway, standing on a step stool when—

CRASH.

The whole house plunged into darkness. The light he’d been working on blinked out, along with the rest of them, and then—a groan. A pained, breathy, hitched groan from below. His entire body tensed before his brain caught up.

Then came the wailing. Maya.

Joel’s heart stammered, caught between two instincts. The damn near gutting sound of the baby girl's frightened cries and that groan—that voice—he'd distinctly heard from the basement.

Fuck. His feet moved before his mind did. He leapt off the stool, tools cluttering to the floor, ignoring the protesting ache in his knees as he tore down the hall to Maya’s room. She was red-faced, eyes squeezed shut, fists curled as she screamed, trembling from the shock.

"Hey, hey, Maya," Joel hushed, scooping her up into his arms, and pulling her against his chest. "S'okay, sweetheart. I got you. I got you."

He shushed her, palm stroking warm circles over her back, bouncing her lightly in his arms. His heartbeat was loud, hammering in his ears, drowning everything out but the damn groan still hanging in his mind.

Leela.

She was down there, in that cursed basement, alone. And that sound had been awful.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his lips to Maya’s head before pulling back. More for himself rather than her.

“I'm right here, baby. Nothin’ to be scared of.” His voice was steady—measured—but his hands weren’t. His grip on her was a little too tight. They trembled a little.

Maya sniffled, her cries quieting just enough to slow his pulse, and he took that as his chance. Keeping her tucked to his chest, he made his way down the stairs, near flying, boots thudding against the wood.

His breath hitched as he reached the basement door. “Hey, you down here?” he called, shoving it open with his shoulder, jogging down to the dim space below.

Then he saw her.

Leela was slumped against the wall, obvious that she had been tossed into it, her silhouette barely lit by the glare of an emergency lamp in the corner. She was gripping her shoulder fiercely, rubbing it like she was trying to erase the pain. Her fingers dug in hard.

The remnants of her little "science project" upgrade lay scattered around her. Loose wires, metal scraps, a circuit board still humming with life. The main plug socket was connected. Was she fucking stupid? There was a baby upstairs, and she was ready to risk her home for that dumbass machine.

And her face—Fuck. She had gone pale. Eyes squeezed shut. Her chest rose and fell like she was working through an intense wave of pain.

“Christ.” The word came out more like a breath than anything. Joel took a step forward, but when his eyes landed on the tangled wires, something burned under his ribs.

“The hell do you think you’re doin’?” His voice came out rougher than intended, fear clawing at his throat, disguising itself as frustration.

Leela’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but sharp. “I’m okay. I’ll be fine.” She held up a hand to stop him before he could kneel down beside her. “Just a bit of bruising. Maya first.”

Joel clenched his jaw.

She was right. Damn it, he hated that she was right. Maya, now hiccupping soft little breaths against his chest, was the priority.

“Right,” he muttered, though the reluctance in his voice was clear. He cast her one last look, making sure she was still upright, still breathing normal, before turning back up the stairs.

It took ten whole minutes to get Maya settled, and that was a miracle in itself. He'd resorted to pleading under his breath, but she had continued to watch him, eyes wide, refusing to let sleep take her like she knew something was wrong. She was perceptive. Just like her mother.

Finally, finally, her little lashes fluttered shut, her tiny hand still gripping onto his shirt.

Joel exhaled, relief going awash his tension. “Good girl,” he murmured, before unfurling her fingers from his collar, brushing a kiss over them and laying her back down.

Then he was sprinting again. Back down the stairs, faster than he should have been, hand gripping the railing tight.

Leela hadn’t moved much. She was still slumped against the basement wall, her breaths deep and restrained—like she was trying to breathe the pain away.

Joel came down to a crouch by her feet. “Hey.”

“I'm fine, Joel, really,” she assured quietly.

Though, he could tell she was pissed at herself. She hated being like this—vulnerable, hurting, unable to brush it off and acting like it didn’t happen. But Joel saw it. He saw her. How she'd tilted her head against the wall, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

Leela truly was fine. Bruised, rattled—but fine.

Joel had checked her over once more, ensuring nothing was broken, no serious harm done, and he had to force himself to believe her when she said she’d be okay.

But her hands. Oh, Christ. The dim glow of the emergency lamp cast a dull shine over her skin, and that’s when he noticed—the raw, reddened patches along her fingertips. The unmistakable burn marks where the electricity must’ve bit into her.

"Shit." He exhaled sharply through his nose, scraping a hand down his beard as he stared at her fingers.

She must’ve seen the look on his face because she tucked her hands close to her stomach like she could make them disappear. “Seriously,” she murmured, voice hoarse. “I’ve had worse.”

Joel’s jaw ticked. She wasn’t wrong. And that made something in him burn even hotter.

“C’mon,” he muttered, nodding toward the stairs. “Up.”

Leela hesitated, but the way he stood—the way he waited—made it clear he wasn’t asking. So she sighed and pushed herself upright, and Joel stayed close, arms extended safely around her, watching the way she moved, the way her body reacted.

She didn’t stumble. Didn’t wobble. That was good. No concussion or broken bones. A knot in his chest loosened instantly.

Once they made it back upstairs, Joel had her sit at the kitchen table, lit up from the sunshine filtering through from the afternoon sun. He set a bowl of warm water down in front of her, the steam curling into the space between them. He grabbed a small tin of ointment after a bit of rustling through the cabinets, then a roll of gauze, then paused, eyes flicking to her.

She was watching him. Still. Silent. Waiting.

Joel breathed out, slow and even, then came back over, pulling a chair beside her. He reached for her wrist, gently, carefully, lifting her hands into his own. A silent ask. Permission. Lesson learned from the last time he'd touched her.

Leela tensed for half a second before sighing, letting him take them.

She was trying to play it off like it didn’t hurt. Like it was fine. But as soon as he dipped her fingertips into the warm water, she sucked in a quiet breath through her teeth.

Joel’s grip tightened just a little. He tried to squeeze everything he had felt these past few days into a single word—“Sorry.”

He worked, taking it slow, gently swiping away the dust and grime, watching the way her skin flinched under the heat. His thumbs moved gradually, steadily, like he was afraid to make it worse.

“Y’gotta be more careful,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Damn wires ain’t worth all this. Remember, you’ve got someone countin’ on you.”

Leela let out a soft, tired laugh. “I didn’t know I had a nanny now.”

Joel shot her a look. “You don’t. You got me.”

She blinked at that.

Her lips parted slightly, but whatever she was about to say, she thought better of it. Instead, she let him work, let him take care of her, and trusted his instincts, and that felt like something neither of them was ready to acknowledge just yet.

Once her hands were cleaned, he dried them carefully, mindful of the more sensitive spots, before smoothing ointment over each burnt fingertip.

Leela twitched. “Ow.”

Joel grunted. “Ain’t gonna feel good, but it’ll keep it from blisterin’ too bad.”

He finished wrapping the gauze around her fingers, slow and precise, making sure they weren’t too tight. Leela stared down at her hands when he was done, flexing her fingers slightly, testing the bandages like she wasn’t sure what to make of them. Three fingers on each hand.

Joel blew out a slow breath, dragging a hand down his face as he took in the house.

It was quiet. Too damn quiet. God, he hated this. That unnatural kind, where something had been cut short too suddenly—like the whole place had been stunned into silence. The shot-out lights overhead blinked weakly before finally dying out for good, leaving nothing but the cold creeping in from every corner.

It was already setting in. The draft slithered through the cracks in the windows, curling around his ankles, and sinking into the wood beneath his feet. The thermostat had shut off along with the rest of the power, which meant no heat. Not with how damn cold it got out here. Jesus, he'd forgotten to tuck some extra layers around Maya.

His eyes swept the room. A busted power grid. A rattled woman nursing bruises. A two-month-old baby upstairs who didn’t know a damn thing about survival, who didn’t understand that warmth wasn’t something she could just take for granted.

And this woman—this stubborn, frustrating woman—was already trying to stand up like she hadn’t just been thrown into a wall.

"I'll go check it out. Don't worry, Joel, I know what to do," Leela offered, pushing herself up.

Joel shot out a hand, firm, stopping her before she could get any further.

"You ain't fixin’ shit, you hear me?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, but hell if he cared. "Sit your damn ass down. You're stayin' at my place till I get this sorted."

The prospect did not sit well with her. He could see it in the way her jaw clenched, her eyes flicking to the window like she was already searching for another solution.

She shook her head. "I can't—"

"That's not an option."

She looked at him then, her brows drawing together. And he knew what she saw—knew she saw that hard-set determination in his face, the part of him that had already made up his mind.

What she didn’t see—what he’d never let her see—was the way his chest was burning with something too tight, too damn close to fear.

Because he’d walked into cold houses before. Knew what happened when the temperature dropped too low. Had seen bodies frozen stiff in the middle of the night, curled up as if that had been enough to keep them warm. Had seen what happened when people thought they could tough it out. He'd rather never see or smell that ever again.

Now, Leela thought she could tough it out. But he wasn’t about to let her gamble with a baby’s warmth just to prove a damn point. And if she thought this was some kind of negotiation, she was dead wrong. Because he wasn’t giving her a choice.

He exhaled slowly, grounding himself, softening the edges just enough so he wasn’t barking orders at her like some kind of drill sergeant.

“Just for a while,” he said, voice dropping lower. “Till I can fix whatever the hell you fucked up down there.”

Leela didn’t answer right away, lips pressing into a thin line. But she wasn’t stupid.

She glanced up toward the stairs, toward where Maya was still sleeping. Then back at him. Joel could see the exact moment she gave in. Her shoulders slumped as she relented.

He nodded, standing up, already running through what needed to be done. “Good. I'll go bundle up the kid.”

X

Joel hasn't exactly planned to have company. Ever.

Maria and Tommy showed up sometimes. Ellie, too—though not without complaint. She claimed the place smelled like old people and swore visiting would tank her cool factor. But even when they came around, he never let them stay too long. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before he was ushering them out the door with a gruff, Alright, get on, and some excuse about needing to be up early. It wasn’t that he didn’t like having people around. It was just—his place wasn’t made for that. He hadn’t made it for that.

It was single floor, nice and compact. He slept on the pullout couch in the living room. Not because he didn’t have that one really sweet bedroom, but because it was easier nowadays—closer to the door, closer to the window that faced the big white house across the street. His sink was a mess of dishes from last night, crusted over and rotting in the stale air. His cabinets weren’t stocked with food so much as they were with whiskey and coffee.

He came home. He ate. He slept. He woke up. Showered. Left. That was it. That was his life. It was enough and to spare.

So when Leela and Maya showed up at his front door, he wasn’t prepared. Not in the slightest.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, stepping aside to let her in. “Come on, then.”

Leela ducked inside first, shaking the cold from her coat, eyes flicking around the place as if she were already judging him for it. And maybe she was. Hell, Joel sure as shit would. Because this—this eyesore—was how she was gonna see him. As some tired, deadbeat old man who hadn’t even tried.

Maya stirred against her chest, her little hands fisting in the collar of Leela’s coat.

Joel cleared his throat and reached for her automatically. He needed his calm here. “C’mere, baby girl.”

She squealed at the sound of his voice, squirming, her small fingers flexing, gripping the fabric of his flannel before she finally settled against him, warm and soft. Joel let out a quiet breath through his nose, a strange kind of tightness unwinding from his ribs. He hadn’t even realized he’d been bracing for something.

“She can stay with me,” Leela said softly, slipping out of her coat.

Joel shook his head. “Nah, you get some rest. You’re takin’ the room down the hall.”

Leela blinked, surprised. “And you?”

Joel busied himself with Maya, playing catch and release with her tiny fists, letting her grab onto his finger before slipping it away. “I’ll be fine. Got the couch.”

She frowned. “But you’ve got that bad back.”

Joel sighed, jaw twitching. “Yes, ma'am. Thanks for noticin’.”

Leela’s mouth quirked slightly, just a little, but enough that it softened something in her expression. “You should take the bed, Joel.”

He hummed, shaking his head, shifting Maya a little higher against his chest. “You just shot into a wall and burned yourself, darlin’. I think you’re entitled to a bed.”

She tilted her head at him, her brow pinching together like she was trying to figure something out.

Joel stared back, more stubborn than apprehensive, his grip tightening just a fraction around Maya’s small body.

He wasn’t sure what it was, that look of hers. But damn if it didn’t make him feel like he was seen in a way he wasn’t used to. Like she was really looking at him—not the grumpy bastard everyone in Jackson thought he was, not the fixer, not the old guy sleeping his way through life—but him.

Joel shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. “Look, you’re takin’ the bed, that’s that. Maya can sleep next to you, so she’ll be closer.”

Leela was still staring at him, quiet for a long beat.

Then eventually she sighed. “Okay.”

It wasn’t much, but it felt like that little something Joel had wanted. Like an inch of the cold between them had finally cracked, let some warmth in.

Look, of course, Joel had always known his house was too damn small. He just hadn’t felt it until now.

There was no privacy to be had, not really. The pullout couch in the living room faced the bedroom door, left cracked open just enough for him to see the gentle rise and fall of Maya’s little body curled against where Leela would sleep later. The bathroom was the only one in the house, meaning if she needed it in the middle of the night, she’d have to walk past him to get there.

Not much space. Not much distance.

So when he heard the soft shuffle of her feet against the wood floor, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t even have to look up from the guitar in his hands to know she’d wandered further inside, drawn toward the small corner of the living room where he kept his workspace.

It was a cramped setup—a shabby studio table shoved against the wall, two half-finished guitars resting on stands nearby. He’d only just started working on them, but it gave his hands something to do, something to create.

Leela’s fingers grazed over the unfinished wood, her touch featherlight. “I didn’t know you were this talented. A luthier.”

Joel chuckled, leaning back against the wall. “Layin’ it on a bit thick.”

She ignored him, curiosity guiding her hands as she thumbed over the strings. A quiet hum vibrated through the air, not a real note, just a sound. She tilted her head, listening.

“Would you make one for me when you have time to spare?” she asked, glancing up. “I’d love to learn.”

Joel almost laughed, because—yeah. Yeah, he’d drop dead before refusing that. “‘Course,” he said, voice low but certain.

Leela’s eyes found it too easily, drawn in like a moth to an old light. He almost wished he'd hid it away.

The picture that had survived time and death, sat on the corner shelf, tucked between a coil of guitar strings and a worn-out rag, the frame dull with dust he never bothered to wipe away. The glass was cracked, a thin vein running through the top left corner, but it didn’t matter. The image was still there. She was still there.

Sarah, grinning wide, her curls bouncing as she leaned into him, arms slung around his shoulders. Joel remembered that day. He’d taken her out to some shitty little carnival on the edge of town, and let her sucker him into one of those rigged ring toss games. She’d won a stuffed bear—cheated, more like, because the booth worker had taken pity on her—and held onto it the whole night like it was the greatest thing in the world.

She looked happy. They looked happy.

And it hit him—like it always did, like it always would—how long it had been since he’d last heard her voice. Since she’d called him 'Dad!' in that exasperated, teasing way of hers. Since she’d looked at him like he was the safest place she’d ever known.

Leela didn’t say anything. She didn’t even reach for it, didn’t let her gaze linger too long. Just acknowledged it, felt it, then moved past it, like she understood that some ghosts weren’t meant to be disturbed. Let them rest.

Joel swallowed. It wasn’t often that someone gave him that kind of space—left his past untouched, let him sit with it without trying to crack it open.

She leaned back against the edge of the desk, brushing her fingers through her hair again—one of those little habits of hers, nervous and absentminded. The strands were overgrown, frayed at the ends, and he knew she probably didn’t have the time to fix it, or maybe just didn’t care enough to. He should tell Maria to give her a trim.

But, she wasn’t wearing that pearl-buttoned nightdress tonight. This one was blue. Smooth. Loose-fitting. The frilled sleeves barely touched her shoulders, and it wasn’t anything special, not really, but—he liked it. That colour looked pretty on her skin.

The thought settled in his chest like an itch he didn’t know how to scratch.

Leela watched her fingers trail absently over the wood grain of the desk. “I owe you an apology, Joel,” she murmured, her voice quieter now.

Joel listened and didn’t speak, just let the words settle between them.

“For how I’ve been treating you.” She swallowed, gaze flicking up to him, uncertain but steady. “You’ve only ever helped me, and you're so good with Maya. I know it wasn’t fair of me to just… shut you out.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

But she wasn’t convinced. She hesitated, jaw tensing, lips parting slightly before pressing shut again. There was something she wanted to say like it was dislodged deep, festering, in her chest.

“That night in the car…” She took a breath like it might help balance her. It didn’t. “It wasn't you. I had—before Maya, I was—there was—”

Joel knew that look. The way her throat bobbed, her fingers curling against the desk like she needed something solid to hold onto. Holding herself together. He didn’t let her unravel, just not tonight.

“Stop,” he said, gentle but firm. “You don’t have to explain.”

Leela blinked at him, studying his face, like she was trying to decide if he meant it. So he shrugged, forcing a small, easy grin.

“Perks of havin’ me around. I don’t care for the details.”

A small breath of laughter escaped her. Real, unguarded, softening the edges of her face. He loved to see it on her. “That's a relief.”

Joel leaned forward, rubbing his palm over his knee, the dull ache settling in from the long day.

His voice was lower when he spoke. “It’s just nice to be there, y’know?” He wasn’t good at this—saying shit like this—but it began to get easier with her. “With Maya. And you. There's more purpose than just shooting things beyond the fence.”

Something flickered across Leela’s face.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the desk, and her knuckles paled with how tightly she gripped it. “You’re welcome home anytime, Joel. My door’s always open for you.”

Joel’s chest pulled tight.

He looked at her. And he thought about that damn oak door, how she never locked it, how he’d always given her hell for it in his head. And how, for the first time, it didn’t feel like carelessness.

It felt like trust. Not in this boring town of survivors. But in the neighbour across the street who'd ferreted his way into their lives.

Leela took a slow breath, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. “So, you don’t have to come around just to fix things next time.”

Her voice was softer now. And then—something else. A small, almost shy laugh slipped past her lips, barely there, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to say this next part out loud.

“Come to eat. To talk. To see Maya.” A beat. “And me.”

Joel felt it then—the shift. It wasn’t big, wasn’t some grand, earth-shaking thing. But it was there. He felt it.

"Maya loves you so much."

Joel glanced at her, unable to hold back the sympathy. He should’ve just let it sit. Should’ve just nodded, grunted something, and let the conversation move on. But instead, he said, low, “That bothering you?”

Leela hesitated, but only for a second. Then she sighed, rubbing a hand over her neck. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe.”

Joel stayed quiet, watching her.

She let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “It’s just... I don’t feel like her mother. Not really.” Her voice was even, but he could hear the strain underneath, the sharp edge of something she didn’t want to say aloud. “I do everything I’m supposed to. Feed her. Hold her. Change her. But it’s just... a list to get through.” She exhaled, shaking her head. “I thought it would be different. I know it's such an awful thing to say.”

Joel felt that like a punch to the gut. He knew what she meant. Knew how goddamn isolating it could be—to go through the motions, do the right thing, and still feel like you’re on the outside looking in.

“She’s yours, darlin',” he said after a moment. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing—at making sense of feelings, at giving comfort. He was trying. “That’s what matters. Sometimes it's not a magic switch, you can't just flip it on and feel it. Sometimes, you grow to love someone. Over time, energy, effort.”

Leela scoffed, quiet, barely there. “That all it takes?���

“No,” Joel admitted. “But it’s good enough.”

She finally looked at him then, something cautious in her expression, something raw. He didn’t push. Didn’t try to say anything else. Just let the silence stretch, easy and open, not asking for more than she was willing to give.

Leela swallowed, nodding slightly, like she was tucking the words away, considering them.

The space between them, once weighed down by hesitation, by careful sidesteps and unspoken rules, felt… lighter. Like the tension that had settled into the cracks between their words was finally easing, letting some warmth slip through.

And that? That did something to him.

His throat worked around something unspoken, and he rolled his shoulders back, shifting from feet to feet, like he could physically shake whatever the hell was loose inside him. The words that wanted to come didn’t.

Instead, he settled on something simpler. Something safer.

“You should get some rest.”

Leela’s gaze lingered, searching, like she was trying to read something in his face. Then she nodded, flashing a grin. “Sure,” she murmured. “Goodnight, Joel.”

Joel held her gaze for a moment longer. His fingers flexed at his sides, a familiar itch settling in his chest, the kind that always came when he stood in doorways when someone was walking away and he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow or stay put.

He watched her retreat into the room, disappear behind the cracked door, and stand there for a moment before finally turning away.

The door was open again. And that was the thing about doors.

They worked both ways.

X

While on the road, Joel had spent years sleeping in places that barely counted as beds. Hard ground. Rusted truck seats. Creaking, sagging mattresses in abandoned buildings where one wrong turn meant waking up dead. Even now, safe inside these walls, inside this town where people thought fences and routine were enough to keep the bad out, behind homes with locked doors—well, should have locked doors—he never truly slept deep.

Always on alert. Always half-ready. Even in the comfort of a home he could call his.

Joel lay on the couch, stiff as the thing itself, staring into the rough fabric. He wasn’t asleep—he never really was—but he kept his back turned anyway. It felt like the right thing to do, a courtesy or some form of privacy in a house too damn small to actually have any.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that. Long enough for the warmth of the fire to ebb. Long enough to hear the wind pick up outside, rattling at the windows. Long enough to wonder if Leela had finally managed to fall asleep.

He exhaled through his nose and, without really thinking about it, rolled over onto his side, eyes shifting toward the bedroom.

Leela was out cold.

Her hair had been pulled back into a loose braid, but strands had escaped, curling softly against her cheek. One hand dangled into the mattress as if she’d fallen asleep patting Maya and never quite finished. He could see the slow rise and fall of her chest, deep and steady, her body given over to exhaustion.

Joel frowned as his eyes drifted lower. The blanket had slipped, barely covering her waist, her legs left bare to the chill of the night. One knee peeked out, the curve of it catching the dim, murky light of the bedside lamp. He felt his jaw tighten, his fingers flexing at his side. Wasn’t she cold?

But then his eyes landed on the baby in front of her, and the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding eased right out of him.

Maya was not asleep. Flat on her back, legs kicking sharp, barbed movements, her tiny fingers flexing in the air, opening and closing like she was trying to grab something invisible. Every so often, she let out a soft little coo, her breath light, testing, careful not to wake her mother.

Joel squinted. Lifted his head a little. Maybe she was just shifting in her sleep.

Nope, the kid was fully awake. Big, round eyes blinking up at the ceiling, mouth open in a little round ‘o’ of discovery, her hands reaching for her own damn feet, like she’d only just realized they were attached to her.

He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. He could just leave her be. She wasn’t crying. Wasn’t fussing. She'd fall asleep on her own.

But then she spotted him.

Her entire little body bucked, like the excitement was too much for her tiny limbs to contain. A bright, panting laugh bubbled from her mouth, and her hands curled, fists flailing like wanted to launch herself toward her.

Joel sighed. That was it. No walking away now.

Ignoring the slow, persistent cramp in his back, he shifted, pressing his hands into the pullout and pushing himself upright. His knees popped when he stood, and he winced, rolling his shoulders as he made his way into the bedroom. The floor groaned under his feet, but Leela didn’t stir. She was too far gone, too lost to the bruises and the exhaustion pressing her under.

Maya, on the other hand—beamed up at him, wiggling harder, completely unbothered by the late hour, her tiny hands batting at the air.

Joel sighed through his nose and crouched down beside the bed. He held up a finger to his lips. “Ssh, ssh,” he murmured like she had any damn understanding of the concept.

Her fists continued to flail, little feet kicking the air, and he sighed, leaning down to scoop her up. She fit into his arms easily, the way she always did—small and naming the nook to herself, all warm skin and bundled sleepiness. Sleep fired right out of his system.

“You're gonna wake your poor mama,” he whispered to her.

Shifting Maya against his chest, he glanced at Leela again. She hadn’t moved a muscle, fast asleep. But the blanket had slipped low, barely covering her waist, her arms left uncovered to the cold.

Joel hesitated for only a second before leaning over, taking the edge of the comforter and tucking it around her, careful not to wake her. The fabric pooled at her shoulder, and she sighed quietly in her sleep, sinking into the warmth of the bed, but not waking.

Good. She was finally catching up on sleep. When was the last time he'd seen that girl rest? Never. She'd always woken up the earliest, wandering between her papers and blackboards in the living room.

Maya let out a content little hum against his shoulder, and Joel blew out a breath, stepping back out of the bedroom and into the dimly lit living room. He wasn’t going to bother putting her back on the bed. She was too awake for that.

Instead, he plunged back onto the couch, settling into the cushions and adjusting her against his chest. She curled into him easily, her featherlight weight pressing against his ribs. She hummed again, a soft, breathy little thing, and then—one of her fists landed against his sternum with a dull thump.

Joel huffed, peering down at her. “You tryin’ to knock the wind outta me, trouble?”

Maya lifted her head to blink up again, dark eyes round and glassy in the dim light, looking like she had something important to say. Then her fist lifted again, this time smacking more of a lazy pat than anything with real intent.

He narrowed a playful glare on her, shifting her a little higher against him. He poked at her cheek. “We got some problems, or is this just your way of lettin’ me know you’re still awake?”

She didn’t answer—fucking obviously—but she did something close to it. Her mouth rounded in a small, exaggerated ooh, and her fingers fumbled against his shirt before one of them caught onto his.

Joel felt the soft, clumsy pull of her grip, then the unmistakable wet warmth of her mouth closing around the tip of his finger.

He grimaced, but not in any real discomfort. “Great, there you go. You're lucky you're so beautiful.”

Maya suckled lazily, brows furrowing like she was concentrating really hard on the task, and Joel exhaled, letting her gnaw as much as she wanted.

Joel stared at the ceiling, his fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, careful circles against her back.

She was a happier baby now. Not screaming. Not crying as much. Just there. Comfortable and safe.

He swallowed against the feeling mashing against his ribs. His jaw unclenched, let his head fall back against the couch, eyes slipping shut. And he let out the longest breath known to man.

It had been years—years since he’d felt this weight, this warmth, this need pressed against him. It was a different life, a different world, but somehow, it wasn’t. His body still knew this, still remembered the rhythm of it, the quiet intimacy of a baby trusting him enough to just be here, curled up against his chest, with no fear, no hesitation.

And goddamn him, but he loved it. Loved the small breaths puffing against his collarbone. Loved the way she looked up at him, slow and sleepy, tapping her tiny knuckles against him like she was checking to make sure he was still there. Loved that he didn't have to think about anything, not feel like the whole world was closing in.

Loved this.

He wasn’t thinking about the past. No, he wasn’t. But if he was, he sure as hell wouldn’t admit it.

The sound of the front door unlocking jolted him.

Joel’s eyes snapped open, his entire body tensing for a fight as his hand instinctively curled around Maya’s small back, protective, ready. His other hand curled into a loose fist at his thigh.

The door eased open with a quiet creak, and a familiar silhouette stepped inside.

Ellie.

“Joel?” she whispered, peering at him in confusion.

Joel just stared at her. Not because she was here—she was always stopping by when she damn well pleased—but because for the first time in his life, he was the one who forgot to lock the damn door.

Maya shifted against his chest, making a soft noise, her tiny fingers still curled around his. Joel gave her a small, reassuring bounce as if she’d needed one.

Ellie, meanwhile, was still standing there, taking in the sight of him on the couch, a whole baby in his arms, and the bedroom door cracked open just enough to hint at the woman asleep inside. The pretty neighbour that had Joel all riled up.

Her eyebrows lifted and mouth twitched as she crossed her arms. “This isn’t a hostage situation, right? Am I an accomplice now?”

Joel sent her a flat look. “Whatever gave that away?”

Ellie then continued to stare at him and at Maya.

It was the kind of look Joel had gotten used to over the years, the one where she tried to figure out if she was hallucinating. Because she’d seen Joel Miller do a lot of things—wrangle Clickers, nurse a cold one, fix up a rifle—but sitting on his couch, cradling a whole-ass baby like that? It was a new one. Like unlocking a new character in a video game.

Her lips pressed together, eyes still flicking between him and the kid, and then—she snorted.

“Oh, man,” she whispered, shaking her head, a shit-eating grin spreading over her face. “I wish I had a camera to capture this gold.”

Joel sighed. “Alright, get on with it.”

Grinning, Ellie plopped herself down beside him, the whole couch shaking, immediately leaning in close to peer at Maya. Almost as if she was the first infant she'd seen in her life.

“Hi, baby,” she cooed, voice going all high-pitched and ridiculous. “Hiiii.”

Maya blinked at her, unmoving, her fists curled safely in her mouth, her tiny brows furrowing as if she were trying to figure out just who the hell this new person was.

Ellie wiggled a finger in front of her. “Here. Go on, grab it.”

Maya did not. She just kept staring, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, utterly mystified by the sudden intrusion.

Joel huffed. “Guess she ain’t impressed.”

“Guess she’s got taste, you dick,” Ellie shot back. Then, her face softened, a little smirk curling her lips. “She’s fucking adorable. Look at those eyes, damn.” Joel barely had time to process the warmth that spread through his chest before Ellie tacked on, “So, definitely not yours.”

His scoff came out before he could stop it. “Oh, real funny, kid.”

Ellie chuckled, finally settling back against the couch, still watching Maya like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “How come they’re here?”

Joel didn’t go into the details, never liked to. About Leela’s bruises, about how she’d been too damn stubborn for her own good, about how he’d practically had to drag her in here to sleep in his bed.

Instead, he just muttered, “Blackout. Gonna head back in the morning and check it out.”

Ellie hummed like she knew there was more to it but didn’t feel like prying.

For a while, they just sat there in silence, and Joel simply let himself watch. The room was dim, the fire in the hearth burned low, throwing flickering shadows across the worn wooden floors. The cold pressed against the windows, creeping in through the cracks, but in here, it was warm—quiet, steady. Both in him and around him.

Ellie leaned in closer, her breath puffing softly against Maya’s round little cheek as she wiggled her fingers in front of her face. “What about this? You like this?” she murmured, tapping her tiny nose, and making a series of stupid clicking sounds.

Maya blinked, floored by this, her wide eyes tracking Ellie’s every move like she was watching the most fascinating thing in the world.

It took another few moments, but then—finally—Maya’s tiny fingers reached out, wrapping shyly around Ellie’s outstretched one. Not tight, not possessive, just curious. Testing.

Joel felt that feeling again, twisting deep in his ribs, imperceptive and calm and unnameable. He could get used to that feeling. It plugged every scar, physical and mental, until his shoulders felt ten times lighter.

The kid he’d sort of raised, playing with the baby he was yet to.

And for the first time in a long time, that muddle just… settled. It was late, too late in life for this kind of thing. But hell, cut him some slack.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring into the last of the fire, watching as the embers pulsed and flickered, struggling to stay alive. His hand absently smoothed over Maya’s back, following the slow rise and fall of her breathing, feeling the tiny weight of her against his chest. She was still. Not fussing. Just there.

Ellie shifted beside him, stretching her legs out, resting her arms against her knees. She wasn’t in a hurry to fill the silence. She just sat there, watching him in that way of hers, like she saw more than she let on.

“So,” she finally said, voice casual. “How’re things between you and…?”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Just flicked her chin toward the bedroom.

Leela was still dead to the world, sunk into the kind of sleep that didn’t let you turn over, didn’t let you dream. Her hand had slipped out from beneath the blanket, fingers curled loosely against the mattress. He wondered how long it had been since she’d let herself rest like that, without one ear open for some threat, without her body coiled tight, waiting for the next hang-up.

Joel looked away. He shifted slightly, adjusting Maya, keeping his voice even. “There’s nothing between us.”

Ellie hummed like she wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, no shit.” She stretched her arms behind her head, smirking. “She’s way out of your league.”

Joel snorted, shaking his head. “No argument here.”

He didn’t need Ellie to tell him that. He was thickheaded, but he wasn't blind. Leela was… Leela. Stunning in that exotic way, compassionate as a human, insanely intelligent. And him? What was he exactly, a cut-throat? A fighter? A relentless fucking human who just refused to die? Twenty years ago, a woman like that wouldn’t have given him the time of day, much less a second glance. A girl like her, back in the world before, would’ve had a whole life ahead of her, a whole set of possibilities. Not this. Not him.

And maybe that’s how it should’ve been. Maybe that’s why this didn’t make any sense.

He tensed his grip on Maya and felt the way she instinctively burrowed against him, curling her little fingers into the fabric of his shirt. She cooed again, watching his mouth move to form words.

He could be something for her. If Leela wanted it, he could carve out a space in Maya's life, be her constant, be her safety net. Hell, be this baby girl's father. He would compromise in a blink. That was different. That was right.

But having Leela herself? That was something else entirely. That was dangerous. That was selfish. There were too many ways it could go wrong. Too many ways it would end badly.

Not because of him, or her, or anything either of them did—just because that was the way life went. He wasn’t made for this kind of thing anymore. Wasn’t built for it. He was too damn old, too set in his ways. And even if she—somehow—wanted this, wanted him, what then? How long until he fucked it up? How long until he lost it?

The way he always did.

He swallowed hard. “I’m too old for her,” he managed to mutter.

Ellie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You're fucking kidding. The world ended. There is no standard. And you still care about what, an age gap? Brownie points? Jesus, Joel. You've been through too much to care.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just kept his gaze on the fire, jaw tight.

It wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about how it looked or what people would say. Hell, no one would care. He wouldn't care. They were past that kind of bullshit.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still impossible.

Because Joel knew himself. He knew what it was like to want something real, to care about someone so much it hollowed you out from the inside. And he knew how fast it could all go to hell.

It was about the fact that she still had so much time. That she could still find someone real, someone better. That she deserved more than a haunted, greying man, who could barely sleep through the night, combing through his days, who lived waiting for the next thing to go wrong.

And she deserved better than a man too tired, too worn down by life, to give her more than what little he had left.

Ellie sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “Y’know…” she started, then stopped.

Joel glanced at her, brow furrowing slightly.

She didn’t go on right away. Just drummed her fingers against her knee, staring into the fire, her face unreadable. For once, she wasn’t running her mouth, wasn’t making a joke to cut through whatever was settling between them. She was thinking. That alone put him on edge.

Finally, she said, “It’s different. These last few weeks. Even Tommy sees it.”

Joel frowned, not at the words themselves, but at the way she said them—slow, cautious, like she wasn’t just talking to him but trying to make sense of it for herself.

Ellie had always been good at reading him, sometimes better than he wanted. But this—this was different.

She flitted her gaze toward the bedroom, where Leela was still out cold, her body barely stirring under the blankets. Then to Maya, curled up against him, tiny fingers tangled in his shirt, her soft weight pressed into his chest. Finally, she looked back at him.

She didn’t spell it out. Didn’t need to.

Joel swallowed, shifting slightly where he sat, adjusting Maya’s weight in his arms. His hand smoothed down her back, more out of habit than anything else. He glanced toward the bedroom too, toward Leela, who hadn’t moved an inch. Yes, it was different.

But Ellie wasn’t done. She hesitated, rolling something over in her head before finally letting it out.

“It’s… good, y’know? You having this nice thing.” She waved a vague hand toward the baby, toward Leela. “You don't usually let yourself have nice things. Something that’s not just me.”

Joel’s breath caught.

Ellie had always been his reason for waking up in the morning, the one thing keeping him tethered to whatever life he had left. And she knew that. Knew it in the way she carried herself, in the way she fought with tooth and claw to prove she didn’t need him to keep her standing. That he had his own life. But now, sitting there, she wasn’t mocking, wasn’t teasing. She was just… saying it. And she was goddamn right.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just pushing forward because he had to, wasn’t just surviving out of habit. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder, waiting for the axe to fall.

He had something to come back to. Something steady. Something small and warm and his, even if he didn’t know what the hell to do with it yet.

He looked down at Maya, at her tiny, trusting weight in his arms, at the way she twitched slightly in her sleep, lips parting around a breath. His hand smoothed over her back again.

Ellie saw the moment it clicked. The way his face shifted, just slightly. She smirked, satisfied. And that her good work here was done.

Then, just like that, she clapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “Well,” she said, voice slipping back into that familiar teasing lilt, “guess I’ll let you get back to your hostage situation.”

Joel rolled his eyes, settling deeper into the couch as Maya nuzzled against his chest. The kid was out cold now, her little fist still tangled in his shirt.

Ellie was already heading for the door when she threw out in a whisper, “Oh—almost forgot. Maria asked me to tell you to bring your girl by the dam sometime this week.” She smirked, holding up air quotes. “Said she’d like ‘inventor insight.’”

His expression deadpanned. “Maria ain’t letting her go anywhere near machines.”

Ellie raised an eyebrow. “Ooh-kay. Controlling much?”

Joel gave her a warning look. “Ellie.”

She dismissed him with a wave. “I’ll just tell her myself.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, already seeing how that would go. If Leela knew Maria was interested, she’d want to help. She’d go, eager to prove herself, eager to be useful. And then she’d get herself hurt again, pushing past whatever limits she had, just like she always did. That wasn’t happening.

“She’s stayin’ away,” he muttered. “She’ll go, then want to help. Overdo it. Get herself hurt or worse.” He gave Ellie a pointed look. “Better not.”

Ellie let out a sharp laugh, all evil intent. “And you’re telling me there’s nothing between you two?”

“Ellie,” he hissed, too fast, too sharp—just as Maya stirred slightly against his chest, her little face scrunching. He froze, holding his breath, waiting to see if she’d wake.

Ellie’s smirk was damn near insufferable.

“Denial,” she sang out, drawing out the word like it was the funniest thing she’d heard all day.

Joel sent her a flat look.

Ellie just wiggled her fingers in a wave and made for the door once more. “Night, old man.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet house, the fire crackling low in the hearth. Joel exhaled slowly, his hand smoothing absently over Maya’s back again.

Denial. Maybe. He wasn't ruling it out yet.

X

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[oldestfriend-invisibly]

Little Agatha "Can you help me?"

Early on (in the first decade-ish after meeting Rio) Agatha has only ever regressed involuntarily, but part of her wants to be able to enjoy feeling small the way Rio does.

This idea came to me last night and it was all I could think about so I needed to write it. It is extremely extremely self-indulgent, came out twice as long as intended, and is largely unedited... enjoy!!

2.2K words.

Warnings- Agatha is very uncomfortable with her regression at first and so thinks about it very negatively. There are also a couple of brief references to Agatha's childhood but nothing in detail.

The evening summer sunlight painted streaks across the floor of the cabin. Agatha was drying the dishes from that night’s dinner whilst keeping an eye on Rio. The green witch was currently playing in the garden in front of the cabin, and tonight she was acting younger in the way she sometimes did. 

In the way both of them did- if Agatha was being honest. 

In the few years the two had been living together in the cabin, they had settled into a comfortingly familiar dynamic. Whilst some of the time they were both as they were the day they met- as lovers, at other times their relationship was more similar to what Agatha had observed between the kind women in Salem and their daughters. 

Sometimes, her fascinating enigma of a wife liked to let herself feel younger, and Agatha felt herself naturally falling into the role of Rio’s caregiver. She wasn’t even sure if Rio had ever actually been a child, but she said it made her feel secure, and loved, it calmed her when she was overwhelmed, and soothed her during the cold winter mornings when the two would curl up by the fire for warmth. 

This was familiar to Agatha, and caring for her little girl made her feel important in a way her mother had once convinced her she would never be.

 Not all of Rio’s regression was smooth-sailing and happy, however. Agatha reminisced, wincing at the memories of the cosmic witch crumbling under the weight of her duties, arriving home already in her younger headspace and weeping openly for her Mama. She watched her girl now, Rio’s hands windmilling as the fireflies- beginning to emerge in the fading light of dusk- flickered around her, Agatha’s smile softened. 

Though her girl may not always be as happy as she was right now, Agatha, as Rio’s Mama, would always be there to comfort her and remind her how loved she was. Because that’s what Mamas are there for. And because Agatha knows how it feels- how it feels to be small and so so scared. 

It was an unspoken rule that they never discuss it after the fact, but occasionally, after a particularly bad nightmare, or an unexpected reminder of the abuse Evanora inflicted on her, Agatha felt her grip on her adult headspace slipping away. And in these instances, all Agatha could seem to comprehend is how badly she wanted her Mami. She’ll babble ‘Mami’ over and over through her tears when all other words fail her, she’ll reach for her with trembling hands, only begin to calm down when she felt calloused fingers card through her hair, and heard soft Spanish reassurances break through the fuzziness in her head.

Agatha absolutely hated that this happened to her. She hated not being in control, how quickly she went from being the powerful and feared witch-killer to being three years old and terrified again. For Agatha, regressing to a younger headspace was humiliating, and she’d never considered trying to do so voluntarily. 

Despite her own hesitance, she could never judge Rio for seeking such comfort. Rio was only just experiencing humanity for the first time, and Agatha was more than happy to help her explore anything and everything being a human had to offer. 

Gazing back outside at her girl, however, Agatha felt a pang of something unfamiliar. Rio really did seem so happy and unrestrained when she let herself be little like this. She wondered if she could feel like that. Unexpectedly, she found herself yearning to be held, to be read to and gently rocked, and tucked into bed all cozy. If only she were able to choose to hand control over to her Mami.

Shocked with how her thoughts had strayed, Agatha shook her head to clear her mind. Her conflicting thoughts confused her and she decided to quickly stop this train of thought. 

After all, it had gotten dark now, and she had a very excitable toddler to try and coax into bed.

…

Agatha didn’t think about the possibility of choosing to be small again until nearly a week later. She and Rio lay side by side in a grassy forest clearing, mostly in silence they had just been enjoying each other’s company. Rio’s hand in hers drew tentative swirls over Agatha’s palm, and the simple comfort of the action brought Agatha right back to her train of thought from the other night.

She was nervous to bring this up with Rio. Their dynamic had already been established, how would Agatha be a good Mama for Rio if she herself needed such care? Would Rio even want to provide it for her? 

But Agatha thought back, through hazy memories, to the last time she slipped, after a horrible nightmare. Thought about the way her Mami had pressed soft kisses into her hairline and gently wiped the sticky tears from her cheeks. How she changed Agatha out of her sweaty nightdress and pried Agatha’s thumb from her mouth and replaced it with something smooth and chewy. Agatha sucked in a sharp breath, once again overwhelmed by the thought of wanting her Mami whilst hating her regression.

“What is bothering you, Querida?” Rio turned on her side to face Agatha, and reached to brush away the hair that had fallen over Agatha’s face. 

Agatha’s voice came out quiet, tension radiating from her body. “How does it feel when you’re young, Rio? When you choose to be so.”

The question wasn’t new to Rio, Agatha had asked it many times before whenever she wanted to better understand her and how to care for her. Though now, the purple witch's, nervous tone made her wonder if the question was now coming from somewhere more personal.

Rio knew all too well the struggle her lover had talking about the times when she too found herself small, and she understood why. Agatha took great pride in her strength and independence as she’d had to tirelessly forge it for herself after leaving Salem. However, Rio had always worried about how unhealthy it probably was for Agatha to avoid all conversation on the matter. 

Her response was measured, she closely observed Agatha, watching for any adverse reactions. She didn’t want Agatha to shut down, sensing the conversation was leading somewhere important.

“Once I’ve decided I want to be small, or realised I need to be, I don’t usually have any trouble allowing myself to fall into it.” Agatha said nothing in response, clearly deep in thought. Rio resumed tracing swirls over Agatha’s hand and continued. 

“My head starts to feel a little fuzzy. Not unpleasantly so, not like the nasty buzzing when my senses become overwhelmed, more like the mist settling over the grass on a winter’s morning, or the sound of the running brook washing over pebbles. My thoughts all become simpler, like nothing else in the universe matters outside of you and I. It just feels peaceful, Agatha, really really peaceful.” 

Swirls changed to tracing the lines of Agatha’s palm as Rio waited for a response. She could practically hear the moving parts of Agatha’s brain, and refrained from pressing a kiss to her temple so as not to startle her. 

“But,” Agatha paused, clearly struggling, “how do you- how did you know you wanted to do it?” 

“Agatha?” Rio paused until the other woman turned her head and met her gaze. “Do you want to be small? To be able to choose to be?” 

Agatha tensed up again, her internal defenses clearly slammed back up. “No, that’s ridiculous! I’m not- I don’t- that’s not-” her words trailed off and she turned back away from Rio, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, she willed her anxious tears to disappear. Rio remained silent, never ceasing the movement of her fingers across Agatha’s palm. Agatha’s denial of her feelings was one of her favoured defense mechanisms, so Rio wanted to give her time to make sense of what she was feeling.

Eventually, the Purple Witch swallowed heavily, nodded almost imperceptibly, and whispered, “Yes.” then after a moment, “Can you help me?”

…

It was the following afternoon. After arriving home yesterday, they had eaten and gone straight to bed. Both women were exhausted, and decided they wanted to be rested before Rio helped Agatha regress. 

They sat together on the living room floor, cross-legged and facing each other. Rio could tell Agatha was still wary and on-edge about it. But after Rio’s repeated assurance that they would go at whatever pace Agatha was comfortable with, and that she was more than happy to be Agatha’s Mami more often, the Purple Witch no longer viewed regression solely as something to be feared.

The reminder that Rio loved every part of her made the thought of giving up control much less scary, after all, she trusted Rio completely.

Rio had to admit that she wasn’t entirely sure how to go about this, but she’d secretly longed to be able to care for Agatha like this for a while now. She had started to run her fingers through Agatha’s long hair, both grounding herself and hopefully providing comfort for the other. This appeared successful as Agatha leaned into Rio’s touch, swivelling round to be able to rest against Rio’s side. 

“Is this ok, Love?” Rio asked, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. Agatha nodded.

“It is. Could you carry on?” 

“Of course, Cariño.” Over the next few minutes, Agatha relaxed further, melting against Rio until she was virtually sprawled across her. Slowly, as not to startle her out of this sense of calmness, Rio pulled Agatha into a more comfortable position in her lap. In doing so, Agatha’s head, now supported by Rio’s hand, came to rest against the Green Witch’s chest, and she let out a contented little sigh. 

“I’ve got you right here, Bunny, you’re doing just wonderfully.” 

“I’m doing good?” Agatha asked, staring up, searching Rio’s eyes for any hint of a lie- finding none. 

“So good, Agatha, my Little Love. You’re being so brave.” 

Agatha broke the eye contact by returning to her prior position- laying back against Rio’s chest. After another minute of Rio silently stroking her hair, she spoke again.

“Think I can feel the fuzzy. Is like the waves from the beach.” 

Rio considered it- the small beach on the near-side of the large lake they often visited. How the water lapped over the sand in a constant soothing rhythm. How peaceful it was there. How it felt to stand and gaze across the vast expanse of water and feel so small in comparison.

“That is right, Bunny, just like the beach. We could go back there soon, if you would like to. Would you like Mami to tell you all about it?” 

Agatha’s breath got caught in her throat for a moment, and she nodded. “Please?” she added in a tiny voice that made Rio’s heart melt.

“You and Mami will take a quiet walk together through the woods. I will hold onto your hand to make sure you don’t get lost, and I might even carry you for a while if your little legs get tired. Once we arrive, we will eat our lunches. We will have the cheese from the goats, and slices of apple with a little honey, and some of the vegetables and berries from Mami’s garden. After that, you can play all afternoon. You could try and find all the prettiest flowers for Mami to braid into your hair, or you could visit your bunny friends, maybe you could even feed some of our leftover lunch bread to the duckies! Or if my baby gets really tired, maybe I could just hold her, and rock her gently like the leaves floating on the surface of the lake. We would sit so quietly and let the sound of the waves wash away all of our other thoughts, and your Mami would kiss your little head and remind you how much she loves you. Does that sound nice, Cariño?” 

Given the lack of audible response, Rio thought for a moment that her baby might have fallen asleep, or that she’d upset the girl, or even that she’d scared Agatha right out of the headspace she’d been teetering on the edge of. The response came eventually though and immediately dispelled her worry. 

“Is nice, Mami. Go soon?” 

Rio’s smile grew impossibly wider, and she shifted her baby in her arms so she could see her face. Agatha’s smile, by comparison, was shyer, yet was full of joy at the thought of getting to spend such a perfect day with her Mami. 

“Yes, Little Bunny, we can definitely go soon.” 

“Thank you, Mami! Thank you, thank you!” Agatha promptly flung her arms around Rio, burying her face into her neck. 

Rio knew that Agatha’s voluntary regression going forward likely wouldn’t always be this easy. If little Agatha was anywhere near as stubborn as her lover, Rio was in for a tough journey. But for now, all Rio could do was bask in the pure joy of finally holding her baby in her arms.

“You’re so welcome, Baby Bunny, Mami loves you so so much.”

“Love you too, Mami. So so much.”

[justscarfy]

Im obsessed with drawing these two ahshjjdj

[tadbitsilly]

They actually mean the world to me

(close-ups under cut)

(Loosely based on relativity falls)

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Does anyone actually say that Ladybug and Adrien are fake somehow?

Yeah, people absolutely have that take. It's what spawned the original post. One too many fics and shipping poles that treated Marinette and Chat Noir as somehow wrong for their crushes. (I apparently read fast. My ML fic's read count is in the thousands at this point. It's enough to let me notice trends that bug me whereas one fic would just be a shrug and move on thing.) On the Adreinette side you get, "Chat Noir is the true Adrien! Civilian Adrien is just a mask! Marinette only loves the fake Adrien so she doesn't deserve him!"

Chat Noir gets less flak, but I've seen it enough to know it's very much a thing. There's a reason Marichat wins out over Ladynoir in almost every poll. If you ever see one, read the comments for the logic and you'll see what I mean. People with this view seem to think things like, "Chat Noir doesn't really love Marinette because Ladybug isn't stuttery and awkward around him! He has to love her when she's a mess!"

This kind of thing is so popular that I had to stop reading fics that paired Marinette with other people because the "Marinette is the true version" thing showed up all the freaking time. So many of these fics felt less like shipping stories and more like Adrien bashing where he was punished for liking Ladybug and not Marinette. It was draining. Even my favorite one has a scene to make sure Adrien feels bad for missing what he could have had and it's a freaking no powers AU!

I actually had a really lovely conversation about this topic when the blog was young because this is one that gets under my skin whenever I come across it and I occasionally need to vent a bit. The kind person who indulged my annoyance straight up said that they used to think that the square "have to fall in love as Marichat bc that's when they can be real with each other." Which was not a stance that was unique to them by any means. They were just validating my first-hand observations of the way SOME people view the ship/characters.

There is a version of the true selves stuff that's genuinely sweet though. It's the version you basically summed up where it's less about these two being the "true" versions and more about Marichat letting the two get to know each other without the pressure of the crushes complicating things. After all, the canon square is only a few hours removed from love at first sight which certainly adds pressure that Marichat removes. The existence of this version that means I don't hate Marichat or even the words "true self", I'm just warry when I see them as I never know what I'm about to see.

While I get why canon's near insta love and subsequent writing issues would draw a person to Marichat, I'll also once again argue that the issue at hand isn't the various ship dynamics, it's canon's writing as the awkward Marichat arc shows. Even though the crushes only flipped after four whole season, canon Marichat doesn't feel any deeper than canon Adrienette or canon Ladynoir. It's played incredibly superficial and doesn't even bother to acknowledge that Chat Noir and Marinette have a functional friendship as established in episodes like Evillustrator, Glaciator, and Glaciator 2. Elation writes Marichat as if they've never interacted before and Chat Noir is just going on a date with a fan he's never officially met. Passion writes Ladynoir as awkwardly as Adrienette always was. Ladybug's months of platonic partnership did nothing to change how she acts when she has a crush or how successful she is at confessing.

In a better show, canon's Marichat arc would be used to set up Adrienette as a more solid couple. Marichat would allow Adrien to see that Marinette loves him even when he's being goofy, but they'd agree to not date because a hero and a civilian dating is too risky. Then Adrienette would happen and, oh look, Adrien can occasionally crack jokes and be silly because he knows Marinette can love him even when he's at his most Chat Noir in addition to being his most Adrien. Marinette is a little surprised, but fine with it. Canon doesn't go there though. As far as the show is concerned, Marichat essentially never happened. It was a one-off fever dream both characters completely forgot. Canon Adrienette has Adrien playing the perfect flawless boyfriend who never annoys Marinette with his jokes.

In summary, that post wasn't about saying that Marichat is bad or unhealthy or that there's no version of the true selves thing that's cute. It was me venting a bit after seeing one too many instances of people acting like Ladrien, Ladynoir, and Adrienette could never be healthy because friends to lovers is some sort of golden standard when it's absolutely not. It's a neutral preference. Each side is fine. What matters is how you write it.

Why the "True Selves" Theory is Insulting

Image for a second that you have a friend who's a bit of a ditz. She's also fun, creative, and sweet. You enjoy being around her, but you've never seen her as more than a friend. Then, one day, a fire breaks out at an event that you and your friend are attending. Your lives are suddenly in mortal peril and the same goes for everyone around you because you can't find the exit. You think that you're going to die.

Then, suddenly, your friend transforms. Not in a magical way, it's just a personality shift, but it might as well be magical because it's like nothing you've ever seen! The ditziness is gone, replaced by laser focus and a take-charge attitude that has everyone following your friend without question. When all is said and done, everyone lives because of you friend. As it turns out, her tendency to get easily distracted means that she's a fantastic in-the-moment problem solver.

Going through that completely changes how you see this girl. You no longer just like her, no, you're now deeply in love with her. You tell a mutual friend about this and they laugh at you, then say, "Don't be silly, that wasn't really her! Her true self isn't that brave girl who saved your life! That was special circumstances that don't count. All that counts is the way she acts when there isn't a crisis going on. It doesn't matter that you've always liked her and enjoyed her company, if you didn't fall in love with based solely on her ditzy self, then you don't really love her."

Most people would call this mutual friend insane because of course going through crazy experiences changes the way we view people! Imagine if you had an allergic reaction and your significant other's reaction was to panic and run away, leaving you to die. You only live because you manage to grab your phone and call '911.' That would understandably lead many people to reassess if this is the person they want to spend their life with just like the opposite experience might make you see a person as a good life partner.

Marinette is Ladybug. She gets full credit for everything she's done in the suit and it's perfectly fine for Adrien to become attracted to her after he sees her in action. It doesn't mean that he only values her Ladybug side. He quite clearly cares for Marinette, he just hasn't seen her in the right light for him to fall in love. (And, if we're being frank, Marinette acts like Ladybug all the time when he's not around or when he is around, but a crisis is going on. She's really not that different from her alter ego.)

Along similar lines, Marinette isn't wrong for being drawn to Adrien's sweeter side more than his over-the-top jokey side. There's a reason why Glaciator ended with her blushing. Compare the end of Glaciator to the end of Origins and, yeah, same energy because - in that moment - Chat Noir was letting his Adrien side out by being more sincere and vulnerable, which are the things that Marinette values most in a romance and the things that he rarely shows while in the mask. It doesn't mean that she hates his jokey side, it's just not going to win her heart when Adrien's right there being sweet and sincere while Chat Noir hides his feelings behind a smile and a laugh.

In fact, it's pretty insulting to Adrien to say that someone shouldn't be attracted to his more vulnerable side. That his sincerity is worth less than his jokes. Almost as insulting as telling Marinette that her Ladybug side doesn't count and she should get no credit for being brave as that's not really her. Loving her only counts if a person falls in love while she's behaving in her most over-the-top, cringe, embarrassing way.

I don't know about you, but I would never want someone to hold me to that standard nor would I hold my significant other to that standard! It's perfectly normal to have things that you don't love about your significant other. In fact, I'd argue that part of the magic of a real, lasting romance is having someone who loves you even though you're not perfect. If you are looking for a partner who never annoys you or does something wrong, then you will never find happiness because that person does not exist.

Now that I've said all of that, I want to add that I do think that marichat, "love both sides" stories can be cute. It's just not One True Path to Real Love. It's totally fine if the square starts dating based on the things that they find attractive about each other and then just continue to be in love as they learn about the other side. If anything, that's normal. Learning about a person is what dating is all about! A good relationship is no different than a good friendship, you just get some bonus perks if you're into that kind of thing.

I'll also note that I'm not criticizing stories where Marinette feels like she's the "real" version and Ladybug is the fake because that's a really understandable thing to be nervous about. Tikki saying that shit? Hard no. Terrible mentoring.

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

save them tbh

[selfinflictedgunshotwound]

men are so disappointing in so many ways i know i shouldn't expect most of them to be dignified humans but it's crazy. i need to get over this guy he's making my sense of self crumble even faster than it usually does. like he's just so unlike my usual type and i'm pretty convinced he's stupid and slutty and not discerning whatsoever. not to mention boring like i know even if i did have a chance with him he wouldn't Get Me at all so it's a bigger waste of time that usual and i'm actually pretty tired of men in general and definitely tired of parasocial relationships because they drive me insane for months typically. thankfully it's only been like 2 weeks if that at this point. idk. sigh. i know literally virtually nothing abt him as a person and ofc liking any public figure who you know nothing about is only setting yourself for heartbreak and disappointment to begin with bc you already know nothing is gonna come from it but. in a way it's almost addictive to become obsessed with someone and not be looked at with the same level of scrutiny. i don't think anyone in real life would ever try to get to know me as much as i try to get to know people who i'll never even meet. lmao! but that's the thing... idk... i have a lot of love in my heart and it consumes me and i reject my pride usually when i'm into someone. i want to know more... like VORACIOUSLY consuming anything with information about them involved simply because i think knowing someone is a very deep form of love but of course you can never truly know anyone. not completely. and that scares me i think which is why it's always probably been easier for me to never really TRY to be with anyone or have anything real. idk. this turned into me psychoanalyzing myself real quick but SOMEONE needs to bc i need to understand what the fuck is wrong w me.

[mintypsii]

missing

[arolesbianism]

Y'know the fun thing abt how I've set up the society that the main stalien cast comes from is that even the most broad general trends across stalien societies tend to not apply to them. So everytime I yap about how most herds form and the general trends in their societies I just get to remember mid yapping that basically none of this will ever be evident or even come up in the main story. Damn isolated motherfuckers

[maulfucker]

thinking about all my au ideas where no one dies. thinking what if when shmi is "kidnapped" by the tuskens it's actually not for hostile reasons at all, but because she got hit by a stray bullet from a misfire and they took her to try to heal her. but tuskens aren't near-humans, so their medicine doesn't work very well on humans. when anakin finds shmi she is still near death, but it's clear that was not the tuskens' intention. he takes her home, and gains a new perspective about the "savages" he had always disdained.

[rahabs]

I’m glad my expectations for Veilguard were low, especially from a writing perspective, because instead of anger now I only feel disappointment that even my already low bar wasn’t met.

[thesongbiird]

"Maggie's pretty overprotective, but there's no reason to be. You've taken care of me pretty well, right? I'm sure there's a lot of bad people I could have run into out there who wouldn't have been so kind." Beth often waiting for the penny to drop, for his demeanour toward her to change. After all, she'd been warned about men. What they were like, how they'd only want one thing from her. But he'd been nothing but respectful. Even during times when she didn't want him to be.

She had seen the wound only once, when it was fresh, and he'd kept it hidden ever since. It hurt her to think of the pain it must have caused him.

"You have nothing to be embarrassed about." Beth can't help herself. Her eyes fill up with tears as she listens to him recount what happened with Penny. It was horrible hearing how he lost her. "She shouldn't have done that. It wasn't her place."

Beth recalls that day when Shane opened the barn, seeing the corpse of her mother stumble toward them, and then she had to watch as she was shot. It was like losing her all over again in the cruellest way possible.

"My Daddy said they weren't dead. Just sick. So we kept my Momma and it--well what I'm trying to say is that I understand. And I'm so sorry that you lost her. Especially in that way. But you have nothing to be embarrassed about. You're a father who lost a child in unthinkable circumstances, so just go a little easy on yourself, okay?"

"Look at what you do now, though. You keep us all safe. Even someone like me." Beth knows that in this new world, many would consider her to be a burden. Just another useless mouth to feed. But he's never made her feel like that.

"They sound nice. I'm sad I didn't get to meet them either. But it's nice that you can keep them alive in your memory of them. Talking about the people we've lost keeps them close to us."

Beth smiles gently, understanding that he'd like to change the subject. "You didn't bring the mood down. You can always talk to me, you know? I might not be strong or fast but I'm a good listener at least."

[roboyomo]

Fun fact. Amor specifically is kinda endearing to me because uh. His name is "love" in my native language

Not even as in a name meaning thing, it's just straight up the direct translation

GFJWHDWJEH Hey dice. Guess what. That was Fully Intentional. About it meaning love. ^_^

Amor is a "code name" of sorts to him actually, with his real name being Bao. But Amor was exactly given to him By Apollo. when he was brainstorming code names. Done entirely Out Of Affection and is the only reason why Amor keeps associating himself with said name despite how much shit has been connected to it throughout his story.

it has been. a signifier of love to them both kind of. Appreciating your childhood friend and partner when others can't do that yk? anyways back to fucking Crying about these now that i have thought about them both a bit too hard—