#to everyone who’s left me asks and DMs and Ao3 comments in the past few months

[capuccinodoll]

— A haunted body, part four: "I, the one who dimmed the Sun" ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧⋆ ˚｡⋆‧₊˚ (jackson!joel x f!reader)

fic masterlist | ao3 | capuccinodollupdates | previous chapter | next chapter

— Chapter summary: Joel returns your necklace. And slowly, curiosity begins to take hold of him, sinking deeper into his body. Inevitably, he tries to pull away—but you push him to the edge once more. This time, with brutal blows and power games. At night, he remembers. wc: 17k

TW!!!: This chapter contains mild and graphic violence, graphic depictions of murder, mentions of blood, death, and other sensitive themes. Reader discretion is strongly advised!!

A/N: I hope you like this one. Please don't forget to let me know your opinion in the comments, it helps me a lot! <3 (TAG LIST OPEN) (also, if you asked me to tag u but I didn't, please dm me to let me know!)

Jackson’s greenhouse. Evening.

Soft light pooled through the glass panels, catching on floating dust and the gentle sway of hanging vines.

Joel’s hand hovered over a yellow bloom, fingers nearly brushing the petal—then pulled back, abrupt, as though it might burn at his touch.

He lifted his gaze, instinctively sensing a shift in the air, and there you were, stepping inside. Not alone.

Zach walked beside you, his voice low, easy. He was good with people. Mid-thirties maybe, helpful, always around, always offering help when there was construction to be done or someone needed a second pair of hands.He was good at patrols too. A reliable man. 

Joel didn’t move. His gaze flicked back to the greenery in front of him. Rows of herbs, delicate flowers, sun-wilted basil and half-wild rosemary. He’d come looking for lavender. He liked the smell. Said it helped with sleep. But now he couldn’t quite remember what he’d needed it for.

Instead, he found himself tracing the edges of memory—gardens he used to walk past on his way home from work, backyard flower beds neighbors took pride in, places where he’d knelt in dirt with aching knees and the weight of normal life pressing warm against his back.

That was before. A different world, a different version of himself. 

Past tense. Past gone.

He straightened his back, and a quiet sigh slipped from his nose, barely audible, but enough to feel like a release. His spine ached, and so did something else.

When he looked up, you were there.

Just a few feet away, standing with a kind of ease that made his chest tighten. You didn’t acknowledge him. Not with a glance, not even a flicker of recognition. Your focus was entirely on the herbs in front of you—rows of thyme, mint, maybe basil. You reached out with the backs of your fingers grazing the leaves, like it was the most natural thing in the world, like the world itself hadn’t fallen apart in pieces and rebuilt itself into something quieter and violent.

Then, gently, you leaned in. He watched you breathe in the scent like it could fix something.

You looked—peaceful. That was the word that kept circling in his mind, irritating and impossible. How could you look like that? 

Joel stayed still. Watched you as if from far away.

That morning, he’d thought about it more than once. Not on purpose. Just flashes. Your face, the way you spoke like you didn’t owe anyone an explanation, the way you didn’t seem afraid even when you should be.

He knew you were hurt. Not visibly. But inside, somewhere in the place where people carried the real damage. Everyone who had survived this long carried something. That wasn’t a mystery. But you... You carried your pain like it didn’t belong to you. Or like it did, but you had made peace with it in a way that left him uneasy. There was something almost reckless in how your attention drifted toward ordinary things. Like the scent of herbs. Like sunlight filtering through dusty greenhouse glass.

He didn’t get it. Not even a little.

You smiled.

It was faint, genuine. Like the scent of those herbs, faint as it might’ve been, was something worth smiling about. And for a second—just one second—it looked like none of it had ever happened. Like pain wasn’t a language you spoke fluently. Like you weren’t made of the same brittle, exhausted material as everyone else here. As him, here.

How?

Something about that expression stopped him. Froze something inside him just long enough to hurt.

And then, your eyes lifted. They met his.

For a second, Joel didn’t breathe. Then he looked away too quickly, like he’d been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to see. Guilty.

He let out a tired sigh and dragged his hand through the soft scruff on his jaw, the gesture half out of habit, half frustration. He was ready to head out. Enough of this. He’d come for lavender, maybe, or just a reason to be alone for a while. Either way, he was done standing around smelling plants.

He turned to leave, but didn’t make it far.

“Joel,” you said, right in front of him now. With that familiar, disarming smile and a cloth bag cradled in your arms like you’d just picked it up from the market or packed it with something for someone else. For a moment, he thought you might hand it to him. “How are you?”

His body responded before his mind had the chance to intervene; eyebrows tightening, posture stiffening, a flicker of irritation or confusion crossing his face before he could stop it.

“Fine.”

You kept smiling. Your gaze swept over him, noticeable enough to make his shoulders tense slightly. He was suddenly aware of how he looked—dust on his shirt, sweat near his collarbone, the ache in his back he hadn’t paid attention to until now.

“Everything felt kind of empty today without you,” you said, light, almost teasing. “There was no one giving me dirty looks.”

He tilted his head, just enough. “Kind of empty doesn’t sound like the worst thing.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “If you weren’t right here, I’d think you were avoiding me. Are you?”

He gave a soft shake of his head. “Too much effort.”

The truth was that ever since that day at the school, he’d been more careful. Just enough to feel it. 

In the mornings, he made himself useful and nothing more—spoke only when required, kept his eyes fixed on tasks that didn’t involve you. But it got harder when you kept being you. Open. Friendly. Effortlessly warm, even when you weren’t doing anything at all.

And so he kept circling—choosing lunch tables two over from yours, stepping off the sidewalk when he saw you walking ahead, finding excuses to linger somewhere else entirely. The same way he had stepped back from that yellow flower earlier, like touching it might burn it.

Avoidance wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t noble. But it was quiet. And Joel had always been good at quiet.

You opened your mouth like you were about to say something but then Zach’s voice cut through the greenhouse, calling your name from across the room.

Your head turned instinctively toward him.

Joel watched you shift your weight, caught in that half-second of indecision. Then you glanced back at him, your expression unreadable for a moment, like there was something else.

Zach raised a hand in a casual wave. His posture was easy, unbothered. A half-smile played on his face. Joel nodded in return, barely lifting his chin.

“Well,” you said, adjusting the strap of the cloth bag in your hands, “I have to go. See you tomorrow.”

You smiled again, like it didn’t cost you anything. And Joel didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway. Just a quiet nod. And that was it. 

He stood there, watching as you walked away.

Then he exhaled and shook his head, faintly annoyed at himself.

He could’ve asked what was in the bag you were holding. He could’ve told you he’d finished fixing the necklace, that it was ready now, resting in the bottom drawer waiting to be returned.

But, as always, the words stayed where they were. 

Jackson’s office. Morning.

Joel was ignoring you.

No—he was really, really ignoring you now. You were sure of it.

It had been a week and a half since that morning at the school. Since your voice had nearly cracked in front of him and Erin, and he had reached for your necklace without saying much, promising he'd fix it. Since then, you'd kept your mouth shut about it. You hadn't asked once. Joel was good with things, fixing them. You trusted that. What you didn’t understand was the way he’d started acting around you after that.

As if being near you was even more unbearable than before.

He barely stayed in the office anymore. Came in, glanced over the patrol schedules as if he didn’t already know them by heart, shuffled some papers, made coffee, left. Sometimes tea. Always something hot. Always with his back turned.

When the two of you had to work together, he walked ahead without a word. Then, the moment it made sense to split up—he did.

“If I need you, I’ll let you know,” he’d said once, over his shoulder.

And that was it.

At lunch, if you entered the dining hall, he’d move. Subtly. Quietly. Two tables over. No eye contact, no words.

It didn’t even feel rude anymore. Just… quiet. But it was still rejection. Still confusing.

And, worst of all, it made you want to know him more.

It wasn’t logical. He was avoiding you, and your brain knew what that meant, but your body—your instincts—kept watching him. Noticing how he walked with that worn-out kind of weight in his shoulders. How he kept his gaze low until it wasn’t, until he looked out of the corner of his eye and something flickered there.

There was something he wasn’t saying. And you felt it every time he entered a room.

Joel was a mystery you had only secondhand clues about. People in Jackson talked, but always in shorthand.

Tommy’s brother. Used to run with dangerous people. Quiet, but decent. Helpful, if you caught him on the right day. Polite, in that old-fashioned way.

He had favorites, apparently—people he looked out for more than others. And he had a reputation for doing the right thing when it really counted. But still—there was a heaviness to him. And you wanted to know why.

You took the stairs to the second floor, the wooden steps creaking softly beneath your boots. Voices floated down the hallway before you reached the office. When you stepped inside, the room was already occupied.

“Why? What are you doing tonight?” Joel’s voice came first, slightly exasperated.

Ellie was standing in front of his desk, her backpack slung over one shoulder, arms crossed tightly over her chest like armor. She turned her head when she heard you come in.

“Hey, Snow,” she said, her mouth twitching into a grin that softened her whole face.

“Ellie,” Joel called again, firmer this time, but she didn’t respond.

You paused for a second, catching his eye briefly before moving past them to your desk, placing your bag down with more care than necessary.

The weather had been kinder today. Cool in the morning, with just enough sun to warm your sleeves. You’d left the house without a coat, letting the air settle on your skin like linen. But you knew it wouldn’t last; by the time noon arrived, the sun would be sharper, unforgiving.

“How are you?” you asked, your voice light as you turned back to Ellie.

“Just heading out,” she replied, adjusting the straps of her bag. “Just came to ask Joel something.”

Joel stood from his chair, already halfway through whatever caution he was about to issue. “Ellie, I need you to—”

“Jesse’s waiting,” she cut in, breezing past him. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything reckless. Don't worry.” Her tone was playful but practiced. She reached out and gave him a quick, familiar hug before heading toward the door.

She smiled at you once more, and then she was gone.

Joel was still in the middle of the room, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the spot where she’d just disappeared. He was wearing a cream shirt today, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and dark jeans that hung low on his hips.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

He blinked, as if waking up from a dream, and took a small step back, almost instinctively.

“Yeah,” he said, voice clipped.

You nodded, turning your attention to the notebook you’d been holding. It felt oddly heavy in your hands. You flipped it open to a page filled with rushed notes and meandering doodles—lines drawn out of boredom or nerves, hard to say.

You let your eyes skim the paper, pretending to search for something important. Then you looked up again.

Joel had moved back to his desk. You watched him open a drawer, his broad shoulders turned to you.

Your gaze drifted to the back of his neck; a few strands of silver curling against his skin. The contrast was startling, beautiful in an accidental kind of way. You didn’t look away. Not immediately.

He turned around just as you dropped your gaze. You cleared your throat, a sound too sharp in the quiet.

Then he crossed the room. No words, just the measured sound of his boots against the floor until he stopped in front of your desk.

You looked up.

Joel was standing there, holding a small wooden box between his hands. Rectangular, maybe the size of a glasses case. His eyes flicked to yours for only a moment before he placed it gently on the desk in front of you.

“I finished it yesterday,” he said.

You reached for the box. The wood was smooth under your fingertips, clearly sanded with care, varnished until it caught the light. In the center of the lid was a carved heart, filled with tiny flowers, winding vines. You recognized the pattern instantly. It matched your necklace exactly—every curve, every petal.

Your thumb traced the edge of the carving, and something inside you stirred, something quiet and warm that made your chest feel full all at once.

You lifted the lid with care, your fingers almost reverent.

Inside, nestled on a small black pillow, your necklace lay fixed. The silver chain gleamed faintly, polished to a brightness it hadn’t had in years.

“I polished it a little,” Joel said, already turning back toward his desk. “It’s silver, so it wasn’t complicated.”

You leaned in, opening the heart. Your brows furrowed.

The paper inside was now sealed beneath a delicate layer of something transparent, almost invisible. It held the content in place, protecting them from air, from moisture, from your clumsy fingers.

You didn’t say anything for a second. Then you gently laid the necklace back inside the box, careful not to disturb the arrangement. But you didn’t close the lid. You didn’t want to.

You stood, chair scraping softly behind you, and walked toward him. He had his back to you, hunched slightly over some paperwork or maybe just pretending to be busy.

“Joel,” you said. Your eyes stayed on the box in your hands. “This is beautiful.”

He paused, then straightened up and turned. He looked at you.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Did you make the box?”

He gave a short nod. There was something in his expression you hadn’t seen before. Not quite embarrassment, but something adjacent. A flicker of self-consciousness that made you want to reach for him.

You blinked quickly, feeling the sting behind your eyes. You swallowed it down.

“It’s beautiful,” you said again, running your thumb over the wood. “You did a beautiful job. Thank you so much for this.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, quicker this time. “I just thought—you could keep it in there when you’re not wearing it. If you’re not gonna wear it. I mean... at some point.”

You smiled, nodding, letting his words settle between you.

“I am going to wear it,” you said, lifting the chain gently from its place. “It turned out perfect. I can’t even tell where the break was. And it’s so clean now, it looks brand new.”

“Do you want me to put it on for you?”

You looked at him. Instantly, he seemed to regret saying that. 

“Or not,” he added quickly, already backpedaling.

But you reached out anyway, holding the chain between your fingers, offering it to him without a word. There was a brief pause before he took it, his hand brushing yours.

Then you turned around and gathered your hair, lifting it off your neck.

You could feel him hesitate behind you—not visibly, not audibly, but in the charged stillness that settled between your bodies. And then, he moved closer. He hadn’t touched you yet, not really, but you could feel him. The warmth of his presence.

“You’ve touched my neck before,” you said, voice light, teasing. “No need to be shy now.”

Behind you, Joel clicked his tongue. “You’re gettin’ too smart for your own good.”

You laughed.

He brought the chain around your throat, his hands steady as he lined up both ends at the nape of your neck. When his fingers finally made contact with your skin, you felt it—an involuntary reaction that started in your spine and bloomed outward. Your cheeks went warm.

“Done,” he said, his voice softer now.

You turned back around slowly, letting your fingers find the charm resting at the center of your chest. You looked down at it, tracing its familiar shape, then looked up again.

“Thank you. Really. It was kind of you to do this for me, Joel.”

“It was nothing.”

But you kept your eyes on him.

“No, it wasn’t. In fact,” you said, narrowing your eyes playfully, “I think I might reconsider breaking your fingers after all.”

A sound escaped from his chest. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

“What?” you asked, squinting at him. “What was that look?”

“What look?”

“That look. That face.” You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Don’t you think I could break your fingers?”

Joel shook his head slowly. “Didn’t say that.”

“Ah,” you said, your tone suspicious, “because I can.”

He mirrored your stance, folding his arms across his chest.

“I’m sure of that,” he said with a nod. Then, after a pause, he narrowed his eyes just slightly. “How many fingers we talkin’? You got a record?”

You lifted your chin. “Enough. Why? You doubting me?”

“Not at all.”

You looked at him without speaking, your expression steady. Something flickered behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or disbelief—but underneath it, you could tell: he didn’t believe you. Or maybe he did, just not fully. Not enough to take the idea seriously. Not enough to imagine you actually winning.

Joel shifted his weight slightly, leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms still folded across his chest.

“Yeah, well. I don’t believe you,” you said, stepping closer. “I can see it in your face. You don’t think I could take you. But I could. I’m faster than I look.”

Joel tilted his head, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m sure you are. Though, correct me if I’m wrong, I found you bleeding in the snow not that long ago, didn’t I?”

You nodded, unfazed. “Yeah. I won. You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Joel snorted. “Don't be smug.”

You rolled your eyes and took a small step back, still mirroring his stance with your arms crossed. You let your gaze rest on him for a moment, then sighed with exaggerated disappointment.

“Fine,” you said, shifting your weight. “Try me.”

“What?”

“Come on.” You uncrossed your arms and took another step back, as if you were clearing space between you. “Try me. You really think I couldn’t get you off me if I wanted to?”

He frowned, clearly caught off guard. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“I never said fight,” you replied with a shrug. “Just… see if you can hold me down. See if I can get you off me. That’s all.”

He raised a brow. “You said you weren’t gonna break my fingers.”

“I said I’d consider not breaking them.”

Joel huffed out a laugh. “Yeah. No.”

You exhaled, loud enough for him to hear it, and walked backward until your legs bumped against the edge of your desk. You leaned against it, arms folded, mirroring the posture he’d worn moments ago. Your eyes narrowed in challenge.

“What’s wrong? Afraid your knees can’t take it?”

Joel raised his chin. “Watch it.”

“Or is it your hip? Getting stiff with age?”

“I’m not that old.”

You tilted your head, teasing. “Don’t tell me it’s because I’m a woman. That’d be disappointing.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, standing up and brushing a hand down his face. “You were more tolerable when you weren’t talking. Go back to that.”

“If you win, I’ll stop bothering you.”

“Sure you will.”

“No, really,” you said, stepping away from the desk, slowly making your way toward him. “You win, and I’ll leave you alone. Cross my heart.”

Joel stared at you like you were some strange creature that had wandered in off the street.

“You’ve lost it. I’m not wrestling you in the middle of the damn day.”

“I’m not talking about a fight,” you said with a shrug, tone light, almost cheerful. “It’s just a matter of resistance. You keep me still, hold me down—I lose. Simple.”

His brow furrowed, like he was trying to make sense of what exactly you were proposing.

“And what exactly do I get out of this?” 

“I’ll leave you alone,” you repeated, stepping a little closer. “Peace and quiet for as long as you want it.”

Joel looked away, scanning the room, then glanced toward the hallway. He hesitated.

Then, without saying a word, he turned toward the open door, stepped forward, and shut it quietly.

The moment the door clicked shut, something shifted in the air. Your pulse kicked up, wild and uneven, like it had been startled out of rhythm. That familiar sensation swept over you again—not fear exactly, not anything close to it. This was the kind of tension that made your skin prickle, made your hands itch for contact. Not dread, but something closer to anticipation.

It reminded you of being sixteen, back at military school, all raw edges and unspent energy. Those stretches of time between lessons, when everything was too quiet, too orderly. When you and Frances would sneak out and throw yourselves into sparring matches with the girls—knuckles bruising, lungs burning, laughter catching in your throats between hits. There was something honest about it. Something beautiful, even. A release, like exhaling after trying not to cry.

You stepped forward. Joel had already turned, and when his eyes met yours, it was clear he’d made up his mind. He started toward you and you felt your mouth pull into a crooked smile, something sharp and giddy dancing just beneath your ribs. 

He took another step. You didn’t move.

And then, suddenly, he lunged.

His hands found your waist with startling precision, and before you could even breathe in, your body was twisting through the air. He tried to spin you, to pin you down, but you caught his shoulder mid-motion. Your fingers clung tight, and using the force of his own momentum, you dragged him with you.

You hit the desk together with a loud thud, his chest pressed to yours, his forearm braced against the surface just beside your head. His face was close, so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. His breath was rough against your cheek, and his skin was already flushed.

But you moved before he could settle into the hold. You twisted sharply, arched your back, and ducked beneath his arm. Your elbow connected with his side—hard enough to hurt, hard enough to throw him off. He grunted, body curling instinctively, and you shoved him back, planting your feet beneath you again.

Joel laughed. A real laugh, rough and surprised. His eyes flashed.

Then he charged again.

You moved to duck out of his reach, but Joel was faster this time. His fingers caught your wrist, and in one clean motion, he spun you around and pressed you against the wall. Your chest met the surface with a dull thud, your cheek flattened to the cool paneling. His hand splayed across your back, anchoring you there, and for a moment you were both still; breathing heavily, lungs working in tandem, hearts pounding hard enough to hear.

“Give up?” he murmured near your ear, voice low and hoarse with effort.

You smiled. Without answering, you slipped your leg behind his and kicked, a quick, precise motion that knocked him just off balance. He faltered. That was all you needed. You twisted out of his grip and turned, shoving him backward until his back hit the edge of the cabinet near the desk.

Joel caught himself before he could fall, but you were already on him. You grabbed his right arm and forced it behind his back. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to bend him forward, remind him you were quicker than you looked.

“You’re out of your damn mind,” he muttered, breath catching.

“And you’re not keeping up,” you shot back.

That made him react. In a burst of motion, he twisted, yanked his arm free, and shoved you square in the chest with his forearm. You stumbled, landing on the floor with a thud. But you didn’t stay down long—you rolled onto your hands and knees, already scanning for your next opening.

Joel was coming at you again, but you caught him mid-stride. You swept a leg beneath him, throwing his balance, and before either of you could recover, you both hit the ground—him first, then you on top.

You tried to pin his wrists, aiming to lock him beneath you, but he anticipated it. He moved with you, not against you, using your momentum to flip the two of you over. In an instant, he had you pinned, one arm on either side of your head, your wrists trapped beneath his hands. His weight pressed into you, heavy and solid, anchoring you to the floor.

You wriggled beneath him, more out of instinct than strategy. Your pulse was wild, thrumming all through your body. It was overwhelming, how aware you were of every point where he touched you.

Joel’s face hovered above yours, his breath ragged.

“You giving up? Or do you want to walk out of here covered in bruises?”

You smirked, breathless. “Is that a threat? Or a promise?”

And just like that, while his grip loosened ever so slightly, you took your shot—wrenched one wrist free, slipped your fingers around his neck, not forceful, just enough to throw him off. Then you shoved up with your legs, wedging one thigh high between the two of you, pressing it into the space beneath his hips. He grunted as his balance tipped again. You felt the shift before it happened.

He was losing control. And you weren’t done yet.

Joel let out a low, breathy laugh as you scrambled to your feet, the sound rough around the edges. You caught a glimpse of him pushing up from the floor, a small groan slipping past his lips. Still, he moved after you, slower than you but with a steady, unmistakable intent.

You took a step back, your hands instinctively lifting as if to say easy now, but it didn’t matter—he didn’t pause, didn’t flinch. Joel lunged again.

You twisted, sidestepped him just in time, but he pivoted with you. The air between you turned charged, every motion a tug-of-war for control. His hand caught your arm. Before you could brace yourself, he pulled you hard against his chest, spun you, and pressed you back—your front connecting with the wall beside your desk. The force of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

You were pinned.

His body caged yours completely, your back flush to him, the heat of him impossible to ignore. One of his hands flattened beside your head, bracing his weight. The other gripped both of your wrists, holding them firmly above you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and uneven, the tension between you taut like wire. His jaw was clenched, and his proximity felt almost unreal.

“Is that really all you've got?” he murmured, voice pitched low, brushing against the shell of your ear.

You parted your lips to say something back, something sharp or reckless, but the moment shattered.

The door slammed open without warning.

Tommy strode in casually, mid-thought, but stopped cold as soon as he saw the two of you. His brows drew together instantly.

You jerked away from Joel like the wall had burned you.

You reached up quickly, fixing your hair, trying to find your breath. Joel took a wide step back. He turned away, already halfway to the desk, picking up a stack of papers like nothing had happened.

“Tommy… hi,” you said, voice higher than usual, not quite steady. You didn’t dare look directly at him as you crossed the room and sank into your chair, pretending to shuffle through your notebook, your pulse still thrumming under your skin.

Joel said nothing. Tommy still hadn't moved. And your skin still tingled where Joel had touched you.

"I... I just came to check how everything was going," Tommy said, stepping farther into the room with a kind of casual purpose, though there was a flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. He had a rifle slung over one shoulder and wore a plaid button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

Joel didn’t turn around. He kept his back to both of you, flipping through the same stack of papers he'd already looked at twice.

“So, everything okay in here?” he asked, letting his gaze rest on you before switching to Joel. “Joel.”

Joel didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah. Everything’s fine,” he said, sharper than necessary, like the words had been waiting behind his teeth. He stood upright and walked around the desk, lowering himself into his chair. “Ellie’s not joining us for dinner tonight.”

Tommy gave a small nod, then turned to you, his tone shifting into something warmer.

“That’s actually why I came by. Maria and I were wondering if you’d like to come over tonight. Dinner with us. And Joel and... Just Joel.”

You felt Joel’s stare, the weight of it—how pointed and immediate it was. Like he was trying to will you into silence with his eyes alone. Still, you smiled.

“I’d love to,” you said simply, letting the warmth reach your voice but not overdoing it.

Tommy beamed. “Great. We’ll see you at seven, then.”

“Seven o’clock it is,” you confirmed.

There was a moment of quiet as Tommy lingered, his eyes flicking between the two of you again. His lips pressed together in a half-smile. Then, with a small nod, he turned and left, the door falling shut behind him.

You let out a long breath, the kind that only comes after holding something in for too long. A smile, amused and quiet, tugged at your lips.

Joel made a noise—something between a snort and a sigh—and shook his head, not looking at you.

Tommy and Maria’s house. That same day. Evening.

Something had shifted.

Not entirely new, things had been off from the beginning. But now the strangeness had taken on a different texture. Joel noticed it immediately. It was in the way you didn’t look at him after lunch. Not overtly. You weren’t dramatic about it. But he noticed.

Hours after Tommy had wandered into the office and caught the two of you mid-wrestle, you were both in the dining hall. Joel stepped backward without checking his surroundings and collided with you.

He winced. You smiled. You both startled, your shoulders brushing.

“I’m sorry,” you said at the same time.

He turned to you, already bracing for your annoyance. But you were smiling—kind of. Your expression was hard to read, like you were caught off guard too. And your cheeks—he swore they were flushed. He turned to look at you again, a crease between his brows, but you were already walking past him, quiet.

Later, out in the stables, he stood beside Tommy, brushing dust off his jeans, watching Shimmer paw at the ground. Tommy was mid-thought about something else entirely when he changed course.

“So what’s going on with Snow?” he asked casually, resting both arms on the fence.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He hoped Tommy would just let it hang there, floating into nothing.

“What’s going on with what?” he asked anyway, noncommittal.

“You know,” Tommy replied, shrugging, not looking at him.

“No, I don’t.”

Tommy hesitated, as if trying to phrase it more gently, but then gave up.

“Okay, look—I don’t really know how to dance around this, so I’ll just ask. Why the hell did it look like you had her pinned against the wall? Is this... is there something going on? Or has this weird tension finally morphed into something we should be having an official discussion about?”

Joel shook his head immediately. “Forget it. It was nothing.”

“So you admit it’s something weird.”

“There’s nothing weird.”

“Then what was that?”

Joel squinted at him. “I told you to assign her somewhere else.”

Tommy let out a laugh through his nose. “Yeah? You didn’t look too bothered about it earlier.”

Joel turned toward him. His jaw tightened. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Tommy grinned, unbothered.

Joel didn’t smile back. Or maybe he just didn’t get it. Or maybe he did—and didn’t want to.

Now, hours later, Joel straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the kitchen counter, posture stiff, pretending to do something useful. The front door had opened—he heard it. And then your voice. Light. Warm. Cheerful like you didn’t know how to be anything else.

He closed his eyes briefly. That voice had become a kind of headache lately. Persistent, impossible to ignore, and entirely your fault.

He lingered in the kitchen longer than necessary, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. But eventually Maria came into the room, arms folded, one eyebrow lifted.

“What are you still doing in here?” she asked, not unkindly. But the subtext was clear: Move.

He sighed and pushed off the counter, dragging his feet into the living room. You were there, sitting, mid-laugh. Your eyes flicked up when he entered, and the conversation stopped immediately.

Joel took the armchair by the window, the one slightly turned away from the others. He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

There was a stretch of silence, not uncomfortable exactly.

“So,” Maria said eventually, turning toward you with a smile. “How’s work going?”

Joel looked at you, his expression unreadable. Part of him—some petty, irrational part—wanted you to say it was terrible. That you were miserable. That working with him had become so unbearable you were ready to quit.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you smiled.

“Great, actually,” you said brightly. “I think I’m doing really well.”

There was a pause. You tilted your head toward him, your tone still pleasant but edged now. “Of course, I might not be the best person to judge that. Right, Joel?”

He stared at you, caught. Opened his mouth, closed it. Then opened it again.

“If I were you,” he said, finally, “I’d keep my options open.”

Maria blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tommy jumped in before the silence got heavy again.

“Snow’s doing a good job,” he said, trying to smooth things over. “Right, Joel?”

Joel looked down at his hands. Said nothing. Pretended there was something under his fingernail that needed attention.

You exhaled a short laugh, not quite amused.

“He’s not going to admit it. He never does. He’s only vocal when I mess something up. Otherwise, he’s quiet. That’s how I know things are okay—because he doesn’t say anything at all.”

Maria laughed, the sound easy. “Well, communication is pretty key to keeping any machine running. Like gears, you know? If one’s silent, it’s usually broken.”

Joel felt your gaze on him then, like heat against the side of his face. He didn’t look up. Didn’t give you that satisfaction. He avoided your eyes, even when you all moved to the dining table.

Unfortunately for him, that didn’t matter, it didn't work.

You sat directly across from him anyway.

Dinner began easily enough. The conversation, at first, revolved entirely around Jackson—its people, its systems, its small, hard-won triumphs. You listened intently, asked questions with genuine interest. Joel could see it in the way your eyes lit up, your posture leaning just slightly forward, your voice rising when you spoke to Tommy and Maria.

You admired them. That much was obvious. It came through in everything you said; how you referred to the town, how you seemed to understand its structure without needing it explained twice. Joel had suspected, in those early weeks, that your endless curiosity was partly performative, a subtle way of getting under his skin. Now he saw it differently. It wasn’t about him. This was simply part of you.

“I know I’ve said this before,” you began, your plate empty now, your voice quiet but sure, “but I really am grateful you opened your doors to me.” You were looking at them when you said it. Only them. Not at Joel. “I honestly never imagined a place like this could exist in the kind of world we live in.”

Maria smiled at you. “Well, it’s very nice having you here. You’ve really blended into Jackson beautifully.”

You tilted your head slightly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at your lips. “Do you think so?”

Joel caught it—the hesitation behind your question. The need for reassurance. You were good at hiding it, but not from him.

“Of course,” Maria said. “At first I thought it might take you longer to settle in. Actually, I assumed you wouldn’t want to start working right away.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh no, I had to. I couldn’t let myself stay here without contributing something. It wouldn’t feel right. I needed to earn it.”

Tommy nodded thoughtfully. “No, but it makes sense. Your situation was... well, it wasn’t easy. Needing some time would’ve been perfectly natural.”

Maria looked at you then, more closely. Her tone softened. “But you’re okay now, right?”

You took a sip from your glass before answering. There was a pause—brief, but thick enough for everyone to notice. You set the glass back down carefully, then smiled.

“Yeah. My days are about as peaceful as they can be.”

Maria nodded, still watching you. “If you ever want to change jobs, just know you can. That’s always an option.”

Joel looked down at his plate then, his fingers resting against the fork but unmoving. Something about the offer scratched at him.

Tommy, sensing the shift, jumped in lightly. “It’s just a thought. Personally, I think you’re great where you are.”

Joel lifted his eyes toward you then, just in time to catch your moment of hesitation. It was brief. Still, he saw it.

“She’s fine,” he said, his voice level but faintly defensive. “I’m not a monster.”

Maria waved him off with a gentle smile. “It’s not about that, Joel. No one thinks that. It’s just important to make space for choice. Because, Snow, I was thinking—maybe there’s something else you’d rather be doing. Something you haven’t told us. Now that you’re feeling stronger, it’s worth asking.”

The table went quiet for a moment. You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes widened slightly, a reflex, and your eyebrows lifted in thought.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” you said. A faint smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as your hand moved, almost unconsciously, to the delicate heart charm resting against your collarbone. You touched it with the tips of your fingers. “But I’ve always liked children.”

Across the table, Joel shifted in his chair. He leaned forward, resting both elbows on the wood and clasping his hands together. His gaze remained fixed on you.

“Really?” Tommy asked.

You nodded, still touching the charm.

“There’s always a need for volunteers at the school,” Maria offered gently. “Would you be interested in something like that? Teaching, I mean?”

Your smile wavered. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d need time to prepare. I mean, I don’t really know how to teach anything. I was under twelve when everything changed, so... I guess I missed most of what school used to be.” You laughed softly, almost apologetically. “I do like kids. I just don’t know if I’d be any good with them, not in that way.”

Tommy leaned back slightly. “Benji really likes you.”

Your head tilted, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “You can always tell with kids.”

“They’re transparent,” Maria added, nodding. “That’s the thing about them. You always know where you stand.”

You smiled then, brighter, a flicker of genuine happiness. “Yeah. They are. They're... really honest. Sophie is always very—”

You stopped. The brightness faded just enough to leave your features bare. The air seemed to catch in your throat. You looked down.

“I’m sorry,” you said, adjusting slightly in your seat. You cleared your throat, like that might undo the moment. “Sophie, my kid—she was really honest. Transparent, too. All the time.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He was watching you now with a quiet intensity, and though he said nothing yet, he caught the way your eyes dropped, your fingers retreating from the charm at your chest.

Tommy and Maria didn’t speak for a beat. The silence wasn’t awkward, just careful.

Tommy smiled eventually, voice warm. “Sophie’s a beautiful name.”

You looked up again, the gratitude in your eyes unmistakable. Your expression shifted, something between relief and sorrow, and you nodded.

“It is,” you said quietly. And then, after a breath, “I’m sorry. This is... the first time I’ve said her name out loud.” You looked down at your plate. “I—I—”

“You’re pretty transparent,” Joel said, and his voice surprised him. 

You looked at him, eyes wide again, but different now. He didn’t falter.

“And honest, too,” he added. “I’ve seen that. It’s nice that Sophie brought that out in you.”

You held his gaze. There was nothing performative in your silence. Then you smiled.

Joel didn’t look toward Tommy or Maria. He didn’t need to.

You nodded slowly. “Thank you,” you said. “It’s nice to think that.”

“That’s right,” Joel murmured, reaching for his glass again. He took a sip and looked down at his plate.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, your voice quieter now. Joel glanced up at you, expecting the apology to be aimed at him, but you were looking at Tommy and Maria instead. “I didn’t mean to make dinner uncomfortable—”

“Oh, please,” Maria interrupted, shaking her head. “Don’t say that. You felt safe enough to say her name. That’s not something to apologize for. That’s a gift.”

You nodded. Joel could tell you were trying to end the moment there.

But then your voice returned, softer now. “Thank you. I just think about her all the time. About how much she would’ve liked it here.” You smiled faintly. “I mean, I’m still freaking out over everything. She would've been ten times worse.”

Tommy chuckled. “Anything in particular?”

“Movies,” you said instantly, and your face changed. Something brighter flickered through you. “I love movies. Always have. When I was a kid, I’d spend whole summers watching them on this tiny little TV with built-in VHS. And with Sophie, I used to tell her about them. She didn’t get to see many, but every night I’d describe one to her like a bedtime story.”

Maria’s eyes softened. “What kind did she like?”

You let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Romantic comedies. Mostly because they were so bizarre to her. The idea that the worst thing that could happen to you was getting your heart broken by some guy? She thought it was hilarious.”

Joel noticed the way your mouth curved to the side, revealing the smallest dimple in your cheek.

“I remember once I told her the plot of Bridget Jones’s Diary. Sophie thought it was absurd. She was like, ‘That’s her biggest problem? Who to kiss?’ Meanwhile, we were running from infected. She said the people in those movies were weak and lame.”

Tommy laughed, shaking his head. “She wasn’t wrong. Unfair.”

“Totally unfair,” you agreed, your tone playful. You rolled your eyes dramatically and looked down for a moment, like you were laughing at your past self.

Joel sat very still.

There was something in the way you were telling the story, open, light, even funny, but with something fragile just beneath it. Like you were holding the memory in your hands, carefully, so it wouldn’t crack.

“How old was she?” Joel asked before he could stop himself.

The question caught the air between you like a thread pulled too tight. His own voice sounded strange to him.

He regretted it instantly.

But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t shrink.

“Twelve,” you said.

Joel didn’t say anything. He met your eyes, and something in his chest gave a quiet, private ache.

You held his gaze, your expression unreadable. Not guarded, just... steady.

Then Maria spoke again, gently breaking the quiet.

“I’m sure we’ve got some rom-coms tucked away, if you ever feel like watching one.”

Your head turned to her, and the smile that returned to your face was genuine. “Really?”

Tommy started listing the titles they’d collected over the years—things they'd found in the ruins of forgotten living rooms, in cardboard boxes in basements, in abandoned stores where dust clung to every inch of hope. The rom-coms had been surprisingly easy to find. People used to keep them everywhere.

Joel didn’t say another word.

He sat back, the conversation moving on around him, but his mind stayed anchored to a single name.

Sophie. Twelve years old. Gone.

And yet, somehow, still part of the way your voice softened.

When dinner ended, Joel stood without thinking. He hadn’t said much—he realized that now, in hindsight—but it didn’t feel strange. Words hadn’t felt necessary.

Tommy said something as Joel moved toward the door. Something friendly, about the patrol schedule or maybe the new fencing around the east perimeter. Joel nodded automatically, barely absorbing the words. His attention had drifted elsewhere.

You were already at the door, arms wrapped around Maria in a warm, familiar hug. Then you stepped back and smiled at Tommy, and he smiled at you, and the exchange—though simple—was soft in a way that made Joel look down at his hands.

He followed your lead, hugging Tommy, murmuring something kind in Maria’s direction. It was automatic, habitual.

By the time he stepped outside, you were already moving. You descended the porch steps, boots touching the ground with quiet rhythm, and walked ahead, your silhouette folding easily into the stillness of the air.

The night was beautiful. Mild, hushed, the air washed clean by an earlier rain that left everything smelling of cedar and damp earth.

Joel started walking too.

Not after you. That wasn’t the idea.

His house was in the same direction. That was all.

Still, as your shape shifted through the soft shadows in front of him, he found himself watching. Not intentionally. Just… observing. The swing of your arms. The way your hair moved when a breeze caught it. The way your head tilted slightly, as if you were listening to something he couldn’t hear.

He felt curious.

The word landed inside him like something unfamiliar, or maybe something long-forgotten. And he wondered... strangely, stupidly, if curiosity made him more like you. If that was something you felt all the time. If that’s why you spoke the way you did, asked the questions you asked, looked at the world like it still held mystery.

Then you stopped. Just like that. No warning.

He stopped too, instinctively.

You turned around, arms crossing over your chest as your eyes met his. Your expression was neutral.

“Are you following me?”

Joel blinked.

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly. “My house is this way. I figured you knew that, since you’ve already been there—against my will, I might add.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Oh. Right.”

There was a beat of quiet. Then, with one eyebrow raised, you asked, “But did you have to walk behind me like that?”

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitched. “What was I supposed to do? Jog ahead and pass you like we’re racing?”

You didn’t laugh, but your eyes flickered.

“Why? Would you like that?”

Joel let out a sharp breath that sounded vaguely like a laugh, more out of disbelief than amusement. He shook his head once, almost imperceptibly, then turned and kept walking, brushing past you without looking back.

“I think we’re done with all this nonsense of yours,” he said, his tone flat. “Will you leave me alone now?”

He could hear your boots scraping against the ground, you followed him. Of course. Not ready to drop it. You picked up your pace until you were walking beside him again.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I beat you,” he muttered, eyes forward.

“You beat me? At what?”

Joel exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long. “You said you’d leave me alone if I beat you. And I did.”

You laughed. “You didn’t beat me at anything, Tommy came in just as I was about to—”

“What?” He glanced sideways at you, eyes narrowing, though he didn’t stop walking. “Beat me? You weren’t going to succeed.”

You smirked. “I was being kind to you, Joel. I could’ve gone hard if I wanted.”

Joel let out a sound, something between a scoff and a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Sure. You, kind. That was the story you were sticking to.

He didn’t say anything. Just months ago you’d been barely able to walk. A knife wound under your ribs, barely stitched together, and a body that refused to bend or stretch without complaint. And him... he was easily twice your weight and all of it muscle and scar tissue. If this was a joke, it was a good one.

“Well,” he said eventually, “I was being pretty gentle too. Wasn’t exactly trying.”

“Why?” you asked, cutting in quickly.

His eyes flicked toward your house, which was coming into view just a block ahead.

“Don’t tell me it’s because of my accident,” you said.

He didn’t respond, but the silence between you sharpened.

“I don’t need your pity,” you said quietly as you approached your street. Then, abruptly, you stopped walking.

Joel took a few more steps before realizing, then turned to face you. 

“Seriously,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward your porch. “Don’t you have anything else to do besides follow me around and pick fights? Go home. Rest. You’ve done enough for one day.”

You tilted your head, the smallest curve of a smile forming on your lips.

“Don’t play dumb,” you said, stepping toward him, the distance between you shrinking.

He furrowed his brow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I know you enjoyed this,” you said, voice softer but no less certain. “You had fun today.”

Joel stared at you like you’d said something entirely out of touch with reality. 'Cause you did.

“You laughed,” you said, your voice almost playful. “More than once, actually. It’s obvious you find something funny about all this—fighting and pinning me down. Am I wrong?”

The way you said it—light, teasing, like it didn’t matter at all—made something in Joel itch to start another argument.

“There’s nothing funny about it,” he said, his jaw tight. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It’s what people do to survive. What’s so damn amusing about that?”

You didn’t answer right away. He saw the pause in your face, the moment you looked off to the side, maybe trying to find the right language for something that didn’t quite fit into words.

“Nothing about surviving is fun to me,” you said, your voice quieter now, but still clear. “But there’s something… I don’t know. There’s a kind of satisfaction in realizing you’re strong. That you can hold it, use it, control it. Especially when everything else feels impossible to control.”

Joel exhaled through his nose and looked away, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was still standing here listening to this.

“You get all poetic and shit,” he muttered. “But you’re not convincing me.”

He turned and began walking again, putting space between you without ceremony. Today, for some reason, you seemed harder to tolerate than usual. Maybe it was the look in your eye when you said things like that—like you wanted him to unravel everything he spent years refusing to look at. And sure, he understood the point: control, strength, power. All those big abstract things. But he had lived long enough to know they were just words, sometimes. 

He’d used force his entire life. And though he never liked admitting it, there had been a time when it came easy—when his body knew exactly what to do and didn’t hesitate. When each punch took something out of him, sure, but also put something back in. A brief quiet. An emptiness, even, that felt better than rage. But that was before. 

You caught up to him, your steps quicker now, passing him with ease as your house came into view.

“Okay, but just so we’re clear—you didn’t win,” you said, glancing back at him with a smirk. “No matter how badly you want to believe that, cowboy.”

Joel stopped walking. Something about the way you said it, the way you tossed it over your shoulder like a challenge, made him freeze.

You were already climbing the steps to your porch. He watched the sway of your hips, the certainty in your walk. And then—

“Hey,” he called out. His voice came out louder than expected, sharp in the quiet street.

You stopped instantly and looked back at him, one hand on the railing. The look on your face was unreadable.

Joel pivoted sharply and moved toward you, his steps clipped and purposeful, each one heavier than the last. He climbed the porch stairs, and you took a small step back.

He didn’t stop until you were nearly pressed against the wall, your shoulders brushing the wood. His chest rose and fell with restraint.

“Open the damn door,” he said, his voice tight, almost too loud.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

He gestured toward the door behind you. He was practically radiating frustration now.

“Open it. You want to do this? Fine. Let’s do it. Right now.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Joel could feel his irritation gathering at the back of his neck, crawling into his jaw. But then you tilted your head slightly, and your mouth curled into something that looked dangerously close to a smirk.

He hated that look.

Just as he opened his mouth to snap again, you cut in with faux sincerity: “Wow, Joel. I’m… flattered. But I don’t think this is the time—”

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered, practically groaning the words. His face twisted into something caught between disbelief and pure exhaustion.

You laughed quietly, then gave a small nod. You stepped aside, brushing against his arm, and turned the doorknob.

But Joel didn’t wait. He crossed the threshold before you could, brushing past like he couldn’t stand being outside one second longer.

He was done—done with the quips and the constant back-and-forth. The way you seemed to enjoy needling him, like every interaction was just another chance to poke at his patience and see what came loose. And yet, there were moments where you were soft-spoken and startlingly sincere. Where your eyes stopped dancing and looked at him with that... damn look. That contrast, that unpredictability, it drove him mad.

He didn’t understand you. And that might’ve been the most irritating thing of all.

When Joel stepped inside, he walked into the living room and stopped abruptly, his boots pausing on the rug like they’d landed somewhere unfamiliar, even though it wasn’t. Not entirely.

He scanned the space—his eyes moving across the room, over the furniture, toward the corners. The last time he’d been here, the place had been empty. Just walls, half-painted. A mattress leaning against a wall. Tools scattered near the back door. That had been weeks ago, before you'd moved in. Before the place had turned into yours.

He remembered working on the cabinets in your kitchen, running his fingers over the fresh grain of the wood, smoothing it down until it felt good enough. He’d spent a full day polishing the doors in your bedroom and bathroom, fixing hinges that didn’t align properly. He wasn't going to tell you about it.

Now, the room looked like someone lived in it—really lived in it. There were clothes draped over the arm of the couch, a sweatshirt with one sleeve nearly touching the floor. A mug sat on the coffee table, the ring of dried tea barely visible from where he stood. On the side table: an unlit candle, a closed paperback with a bookmark jutting out crookedly, like you'd walked away mid-paragraph. And the air carried something —something that was distinctly you. Not perfume, not any of the herbal scents you brought home from the greenhouse. Just your home.

“Would you like something to drink?” you asked as you walked around the couch, your voice soft, a kind of hospitality that made him uncomfortable.

He frowned, his body stiff. “No. Can we just get this over with?”

You laughed under your breath. “Sure.”

You didn’t move right away. You just looked at him. There was no aggression in your expression, but the intensity was worse. You watched him like you were trying to figure something out. And he hated that. Hated the way your gaze landed on him and stayed.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, almost to himself.

You sighed, not dramatically, just tired. Then you started walking toward him, your steps easy, measured. Joel’s shoulders tensed as you closed the space between you. Instinct made him shift back a little.

“Okay,” you said, shrugging. “You go first. Like before.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward.

His movements were sharp at the start, measured, like he was solving a problem in real time. His hands came up—careful, open. He watched how you adjusted: the slight movement of your feet, the line of your shoulders, the angle of your hips as you leaned to the side and dodged.

He was analyzing you, trying to anticipate the next second before it happened.

So, the first move came from Joel—a firm hand, angled toward your shoulder, an attempt to push you back and gauge your footing. It was measured, controlled, a test more than a threat. But you caught his wrist midair, your fingers curling around bone and tendon, and with a swift pivot of your hips you tried to twist his arm behind him.

He didn’t let you.

With barely a shift in expression, he anchored himself lower, grounding his weight like a reflex. Then, in one smooth, practiced motion, he turned, used his hip as leverage, and sent you flying backward onto the couch.

You landed with a soft thud, your spine bouncing slightly against the cushions. A quiet laugh slipped out of you—quick, breathy, involuntary. Not mockery. Not quite amusement either. 

You aimed a kick toward him from where you lay, a low sweep meant to startle or provoke. Joel stepped easily out of its path. Your smile, small and visible just for a moment, told him everything he needed to know: this wasn’t sparring anymore.

You launched yourself forward, your whole body pushing into him with sudden momentum. Your hands met his chest with a shove, driving him backward—once, then again—toward the coffee table. Joel’s boots scraped against the rug. He adjusted, recalibrated, eyes locked on yours. You hooked your leg behind his knee, tried to tip him, take him down.

He caught you mid-motion.

His arms closed around you, arms that felt like steel wrapped in something deceptively human. You could barely breathe. For a beat, you were suspended there—weightless in his grasp—and then he let you fall.

The floor met you hard. Your back hit the rug, air punched from your lungs in a quick gasp. He hadn’t thrown you with cruelty, but there was nothing soft in it either. 

Joel knelt above you, one arm braced on either side of your ribcage, his body practically vibrating with effort. His face hovered close, unreadable but not distant.

“Did that hurt?” he asked. His voice was flat.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, jaw clenched. The burn across your back was fading already, replaced by something sharper, something electric. In one swift motion, you twisted your hips and drove your weight upward, catching him off balance. He tipped sideways with a grunt, landing against the floor.

And then you were up again—standing, poised, heart drumming in your ears.

Across from you, Joel rose too, with a grunt. His movements quicker now. Tension in his shoulders. His eyes alert.

The second round was messier.

You met in the middle of the room with force, your bodies colliding as if trying to prove something to yourselves rather than each other. Every movement felt sharper now, every breath louder. Joel caught you first, backed you up against the wall by the fireplace, one hand planted firmly on your shoulder, the other gripping your wrist tight. His forearm pressed against your chest, pinning you just enough to provoke a reaction.

You gave him one.

A hard jab of your knee to his side—angled just enough to throw him off. His grip slipped. You shoved him, palms flat against his chest, and he staggered back, nearly lost his balance. His heel clipped the side table and sent it lurching, books and a candle crashing to the ground.

But he didn’t fall.

He righted himself, eyes locked on yours, face flushed, jaw tight. There was something fierce and unsaid behind the way he moved now, something past irritation, past play.

He lunged again, his hands finding your waist this time, lifting you clean off the floor like it cost him nothing. You weren’t prepared for it. You beat your fists against his back as he carried you across the room, ignoring the hits, setting you down roughly on the floor near the armchair.

Your bodies tangled again, your elbow against his chest, your foot hooked behind his knee, trying to trap, to flip. You fought dirty but Joel was solid, grounded. More than you could match. He slipped free of the hold and rolled to the side, then caught you again before you could get to your knees.

His left arm curled around the back of your neck, firm enough to hold you in place. Your torso twisted against his, your breath catching as your spine arched, trying to create space between your body and his.

“You’re holding back,” you whispered, your voice rough from the effort.

Joel didn’t reply. His jaw tensed. His arm didn’t loosen.

You went still for a beat—your head pressed to the carpet, one knee bent beneath you, the other leg outstretched. Beneath him, your muscles ached with resistance, but you didn’t move. It wasn’t surrender. It was calculation.

Because seconds later, you twisted again, harder this time, using the floor, your hips, your momentum. And Joel had to shift with you, adjusting his grip, holding you down with more certainty.

Joel felt the shift in your body before he fully registered it; how the tension in your muscles softened just enough beneath him. Not surrender. Nothing that definitive. Maybe a pause. 

His forearm remained braced under your neck, steady and measured. It wasn’t meant to hurt, just to hold. Your faces were so close that your breath mixed with his, hot and uneven in the narrow space between. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest. Hear it. And for a second, he frowned, unsure what to do with the closeness, unsure why it felt like something he hadn’t prepared for.

But before he could react, you moved.

Your legs snapped around his waist, and with a sharp twist of your hips, you flipped him. It happened so fast it startled him; not the force of it, but the precision. His back hit the carpet with a muffled thud, and a grunt escaped him, less from pain than sheer disbelief. His arms went instinctively to brace himself, but it was already too late.

You had him.

Your hands closed around his wrists and pushed them to the floor above his shoulders, pinning him with confidence, not strength. You straddled his torso, knees planted on either side, anchoring yourself with perfect balance. It wasn’t aggression. It was control. And worse: it was calm.

He tested your grip, pulling at his arms just to see how far you’d let him go. You didn’t budge. Your grip held firm, fingers tightening in response. You didn’t gloat. You didn’t grin. Your face had gone quiet, intent, almost studious. Your eyes scanned his like you were watching something inside him move.

Joel stared back, expression hard, unmoved. That was his default: blankness under pressure. But inside, something caved. He was impressed. Admittedly. Unwilling to say it out loud. But it was there.

You shifted your weight a little, subtly lowering your upper body toward his, enough to narrow the space again. Your hands were still locked around his wrists. Your forearms strained. But your face—your eyes—seemed to be reading him like a puzzle you were getting closer to solving.

And then he felt it.

The change was small. Barely there. A faint pressure from your knees against his ribs. The slight turn of your hips, not enough to throw him, just enough to unnerve. Just enough to let him know that whatever this was it wasn’t finished.

Joel twisted his leg, aiming to catch yours and throw you off balance. But you read it before it happened. Without hesitation, you released one of his wrists and reached for his face, pressing your palm to his cheek and shoving his head sideways, pinning him harder against the floor. Your other forearm slid across his neck.

He grunted, his breath catching in the space between effort and disbelief.

“Is that all you’ve got, Miller?” you asked, panting slightly, voice frayed from exertion but still unmistakably amused.

Joel felt his teeth press together, not from anger. It was something closer to provocation. Your words didn’t come laced with arrogance, but with heat. A challenge. And it worked. Not just physically. Mentally. You were inside the fight, and inside his head, and that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

He shifted under you again, muscles contracting as he tried to use the momentum of his torso to knock you off. You responded immediately, adjusting your weight, closing your legs around his middle, anchoring yourself deeper. You moved with precision, resisting every attempt he made to gain leverage.

Joel let his head drop against the floor, exhaling hard through his nose. Not giving up. Just calculating. Resetting.

“You’re not staying up there all night,” he growled, voice low and tight.

You leaned down slowly. Your hair spilled across his face, brushing his temple.

“I can try,” you whispered.

He felt your breath skim his skin. Warm. Barely there. And something sharp lit up in his spine. Not pain. Not entirely desire either. Something deeper, lodged between the physical and something else.

Joel closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. Not in surrender. In preparation.

You were winning. You knew it. And still—he let you believe it.

He softened just a little. Let the fight drain from his arms. Let his body settle into the floor. It wasn’t defeat. It was strategy. He shifted his weight, exhaled loudly through his nose, let out a frustrated snort that sounded convincing enough. He angled his gaze to the side like maybe he was checking out of this.

You adjusted. Not fully, not foolishly, but enough. You lifted your body slightly, changed the grip on his wrists. A tiny recalibration. Subtle. A misstep.

Joel waited. One heartbeat. Two.

And then he moved.

Clean, practiced, inevitable. His arm snapped free, hips twisting as he planted one boot against the ground. He grabbed your waist with both hands before you could retreat. Your eyes widened, he felt it in the shift of your weight, but it was too late.

He had you.

With a sharp twist of his torso, Joel flipped you beneath him. Your back hit the carpet hard, the impact blooming across your shoulder blades. Before you could react, he was already on you—one knee wedged between your legs, anchoring you in place. His arm slid under your neck again while his other hand kept your wrist pinned above your head, fingers tight around your pulse.

You exhaled sharply, chest rising in uneven gasps. You tried to shift, to push upward with your core, but he pressed you back down. He was in control again. The tide had turned, and he wanted you to feel it.

Your eyes locked with his, the heat between you immediate and impossible to ignore. There was frustration there—yes—but also something wilder.

“You were letting me win,” you said, voice tight with effort, your breath threading through clenched teeth.

“Maybe,” he replied, unfazed.

“And now?”

Joel leaned down, close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. His voice was quiet, nearly lost in the hum of your shared breathing.

“Now I have you.”

You twisted beneath him again, instinctively, as if your body refused to accept the words. But his weight shifted subtly, his thigh pressing in. He knew how to keep someone still. Knew the angles, the pressure points, the silent language of resistance. You felt it in every inch of him: the calculation, the restraint, the knowledge of exactly how to hold you without crossing a line.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. His, too. The rhythm of your exhales mingled in the quiet room, ragged and metered. The lamplight softened everything it touched, gold at the edges, and the night outside pressed gently against the windows, waiting for none of it.

“You’re heavy,” you muttered, panting.

Joel didn’t respond. He just looked at you, eyes locked on yours.

And still, he didn’t move.

You could feel every part of him. The press of his thigh. The tension in his grip. The way his body curved just slightly above yours, not crushing, not hovering—just there. Held at that thin, dangerous line where dominance turned into something unspoken. 

He released your wrist slowly, letting your arm fall beside your head. But he didn’t shift away.

Not yet.

He remained above you, breathing hard, chest rising and falling against yours. Your gazes never broke. Not when his fingers loosened. Not when the fight paused.

You kept looking at him like you were daring him to try again.

Eventually, Joel sat up. He planted his palms flat on the carpet, pushed himself to his knees, and rose, his body creaking in quiet protest. He was older, yes, but intact. He glanced down at you. You were still on the floor, your chest rising in fast, measured bursts under your fitted T-shirt, jaw clenched like you refused to give him even the satisfaction of breath. 

He didn’t say anything. Just reached forward and grabbed the collar of your shirt, his hand rough as he tugged you upright with a single, ungraceful pull.

But you didn’t let him finish the motion. You growled—a low, primal sound—and shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. Joel stumbled back, barely catching his footing before you launched forward.

You collided in the middle of the room, bodies slamming together like something inside had finally snapped. It wasn’t a fight anymore. Not exactly. It was pressure meeting pressure. Frustration meeting friction.

Joel tried to get a grip on your arms, but you twisted, lowered your stance, slid beneath his hold. You were quick. Too quick. You collided again, arms locking, torsos pressing, breath catching. The air between you was gone, replaced by heat, skin, movement. There was no room for hesitation now.

Joel caught you from behind—finally, solidly. His arm locked across your chest, pulling you back against him. His other hand wrapped around your wrist, anchoring it tight. You twisted instinctively, searching for leverage, but he adjusted, pressed his chest against your back, held you flush to him.

Your body bristled. You gritted your teeth, let out a noise between frustration and fire. You lifted both legs, planted your feet against the wall in front of you, using it like a springboard. Joel felt the tension ripple through your body a second before you kicked back.

The impact sent both of you stumbling backward. His boots scraped the floor, his center shifting—but he didn’t let go. Not even close. His grip stayed firm, like you weighed nothing, like you belonged there.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” he murmured, his voice brushing your ear. His tone was low, taut, almost tired. “You’ve been riding my nerves all day. I’m not about to let you go now.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

You writhed instead—elbowing, pushing, testing his hold in every direction. Every breath was a clash of bodies, your heart pounding in rhythm with his. Then, in one sharp motion, you drove your right elbow into his ribs. He grunted, the breath catching in his throat. It hit hard. Not hard enough.

In response, Joel shoved you against the nearest wall, his arm still wrapped across your chest, the full weight of him pinning you from behind. His breath was hot on your neck now; heavy, ragged. You could feel the way his chest moved with each inhale, pressed tight against your back.

Joel let go of your wrist, only to slide his hand into your hair, finding the base of your skull with practiced certainty. His fingers curled tight, and he pulled—firm, controlled, a line of tension drawn through your spine. You arched in response, instinctively, your throat exposed, lips parting with a soft exhale. The movement wasn’t violent. But it was unmistakable.

It was a message.

You tried to twist free, but he had you locked between his chest and the wall—one arm looped tight across your middle, anchoring you in place. It was a precarious hold; if either of you shifted too far, the moment would fracture. But right now, Joel had you. 

He could feel your pulse under your skin, thudding like a warning. The space where your bodies touched radiated warmth, unbearable and magnetic. He tightened his grip, not to hurt, just to remind you—he’d taken back control. You had lost ground. And you knew it.

And then... you laughed.

Barely more than a breath. A soft sound, but sharp enough to break through the haze. Joel’s brow furrowed instinctively. He tilted his head down, tugged at your hair to shift your face toward his line of sight, to see what this was. What the hell you were thinking.

You were smiling.

Not a smirk. Not sarcastic. It was quiet, honest—like you were exactly where you wanted to be, like this tension, this stalemate, was some kind of private victory. Not over him. Just… for you.

Joel felt something tighten in his chest, deep and unplaceable. Something not entirely rational.

What the fuck is she doing? The thought came quickly, then repeated, distorted, like a static hum in the back of his mind.

The uncertainty unsettled him more than anything you'd done physically.

And then you moved.

Sharp. Certain. Not hesitation—decision.

You turned your head just enough. Lifted your face.

Found his mouth with yours.

The kiss landed hard. Not hesitant, not curious. It was purposeful, physical, urgent, full. Your lips crashed into his with the same force you used to fight him, teeth grazing, breath tangling, intention spilling out unchecked.

And Joel—froze.

For two full seconds, maybe three, he didn’t move. He didn’t respond. His body felt suspended, like his nerves had short-circuited and left him standing there, chest to back, absorbing the weight of your mouth, the taste of your breath. He couldn’t tell if he was resisting or simply stunned.

And then—something gave.

He let go.

All at once.

His hands left your body, dropping from your back, your neck, as if contact burned. He stepped backward, a full pace, the space between you reappearing in a sudden gust. His brow was drawn, eyes unreadable, hands hovering uselessly at his sides.

He looked at you, lips parted like there was something forming behind them—but no words came.

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was filled.

You didn’t speak either.

You just stood there, breathing each other’s air from a distance.

You turned fast, your back hitting the wall with a soft thud as you faced him again. It was instinct, mostly. Like you needed a barrier behind you, something solid to keep from unraveling. Your gaze met his as if daring him to move, to try again.

But Joel didn’t move.

He stood completely still, not even breathing, it seemed. His eyes were on you, unreadable, like he wasn’t in his own body anymore but watching from somewhere just outside of it. You saw the tension in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. And then—he saw it too.

You braced.

And then you lunged.

But Joel moved faster this time. Faster than before. With nothing left of hesitation. His hands caught your shoulders and slammed you back against the wall with enough force to steal the air from your lungs. A rough sound escaped you—part shock, part surrender—but it was swallowed by the way his body moved in close, claiming space you had no time to defend.

You struggled again—your legs shifting, your arms jerking. But he adjusted. His hands dropped, locking your wrists against the wall beside your head. His leg slid forward, pressing firmly between your thighs, anchoring you with terrifying precision.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked.

Your cheeks flushed, chest rising unevenly, eyes locked on his.

You should’ve let go. That would’ve been the logical thing. The safe thing. But you didn’t.

Your body stilled, except for your breath. Your eyes held his, and Joel felt it cresting between you like a wave he could no longer stand against. He should’ve stopped. But he didn’t want to.

He leaned in.

And then his mouth was on yours.

No preamble. No question. Just contact. Firm, fast, overwhelming. The kind of kiss meant to silence. And it did. Your moans flattened against his lips, swallowed whole. He braced for resistance—prepared for you to shove him back, to spit something bitter into the space between you.

But instead—you opened. Your mouth tilted, your head angled, and you kissed him back. Fiercely.

His leg pressed harder between yours and the sound that escaped you—low, helpless, involuntary—nearly undid him.

Everything else fell away.

Joel released your wrists, and your hands flew to his hair, fingers digging in like you needed something to hold onto. He matched your urgency, one hand grabbing at your waist, dragging your hips tighter against him, the other finding your hair and pulling hard enough to make you gasp. You didn’t pull away.

You moaned again.

And then he felt your tongue, bold and certain, slipping into his mouth like a dare. He welcomed it without hesitation, kissing you harder, deeper, everything in him crashing forward like a dam finally split open.

You moved your hips against him, a slow grind that answered every inch of pressure he was giving, and then—this time—it was Joel who moaned. The sound came from deep in his chest, unfiltered, raw. His body pressed you harder against the wall, like he needed you closer than physics would allow.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Something in him broke.

Joel reached for the waistband of your jeans, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, anchoring there as he dragged you closer. You pulled away from his mouth with a sound that was slick and breathless. Your chest rose sharply against his, and then his lips were at your neck—open, hungry. The sound that escaped you was half gasp, half surrender.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Not really. Not in a way he could name. His body moved faster than his mind, his instincts taking over in jagged flashes. He pressed himself against you like it would somehow steady the storm inside him. His fingers found the button of your jeans and flicked it open. Thoughtlessly. Desperately.

Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was the ache still humming in his ribs, the echo of your elbow, the bruises from the floor. Maybe you’d knocked something loose in him—something he hadn’t used in years.

He didn’t pause.

His hand slid under your jeans, past the waistband of your underwear, until he reached skin—soft, hot, impossibly tender. He swore under his breath, just barely. Something about the heat of you, the way your body yielded to his touch, sent a shock straight through him.

And then he found it. That first wet trace of you.

Joel froze, lips still against your throat.

He lifted his gaze.

Your eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils wide and shining. Your mouth hung open, breath catching with every beat of his hand. Your skin glowed with heat and tension, cheeks flushed deep pink. And your hands—your hands had found their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer, grounding him like a lifeline.

He pushed a finger inside you.

The warmth was immediate, overwhelming. You arched slightly, pressing your head against the wall, exposing your neck. He watched the line of your throat as you tilted your chin up, heard the way your breath stuttered in your chest.

Joel should have stopped.

He told himself to. More than once. He thought it with urgency—Stop. Stop. Stop.

But he didn’t.

He added another finger, easing deeper, and you responded instantly. Your hips shifted, rolling toward his palm. His thumb brushed over your clit, and you gasped—one hand tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck, the other fisted in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto or else you'd fall.

Your moans were quiet but insistent. They made his head swim.

Joel couldn’t think. Not clearly. Not the way he was supposed to. It had been too long, too fucking long.

Everything in him was unraveling—recklessly, selfishly. And he knew, deep down, this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Which, somehow, only made him want it more.

Because it wasn’t allowed. Not you, not you.

And that’s exactly what made it feel like it was right.

You kissed him again, your mouth open, your breath tangled with his as you moved your hips against the rhythm of his hand. The moans you let slip found their way into his mouth, wet and uncontrolled, as his fingers worked inside you, steady, urgent, paced like something unsustainable.

Joel could feel it—how you clenched around him, how everything inside you seemed to pulse and tighten. His knuckles were slick with you, and yet all he could think about was how close you were, how impossibly warm your body felt under his hand.

You broke the kiss, gasping against his cheek, your breath hot and uneven.

“You’re a damn—” you started, but your voice caught in your throat. Your back arched. “Joel—”

Your head tilted back against the wall, mouth parted, eyes closed. Your chest rose sharply, then dropped again, a stuttering pattern. You barely touched the floor anymore.

Another thrust of his fingers and you fell apart—small, stuttering cries leaving your lips as your body shuddered against his. He felt the aftershocks inside you, spasms clutching around his hand, drawing him deeper into the heat he wasn’t sure he could survive.

And still he watched you.

Not just the way your face looked in pleasure, though that alone could undo him—but the way you held onto him after. Your hands slid shakily down his arms, fingers curling around his elbows like you needed something steady.

You stood there in silence.

The kind that arrives after something has changed.

Both of you breathing hard. Still pressed together. Still too close.

Joel slowly pulled his hand from your jeans, the wet sound between you both sudden and deafening. He looked at you, waiting for words that didn’t come.

“Joel,” you murmured, voice low. Maybe you were going to ask something. Or insult him. Maybe you were about to thank him? Maybe nothing at all.

But he didn’t wait.

He stepped back like he’d been shocked, like the heat of your skin had finally seared too deep. Then he turned and left—without warning, without explanation.

His boots were too loud on your floor. His hand on the doorknob was too fast. And when the door flung open, the night greeted him with too much softness—like it hadn’t just witnessed everything he’d done.

Warm air brushed across his face, lifting the damp curls at his temples.

He walked. Fast. Away. Away from you.

His mind was spiraling. A tight, circular storm of questions he couldn’t answer: What the fuck did I just do? Why? What is wrong with me?

His jeans were still uncomfortably tight, painfully so. He cursed under his breath, glancing once behind him to make sure no one was out on their porch, no one watching him try to disappear into the dark.

The walk home was short. But it felt endless. And when he finally got there, in the suffocating quiet of his bathroom, with water streaming down his chest and his forehead pressed to the tile, he gave in.

He wrapped his hand around himself like it was the only way to get your name out of his system.

But it wasn’t.

Because as he came—jaw clenched, eyes shut tight—it was you he saw.

You, and only you. 

And later, on his bed...

Your face.

Your face.

2013. Hollow Pines. Sometime after midnight.

“You fucking lied!” Joel said, voice rough and low, almost more breath than sound. His hands were pressed against the man’s chest, shoving him hard into the crumbling plaster wall. “You’re a goddamn piece of shit.”

Tess’s voice cut through the air like a match sparking against stone. “Joel, enough—stop. You’ll get us both killed.”

Suddenly, her arms were pinned by the other man, his grip tight, fingers curling like roots around her biceps. She twisted, not to get free exactly.

Joel didn’t hear her. Or maybe he did and chose not to care. His fist cracked across Declan’s face with a kind of ugly precision. The sound echoed around the decaying little house—short, brutal, like someone slamming a metal door shut.

The place they’d found was barely a structure at all anymore. Half the roof gone, windows eaten by moss and rot. But it had walls, and that was enough for shelter. Still, Joel had known that the most dangerous thing inside Hollow Pines wasn’t what waited beyond the tree line.

About thirty miles west of Boston, Hollow Pines was the kind of place people stopped talking about long before the outbreak. It hadn’t been a real town for years, just a scatter of empty homes tangled in brush and silence. Trees taller than buildings pressed close together like they were guarding secrets. You could barely see the next house until you were standing in front of it. It made the perfect place to disappear. Or to do something you couldn’t afford to be seen doing.

The job was supposed to be easy. Routine. They’d done it before. Joel could still list the steps in his head the way you memorize prayers even after you stop believing in them.

There were five of them in the group—two men, three women. One was visibly pregnant, the kind of detail you weren’t supposed to notice, let alone feel anything about. Declan and Jeremy had picked the target. Joel and Tess were just the hands that carried it out.

Declan had said it like it was nothing.

"They’re soft. They’ll cave the second they think they’re in real danger. We go in. We take what we need. We’re gone before they even think about getting brave.”

It was supposed to be clean. Functional. A transaction, not a scene.

And Joel, who had long since stopped mistaking instinct for conscience, had done exactly what was asked of him. Just like always.

With their faces covered by bandanas, they began the mission around midnight.

The cabin was two stories, built from sun-bleached wood and time. Its frame leaned ever so slightly to the left, as if the forest had been trying to reclaim it for years and the structure was finally thinking of giving in. Dry vines clung to the facade like brittle fingers, twisted and brown, while moss had crept across the base. The roof sagged under the weight of its own years, the shingles fractured in places.

A wide porch wrapped around the front, its wood creaking even in silence. On it, an old rocking chair sat tilted slightly off balance, one leg shorter than the others. It looked like someone had once used it every night and then, suddenly, not at all. A rusted shotgun hung from a nail on one of the porch columns. It was a warning, or maybe just the remnant of a person who once needed to be prepared.

The windows were boarded up from the inside, but between the slats, the edges of curtains could be seen. Yellowed, frayed, swaying just barely.

A little farther back, hidden behind tall weeds that looked like they hadn’t been cut in a decade, sat a collapsed shed. Inside, the air was thick with the metallic scent of rust and forgotten things. There were dull tools scattered along the floor, broken car parts half-covered by dirt, a bucket full of something long hardened and gray. The kind of place that told you exactly what it was: unimportant, forgotten.

They didn’t enter the house quietly. There was no care to it, no sense of restraint. Declan fired at the door hinge, the shot tearing through wood and silence alike. The sound echoed off the trees like a warning bell, and then he kicked the door in with the kind of force that said he didn’t expect anyone to fight back.

Inside, Tess and Joel moved upstairs without speaking or paying atention to the loud voices inside. They didn’t have to. Declan and Jeremy stayed below, their voices sharp and rising—commands, maybe, or threats to the group living there. The rhythm of scuffling feet and broken furniture followed them up.

Joel reached the first bedroom. The door opened with a reluctant groan. It had the feel of a child’s room, or what remained of one. Faded wallpaper, small ghost footprints in the invisible air. On the desk was a bottle half-filled with clear liquid and a rag beside it. There was a nearly empty box of .22 caliber bullets tucked beneath an overturned chair. Next to it, a notebook with a handful of childish drawings on the first pages—trees with too many leaves, a sun far too close to the earth. Toward the back, the handwriting changed: more compact, urgent.

If we come back, take the river route. Not the highway.

He folded the page down and kept moving.

The second bedroom was larger. The master, he figured. The bed wasn’t made, but the sheets were still warm with the shape of someone who’d left in a hurry. On one side, clothes had been folded neatly, like someone had been trying to keep some sense of order, even here. The nightstand held three shotgun shells, a multitool, and a bottle of antibiotics that had been opened but not yet used. He checked under the mattress and found a map—creased and worn thin at the folds. Several routes had been marked and then crossed out with heavy pencil strokes. One was circled twice.

He didn’t pause to consider where it led. He didn’t have time. Voices were still rising downstairs. For now, everything sounded under control. But Joel knew better than most how quickly that could change.

He found Tess in the last room at the end of the hall.

The door was open, the hinges barely holding. Inside, the air felt warm and faintly sweet, the remnants of a candle still burning out on the nightstand. It had melted into itself, a soft pool of wax cooling into stillness. The blankets on the bed were tangled.

“Look at this,” Tess said, not turning to face him. She was crouched on the floor in front of a wooden box with its lid swung open.

Joel stepped closer. He looked down and saw them: four grenades, clearly handmade. A revolver with a full cylinder gleaming like it had been polished recently. Two pistols, their triggers untouched. Clean bandages rolled tightly, sterile gauze still sealed. A bottle of disinfectant, a box of oxytocin, latex gloves, a nearly full bottle of isopropyl alcohol, the label starting to peel.

He reached into the box, touching everything. His fingers hovered, pressed, moved on. He recognized the preparation. The intention behind each item. It wasn’t chaos. It was care.

“She’s going to give birth soon,” Tess said. She was holding a notebook, the spine bent and several pages torn out. It had been left open on the nightstand.

Joel stepped beside her and read over her shoulder.

Week thirty-seven. Contractions tonight. Gabriel wants to go out to find food, but I told him to wait.

Week thirty-eight. Bubs boiled water and we cleared the stove. If the baby comes today, we’re ready. There’s no turning back.

Week thirty-nine. It’s starting. There’s quiet now. We heard voices near the forest. If they come in, we’ll hide everything. Robert said don’t shoot unless we have to.

Joel let the words settle in his chest like stones. He looked at Tess. She had that expression she sometimes wore when she was trying to make sense of something human.

“It seems like—” she began, but her voice was cut short by the sharp, unmistakable sound of gunfire.

One shot. Then another.

They moved fast. Instinct more than choice.

Down the stairs, boots heavy on the wood, no time to ask what they were running into.

In the living room, Declan and Jeremy had their weapons raised. Their faces blank, unthinking, the kind of blank that meant they’d already made their decisions.

Two bodies were on the floor. A man and a woman. The blood was fresh, soaking into the wood like ink spreading through paper.

Near the wall, the pregnant woman crouched, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she could hold the baby inside by force if she had to. Beside her stood another woman, rigid with panic, her hands out like she could shield them both.

In front of them, a man was standing with his gun still drawn, as if daring someone to make a move he could answer.

Joel’s chest was heaving. His voice came out loud, rough.

“What the hell d—” 

The man raised his gun and fired.

The sound cracked through the room like lightning splitting a tree. The first bullet caught Declan in the leg, sending him staggering back—his face twisted in shock, not yet pain. Then another, but it didn't hit him.

Jeremy didn’t hesitate. It was one clean shot, and then the man dropped, suddenly weightless, as if the air had been pulled out of him and he was only skin and gravity. A shot in the head.

Everything blurred after that. Time bent in on itself. 

Screams erupted—raw, panicked, human. Both women, their voices cracking under fear. Jeremy was already moving, his boots thudding against the floor, and he reached the pregnant woman first. The other woman threw herself between them, arms out, shielding her like instinct more than decision. It didn’t matter.

Jeremy grabbed her by the waist and yanked her up like she weighed nothing. She twisted in his grip, kicking, her fists connecting with his ribs. He grunted in pain, cursed, but didn’t let go. His arm tightened around her and the knife found her throat—sharp, immediate, threatening.

Tess moved toward him, yelling something Joel didn’t catch. She tried to pull Jeremy off balance, clawing at his arm. For a second, it worked—he lost focus. But then his fist landed hard against the side of her face, and she crumpled against the wall, her knees buckling. She didn’t stay down long. She pushed herself up again, blood on her lip.

Joel moved forward and hit Jeremy with everything he had. The force knocked Jeremy backwards. His body collided with the edge of the coffee table and crashed to the ground. The woman he’d been holding slipped from his grip, falling forward with a gasp. One hand flew to her throat.

Her fingers came away red. The knife had caught her, just barely, but enough. Enough to remind them that all that some things, once done, couldn’t be undone. 

Violence had claimed Joel’s life long before he ever had the chance to understand what else it might have looked like. Not in a single moment, not in one decision or act, but gradually, like dust gathering in corners, like a stain that spreads until you stop noticing it’s there.

Survival had become his answer to everything. The only one that ever really worked. He hadn’t chosen it in the way people choose jobs or partners or cities to live in. It had chosen him. And after a while, he stopped resisting.

In the beginning, Tommy had followed him everywhere—through ruins and quiet towns, across fields that once held crops, through buildings that smelled like rust and rain. But lately, he had pulled back. He didn’t say much anymore, but Joel didn’t need him to. He saw it in the distance between them. The quiet judgment. The disappointment Tommy wasn’t quite ready to name out loud.

Joel didn’t blame him. There was nothing admirable in what he’d become.

Because Joel had learned to fight like a cornered animal. He tore through threats with teeth bared, fury his only compass. He didn’t flinch at the sound of a neck breaking or a bullet piercing soft flesh. He knew how to steal what he needed, how to end lives without ceremony. Mercy wasn’t something he afforded anyone, not even himself.

He’d forgotten, somewhere along the way, what it meant to be gentle. Kindness felt like a language he used to speak fluently, but now couldn’t remember more than a few scattered words of.

There wasn’t a moral framework anymore. There wasn’t room for one. You ate or you didn’t. You lived or you didn’t. And Joel, despite everything, still wanted, or needed, to live.

But he would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked with his with sheer, paralyzing fear. Her mouth open in a scream that seemed to echo even after it stopped. Blood already coating the curve of her jaw, her neck almost sliced open, a hand lifted in one last, useless attempt to plead for mercy.

They left them both there. All of them. Dead and alive.

They shouldered the stolen ammunition, bags heavy against their backs, and walked out into the dark without speaking. Behind them, the house exhaled pain—shouts, cries, the quiet horror of what they'd done. Joel kept his eyes on the ground, tuned everything out. Tess’s voice rose and fell in argument with Jeremy, with Declan. Declan groaned in pain every few minutes, cursing each step like it was betrayal. The brothers barked insults at him, but Joel didn’t hear them. Not really. His head was somewhere else. Somewhere behind them.

And when they finally reached the half-collapsed house they were using as shelter, everything broke apart.

He ended it all.

And then, he didn’t say anything. He just picked up his rifle, told Tess to wait for him there and left.

There was no discussion, no plan. Just the unshakable certainty that he had to go back.

They had taken everything—guns, ammo, even the medical supplies. The women were defenseless, left behind with nothing but grief and trauma and the sound of death.

It took him over an hour to return. His legs moved like they belonged to someone else. As he crested the small hill near the house, he stopped short.

A sound carried through the trees: the thin, piercing cry of a newborn.

He froze.

His heart seemed to tighten in his chest as he approached the porch. The boards creaked beneath his boots. He stepped up, each movement cautious. The night was almos pitch black.

He stepped inside. His fingers curled tight around the gun, though a part of him already knew he wouldn’t need it. Not now.

The air inside the house was thick with the metallic scent of blood.

Four bodies. They were scattered in the living room just like before—two men, two women. Scarlett liquid under them.

The pregnant woman lay sprawled near the fireplace, her body twisted, her pants soaked through and torn in places that felt too cruel to be real. Blood pooled around her, catching the silver glow of moonlight filtering in through the broken window. Her eyes were still open. Still glassy.

Joel stood there, motionless, heart pounding beneath his ribs. The baby was still crying. 

And she was lying next to the body.

The woman held the baby against her chest, her arms curled protectively around the tiny, wrinkled form. Her face was caught in a state of suspended shock, as if the sheer weight of the last hour hadn’t fully landed yet. Her lips moved rhythmically, whispering something to the newborn in a voice so faint it sounded more like breath than words.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, again and again and again, like a prayer she didn’t believe in but had nothing else to offer. “It’s okay, it’s okay…”

Joel didn’t mean to move, not really. But his boot shifted a fraction forward, pressing into the wood. A creak cracked through the silence like a warning.

Her head snapped up.

Their eyes met.

“No, no—please, no,” she said, voice catching like it had been scraped raw. Her hands clutched the baby closer, cradling it with instinct, desperation, love. She started to push herself backward, heels scrambling for traction against the blood-slick floor. Her body shuddered as she dragged herself toward the wall, leaving red smears in her wake.

Joel didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

He just stood there and watched her try to put distance between them, her expression fractured by panic. Her skin was mottled dried blood, hair stuck to her face in wet strands. The baby cried—high-pitched, piercing—and she flinched with each sound, trying to shush it.

He would remember her face for the rest of his life.

The way her eyes locked on him  with a terror so raw it seemed to consume her whole. Her mouth trembling, her arms shaking. Every part of her recoiled from him like he was the monster at the end of a story.

And maybe he was.

He was.

“Please don’t do it,” she said, her voice so quiet it barely reached him. “Please don't.”

Joel stopped moving. The sound of her voice—shaky, hoarse, already worn thin by everything she'd endured—wrapped around him like a wire pulled tight.

He lifted his hands, palms facing her, fingers slightly apart. A gesture he’d learned long ago to mean I’m not a threat. But he wasn’t sure it meant anything here. Not now.

She was shaking all over. He could see it in the way her mouth trembled, her chin twitching with the effort to stay strong. Her arms curled more tightly around the baby, almost as if she was bracing herself for a final blow. Her eyes never left him, not even to blink.

Joel took off the backpack. The motion was steady, calculated, every part of him aware of her watching. He dropped it gently to the floor and nudged it toward her with the toe of his boot. Then he stepped back, retreating a few feet. A silent offering.

He thought that would be the end of it. He could turn around, walk away, and leave her with whatever small comfort that might bring.

But something rooted him to the spot for a moment longer.

He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his pocket knife. It was a practical blade—small, sharp, well-used. Without a word, he crouched, placed it on top of the backpack, and straightened again.

She didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her whole body tense like a wire on the verge of snapping. And Joel looked at her through his covered face, like a coward.

He left.

Outside, the cold air hit his face like punishment. But it wasn’t enough.

Because the sound of the baby’s cry stayed with him, even as the house disappeared behind him. That thin, helpless wail—new to the world and already surrounded by grief.

And her face.

Her face.

He would carry the image of her forever. Eyes wide with horror. Skin raw and streaked with blood. 

He would remember her face for the rest of his life. 

Your face.

Your face.

divider by: omi-resources

(if you want to be added or removed from the taglist, let me know!)

tag list: @glitterspark @stylesispunk @greenwitchfromthewoods @thepilatesprincess @sunnytuliptime @whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @titabel @jasminedragoon @brittmb115 @christinamadsen @cuteanimalmama @madpanda75 @ccmoonshine @sinpathyforthedevilish @satanxklaus @picketniffler @yellowbrickyeti @onlythehobi @somedayheaven @spacegirl-3 @bbhejpcy-blog @sesdeuxyeux @daybleedsintonightfa11 @brittmb115 @ashleyfilm @maladptivedaydreaming @begginforthread @galotti7 @libraryofneith @koshkaj-blog @vickie5446 @15christyxoxo @pastelpinkflowerlife @gintheginger @melmel-fandom @pedroslutpascall @mokapotuser @vanishintoyoubby @l0lmk @criesinlies @lena33sworld @secretlettersfromyourlove @orcasoul

[konigsberg]

I've had a few people offer to beta/edit MO, or ask questions about it, so I guess this is my awkward beta/editor search post? Or more, a clarification post for anyone who might be interested. Just an overview of what it might mean or look like to beta/edit for MO specifically.

I think in fandom spaces "beta reader" and "editor" sort of end up blurring in a lot of cases. In more official publishing, the editor comes in first to do their thing, correcting grammar, spelling, etc. Once a work is pretty much done, as in finished and edited, you get in beta readers. They're meant to sort of give feedback as a potential audience member, basically, to let the author know how it reads as a finished product. I think the roles can sometimes have overlap even in official publishing, at least in the sense both are providing feedback, spotting errors that have been missed, maybe identifying things that read strangely as far as structure, plot, and the rest go.

In fandom, things are obviously structured a lot differently and they're a lot more flexible, given everything is unofficial and casual. I think it can really just depend on the writer and the beta as for what they want/need to do.

And as for MO, I have the story's plot of course, but I'm obviously writing as I go, so that inherently makes for a different sort of experience for anyone coming in to edit or provide general feedback.

The way I've done it in the past is to give someone access to the WIP document(s) through Google Docs so they could leave comments on anything that stood out to them, talked about the general plan for the fic in DMs somewhere, that sort of thing. I wouldn't ask anyone to directly change what is in the document just in case, it would just be like highlighting maybe a misspelled word or a sentence that you think I should break up, and leaving a comment about that there.

I'm a few chapters ahead of what's posted on ao3. I usually wait to really edit maybe two weeks before the chapter is going to be posted, so I have fresh eyes to look at it with and just leave the chapter after that to be edited/potentially reworked in that same every two week timeline. My biggest concerns are usually that I've forgotten some detail in the midst of 600k words, I keep repeating the same damn word every other paragraph that I don't mean to, or maybe weird grammar problems. In this way, I think my concerns are maybe more "beta reader" problems, ie. did I forget a plot point? But I definitely suck at grammar, don't get me wrong.

Given it's just a fic, there's not a lot of pressure to catch every single little thing, but it is very long and dense, obviously, so asking anyone to read over it is a lot even if there's not any pressure to do things perfectly. And I feel bad because I can't really provide much compensation for that work. In the past, friends were happy just to do it basically in exchange for the ability to read chapters ahead of everyone else, but it feels a little weird to have strangers do work with that sort of compensation when I do make a little money on p8reon. That might be something to work out on an individual basis, though, I guess.

There's also the fact that most people who might be willing to edit and/or beta are obviously people interested in reading the work, and I would feel bad if the task might make the actual reading much less fun for them. Like some might find it interesting to see the plot outline or something, but then for others that would just spoil the fun. Or if it came to feel like "work" that might take the joy out of it. I think it's possible to beta/edit like a chapter ahead of what's posted without needing to know what's going to happen at the very end, for sure, but I guess what I'm really getting at is I woulnd't want to make anyone feel like they have to be spoiled on what's happening next, bound to the task of working on something that I can't give a good timeline on re: how many chapters are left or how long I'll take writing it, or anything like that.

Also, of course, there are potentially upsetting topics covered in the story. I think anyone who has gotten through the whole of the fic so far is probably okay to get through the rest, but there are going to be more parts of the story involving all of the same topics, depictions, etc. already seen in the rest of the fic and potentially more upsetting things. I'm happy to provide any sort of warnings or clarification on chapters in general, even outside of the context of someone beta/editing the work, so I don't think this should be a big issue, but it's just something to keep in mind.

So I guess, if that doesn't scare you off, and as long as it's understood there's seriously no pressure on my part that you commit to this for a long time or do an extreme amount of work or anything (beyond the demands of... sometimes reading 15k word chapters lol... just reading a chapter over once and leaving any comments on spelling and grammar errors, maybe things that don't seem like they make sense narratively, or make it seem like I've forgotten something haha, that's more than enough)... if you would like to beta/edit MO, let me know?

Feel free to ask questions, too, because god knows I've forgotten at least a few things. I might end up adding to this because I'll suddenly remember something in an hour, honestly.

If you want to just reply to this post, that's fine. My inbox should be open here, as well as the whole tumblr messaging system. I often miss when people DM me on twitter because I just never get notifs for it, and honestly I think my notifs in general sometimes don't work for replies there, but I'll try to keep an eye on that, too. I'm probably going to be a little busy this week, but I will strive to get back to everyone reasonably quickly.

I'm not really sure if there will be a lot of responses to this, but... just in case: If you do reach out and I end up going with someone else, it's definitely not personal!

I appreciate everyone who has mentioned being willing to help out. I've just been a little overwhelmed because I obviously don't know what the hell I'm doing lol and I thought this might be the easiest way to quickly provide some more info to anyone interested.

Thanks for reading!

[happygo-writing]

You took the best of my heart and left the rest in pieces

ship: Tarlos | fandom: 911 Lone Star | author: chaotictarlos| read on ao3

Rating: Explicit Warnings:  Angst, Carlos Reyes needs a hug, canon divergence, before season 3 and during, feelings of being unwanted, self-doubt, Grace is Carlos’ bestie, break-up sex, anal sex, m x m smut, mlm, canon whump, ex-lovers, lots of feelings, canon whump, tk strand whump, internalized homophobia

Word Count: 23,520

Summary: An exploration of emotions. 

To Cassi @ronensass who is my angst bestie and lets me send her songs (and send songs in return) and random thoughts about tarlos - I’m sorry that this took so long to get out.

To Ali @sapphire11 who became one of the biggest supporters of this fic as I wrote it. Thank you for all the encouragement and love that you gave me.

To Giggles @detective-giggles who is just a fantastic person and always listened to my ideas and lets me scream in her inbox about so many different things and sends me the best plot bunnies.

To Noxy @noxsoulmate who always listens to my spirals and allows me to scream about different things and ideas and who always helps me put my ideas into the proper order.

To @lightningboltreader who was so encouraging and allowed me to scream with them about this fic and was always excited when I posted something about it.

To @thebumblecee @mooshkat and @cowlos-reyes has listened to me complain and stress over this fic many times.

To everyone in the TWP discord who has been encouraging and so kind.

Thank you to everyone who's sent an ask about this, who has taken the time to send motivation, and have been excited for this fic to come out.

Author's Note: Title from In the Stars by Benson Boone. Cassi sent me this song and I’ve been listening to it a lot on my drives I thought of this idea so here it is. Remember this is slightly canon divergent so not everything might line up with canon but I did the best I could to make it mostly canon. Though it did, at times, take on a mind of its own. This fic means a lot to me. I spent 6 months writing it and it grew to be this epic -what I think - a masterpiece and I have a few others planned to go on with this fic. I hope you guys enjoy it. I would love to know your thoughts so please drop your thoughts in a comment, send me a DM, or an ask. I'm so nervous to post this dnsndj I hope you all enjoy it and take time to read it. I know it's long.

I am writing a TK POV and a sequel where it explores them getting back together. I hope to have those out soon.

I have also made a Spotify playlist for this fic! Take a listen as you read!

----

Oh, it hurts so hard

For a million different reasons

You took the best of my heart

And left the rest in pieces

- In the Stars by Benson Boone

Past Sundays would have found Carlos awake early and in the kitchen, making breakfast for him and TK because it was their favorite day. After TK got hurt again, they had made a promise to each other that they would always set aside one day of the week that would be their day. A day that they would set aside for time with each other, a day where their attention would only be on each other and they would ignore - within reason - outside forces. It took a lot of begging, graveling with their captains, and promises of picking up an extra shift if needed, but they were both able to get Sundays off so they could enjoy the act of just being together. It was important to both of them that they had one day to stop and enjoy each other’s company and remember that they were important to each other - not that that fact was often forgotten.

Carlos would always start with making a pot of coffee and let the smell of it fill the townhouse. It was a dark roast that both he and TK were fond of. It always made Carlos chuckle to make it because he knew that TK was going to load it down with sugar and cream, ruining the taste of it in Carlos’ opinion, but he was still fond of how TK did it; he had given up on trying to convince TK to get one of the sweeter coffees so that he could add fewer things to it. Carlos would make himself a cup and enjoy the morning paper before he would start breakfast.

Sunday had become pancake day for breakfast. It hadn’t always been that way when they started setting the day aside for each other, and Carlos couldn’t remember what had prompted them to decide that they were going to have pancakes each Sunday, but it was enjoyable. Carlos liked to challenge himself and each week he would come up with different ways to make the pancakes so that they wouldn’t grow tired of it.

Eventually, the smell of coffee and pancakes drifting through the townhouse would wake TK and he would wander into the kitchen, most often blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. TK would mutter a good morning, sometimes complaining that morning came too fast, and Carlos would wordlessly hand him a mug of coffee and kiss his temple. He would urge his sleepy boyfriend to go back to bed and tell him he would bring breakfast to bed when it was down. 

After a few more kisses were exchanged, Carlos would watch TK shuffle back to bed with a soft smile on his face. He would finish breakfast, make two plates, and put them on a tray to carry up and into the bedroom. It was always a 50 / 50 chance whether TK would be awake and drinking his coffee, or asleep with his cup sitting on the nightstand beside him. If he was sleeping, it was never tough to rouse him again and convince him to wake up for breakfast - and more kisses, of course.

They would eat and laugh together and then later, with their dishes cast aside, they would enjoy each other in bed before taking an after-breakfast nap and then spend most of the morning cuddled in each other's arms. The afternoons were always reserved for going to the Reyes’ for Sunday dinner. 

It was always a time when they could just be together and enjoy being in love. Even when the townhouse burned down and they had to move in with Owen for a while, they still found ways to make their Sundays special to them. They might have looked different, but they were still filled with love and taking time to be together. It was the one little bit of normalcy they had when everything went up in flames.

But all that was before.

READ ON AO3

tags: @strangefurychaos @ronensass @sapphire11 @first-kanaphan @angeltk @noxsoulmate  @beautifulhigh @welcometololaland @rangergurlgleek1211 @detective-giggles @tarlos-spain @lonestardust @bubblesandroses8 @thebumblecee @mooshkat @importantbailiffpaperpony @tarlos-spain @ramblingdisaster73

[dramionecommentfest]

Reader Profile: Kiwi05622

The Dramione Comment Fest is the fest where readers take center stage! We’re excited to feature profiles of some of our readers throughout the course of the fest. First up, we have the most delightful and lovely @kiwi05622​!

Location: Middle East Hogwarts House: Slytherin Pronouns: she/her When did you start reading Dramione? How did you originally find fics to read?  I started reading in 2017… I think. Or was it 18? I'm not sure anymore. But one of those years lol! So yes, I'm still relatively new to the fandom. But I have devoured so much that it's come to the point where all the stories I've read have started to mingle with each other, and I can't tell you which story is which unless it had a massive impression on me and stood out. How did I find fics? I had this friend of mine, who was a closeted fic reader (I will never forgive her for not introducing me to this world sooner) that kept on dropping these obscure hints my way whenever Harry Potter would come up in our discussions, which was often. She would call me and ask what I'm doing, and my answer would either be, I'm reading HP, or watching one of the movies. She never once judged me or asked me why I'm spending so much time re-reading and rewatching, and I love her for that. One night, she got a little frustrated with me when I whined about NEEDING MORE of it, and she snapped. She was like KIWI JUST GIVE ME TWO CHARACTERS THAT YOU LOVE, and I shyly replied Hermione and Draco? She had the audacity to sigh (she is not a Dramione lover by any means). She sent me a link to Ao3 with a message "Welcome to my life, and I wish you luck stepping foot inside this black hole. Bye.” because I didn't know better. I didn't know what I was getting myself into, I clicked on the FIRST link I found, and this is how Bleak Manor by Pushthebutton became the first story that made me -surprisingly- fall in love with Dramione and fan fiction.  How have you gotten more involved in the Dramione community? What platforms/websites have you participated in, and which do you like? I'm not VERY involved in the fandom, if I'm honest. I'm an introvert by nature. Even though I started reading years ago, I only started joining Facebook groups last year. From there, I stumbled onto Tumblr (which was the weirdest platform I've ever been on, but now I LOVE IT), which then led me to Discord. This is where I'm currently stationed. I'm not as active as I used to be on Facebook. I also reached out to many people on Discord and found friends that I no longer call "internet friends," and I find it easier to communicate to authors over there.

Tell us about any reading preferences or practices!  Okay, I won't talk about my past habits, because looking back, it was really unhealthy. But I remember I used to read at every waking hour; I would only *sleep* to generate energy to keep ongoing: Goodbye food and social life. However, now, I dedicate time to reading, and it's usually 2 hours before I sleep. So I'll have dinner, and then open up my kindle and read until my eyes can't stay open. My days are usually spent talking to friends and doing many things that need to get done. I started off reading with my laptop until my boyfriend got annoyed by the bright lights emanating from my screen (honestly I didn't even think about reading from my phone). He later suggested reading from the iPad, and I stuck to that for a fair bit, until one night, I ran out of battery, and I couldn’t find the charger, so I reluctantly read from my phone, which I later obviously loved. I could read on the train, while making dinner, taking a walk (because we all need to exercise at some point). Then, after my boyfriend was SURE this wasn't just a phase, and I'll probably be reading for the rest of my life, he surprised me with a kindle, and the rest is history.  

Do you like to leave comments? If so, what is your advice for leaving comments?  If I'm completely honest with you, sometimes. I'm guilty of moving on from a chapter to chapter without taking a moment to comment. Telling myself that I'll go back and let the author know how much I enjoyed this part or that part. But I forget. Once I'm done with a story, I want to MOVE ON to the next one. However, in the past year, I've made an active effort to write down everything I feel on my phone while I read on my kindle, so I can go back and paste my review. That’s the other thing, I read SO much from my kindle, that it makes it so easy to forget to go back online and submit a review. And with Discord, I usually read with my friends, and sometimes the author will be there while we talk, theorise and flail all over their work. It's a much more interactive experience. I think authors would prefer that over a thank you. This isn't to say that a thank you doesn't go a long way or isn't appreciative, but honestly, how many times can an author say you're welcome? Or thank you for reading? This takes me to the second part of your question. The one advice I would give is, don't expect a response back. Do it because you genuinely liked it. Suppose we keep expecting and wanting the author to respond, especially if a chapter gets SO MANY reviews. In that case, it might seem disheartening to the reviewer, and they're left feeling unseen or that their review was lacking, which isn't the case most of the time. Tell them how it made you feel, which parts did you love, which string of emotion was plucked and left vibrating in your chest. Tell them that. But also, saying a simple thank you is enough. Personally, I would go to the last chapter and tell the author how much I've enjoyed their story if it's a story that was posted years or months back. If it's a story published years ago and they seem inactive, I would slide into their DMs and flail all over the story. You'd be surprised how many actually respond.

What is your all-time favorite fic you’ve read?  ALL TIME FAVOURITE is such a difficult question to answer. So I’ll compromise and tell you which one I really really really LOVE but also list a few that I can't be parted with. If my room was caught on fire and I had all these stories in front of me and I had to only choose ONE I would say Risk Reward Ratio by @MissiAmphetamine and its sequel! Okay, I know I cheated, but *sigh* honestly I love it. And I’m not sorry about it either. It's not what you would typically hear because it's not really a fluffy story and there are some questionable actions, plots and let’s not start discussing their relationship. But you see, I enjoy a story that questions my morals sometimes, where I find myself asking “what would I do in this situation?” Plus, as you’ll see below, I have a thing for angst with a happy ending. That being said, I also love love love these stories and they each hold meaning to me, because I've read them at various stages of my life: 

Redemption by @anondracomalfoy (wonderfully written story and very enjoyable!!! It’s a memory trope mixed with some suspense)

Revert by SUPRNTRAL LVR (this is when I found out that I can actually cry while reading a story lol) 

Remain Nameless by @heyjude19-writing (I will FOREVER love this story and no one can taint it for me. If you ONLY knew how much this story means to me *cough* I spent every moment I wasn’t reading this making her moodboards that's how much it moved me *cough*)

The Art of Betrayal by @hathawaywrites

Across The Hall by @takingflight48 (this one just hold a special place in my heart)

Thirteenth Night by Nelpher (This is the story that changed my mind about memory loss trope which is my LEAST favourite)

Nightmares and Nocturnes by @olivieblake (one of the most creative and unique war stories ever written)

Hindsight by @floorcoaster (This changed my mind about T rated stories)

Broken by @inadaze22 (this taught me a lesson to READ THE TAGS, but the pain was worth it)

Sugar and Spice by @inlovewithforever (ummmm do I need to say more? This is one of the best triads I've ever read)

Looking Glass by @kyonomiko​ (Every time I'm in a rut I go back to THIS and it never fails to bring me back to life and remind me why I fell in love with these two. It's light hearted, funny and has my second OTP. it's a win-win for me)

Find Your Way Back by @willhavetheirtrinkets​ (Musyc) (I will forever rec this story to everyone)

Pound of Flesh by @pennilynnovus​ (HELLO STRIPPER DRACO! This one tore my heart out, I love it!)

Honestly, the list can go on and on and on. There are just SO many good ones out there that I haven't mentioned yet, but I wanted to list only a few that I will always go back and re-read. Also, just because I haven't mentioned the ones that we keep seeing everywhere, doesn't mean I didn't enjoy them or loved them! 

What fic gave you the most feels? Definitely “Risk Reward Ratio.” It gave me SO much feels. Some were good, and some were pretty bad. It took me on a wild roller coaster ride. I was happy, sad, angry, happy, sad, angry. I laughed hard in some places, I cried even harder in others, I wanted to pull my hair out MOST of the time, and some parts were oh so good the butterflies wouldn't settle the fuck down. But ehh I like what I like, and I'm unapologetic about it. :D

Who is your favorite side character from any Dramione fic? This one is easy! Theo-fucking-Nott! Without a shadow of a doubt. You want to make him the most awesome sidekick character, go right ahead. The best bro, be my guest. The one that has secret feelings for Hermione? GIVE ME THAT TRIAD!!!!! You dare to make him evil? FUCK YES! I'm SO here for it. Even if he is one, I will STILL love him. I always get slightly giddy when Theo makes an appearance, and I tend to enjoy the story that much more. He's an interesting character to me because he's ambiguous. Canon never gave us much about his personality and reading how everyone interprets him makes him one the most versatile characters in my humble opinion. :D

Last question: Do you really like kiwis?? Hahaha!!!! Yes, I really do. This name was given to me by the people who were worried I had a mild obsession with kiwis. You don't have to ask me what I need from the store, because my answer would always be “we've run out of kiwis, BRING ME SOME MORE.” However, let me just make it clear that I'm not a heathen and I don't eat them with their skin on (no judgment if you do).

Thank you so much, Kiwi, for sharing with us! The Dramione community is lucky to have you <3 

Don’t forget, sign ups for the Dramione Comment Fest close February 6, 2021. Check out the rules here and sign up for the fest here.

[inter-bellum]

You deserve to be happy

Song: There for you - Martin Garrix + Troye Sivan (!) I will follow you into the dark - Death cab for cutie (Covered by YUNGBLUD and Halsey)

So, this fanfic is inspired on this post (you have no idea how long it took me to have a link that included all the reblogs). Of course I got a little very carried away and it turned 4 pages long. Oh well, I hope it lives up to your expectations, @princess-of-fandom!! The quote at the end is part of this post by @dylanholyhellobrien. With all the credits given, enjoy!! (if you feel like the improper credits were given, be sure to dm me, I don’t mind at) 

PS: I don’t have ao3 hence why I post it here. If you want to post it anywere, ao3 or fanfiction.net, on behalf of me, you can, but please give the proper credits and message me so that I can check it out :)

Unedited (I tried my best, but English isn’t my native language.) 

The contours of the trees that lined the horizon finally regained shape under the guidance of the first sun rays. In the dead of the night, the huts, tents and trees had blotched together with the sky to assemble ill-proportioned shadows that made Thomas’s heartbeats rise to feverish heights.  

The hammock wobbled as he swung his legs over the edge to find solid ground. He steadied himself against the stripped bark of the pole and counted his breaths until they were calm and measured. 

“Beautiful, huh?” Minho said when he noticed Thomas’ gaze on the horizon. His face finally started to lose the last traces WCKD’s experiment. The light in his eyes has returned in full force and gone was the ghostly white sheen on his cheeks. 

Thomas didn’t share the sentiment. “It’s too alike.” 

Minho sighed. “But it will never be the same.” There was one thing that still seemed in WCKD’s possession; the fire that lingered in his friend’s voice, the kind that used to deliver his characteristic snarky comments tirelessly. Or perhaps it wasn’t WCKD that took it. 

They watched as the sun climbed higher and higher and other immunes starting to appear from their tents. A couple people Thomas had befriended during the course of the first few weeks greeted them as they strolled by. 

“You’re hungry?” Minho, who still by his side, jerked his chin over to where Frypan was preparing what seemed to be a thick soup. Just when Thomas was about to say no, hunger hit him like a punch in the gut. 

“Yeah, sure.” He ignored the relieved look his friend shot him. 

The familiar sound of pots and pans scraping against the metal of spoon and knife like tools reached them, Frypan looked up and tossed them a wave.

“Saved something for you, shanks.” 

A bowl with soup was thrust into his hands. Thomas brought it to his lips, avoiding the chipped edges. It tasted like wet ashes in his mouth, something frequent when it came to food, but it was better than nothing. He smiled and nodded at Fry before wiping his mouth.  

After breakfast, he and Minho headed to fields. As one of the first things to establish, it started to become larger day by day. 

Soon, it will be bigger than the gardens in the Glade. 

That was like another punch in the gut. Thomas staggered on his feet. The only thing that kept him spiraling down to the ground was the smooth weight of the necklace. It was all he had. Whenever his heart would be choked by grief, unable to beat any longer, Thomas’d swear the necklace started beating instead, reminding him of his friend’s wishes. You deserve to be happy. 

“Are you okay?” Minho’s face swam into focus. Thomas managed to respond with a shaky nod. 

“Yeah... yeah, don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m... fine.” The last word needed to be wrenched of his tongue but he was glad that his voice didn’t crack. To strengthen his reassurance, Thomas grabbed a shovel and set to work. 

The day gliding by, like a boat on the peaceful water. Large campfires were howling their scorching anguish to the night sky as people gathered around them. Thomas watched as the workers started to leave the fields, collecting the shovels in various bins of all shapes and sizes that stood near the entrances. 

One of the boys who had worked alongside him walked past him. Upon noting that Thomas was still rooted in the same spot, he freed himself from the group. 

“We’re roundin’ up, Tommy.” 

Tommy. The moment he closed his eyes, he was back in the maze-like realms of his mind. Where memories piled up on top of memories to create the walls and ivy sealing them away from focus. Now they were moving, and the ivy was tearing like wet paper.  

Tommy

“Don’t!” Thomas lurched forward to grab the boy’s shirt, nearly lifting him off his feet. “Don’t,” he repeated. “Don’t ever call me that, only he could!” 

Thomas felt himself being janked away by someone. Other people entered from the side of his blurred vision, crowding him and the other boy.  He lowered his eyes to the ground. A hand clamped around his shoulder for the second time this day. 

“Allright, slim it everyone.” Minho’s voice topped that of the other’s as he stood besides Thomas, with his hand still on his back. The murmur remained among the immunes as their gaze drifted from Thomas to the shell-shocked boy, whose eyes already harboured a faint understanding. 

“Okay.” Minho muttered once the crowd had settled down. Thomas could feel his friend’s gaze tracing the edges of his face. “Thomas, what happened, man?”  

“He…” Thomas struggled to catch his breath. “He called me Tommy.” 

“He… what?” Minho blinked stupidly. Like… Like he has forgotten who’d always say that. 

Thomas had already turned around, shrugging his way through the crowd, ignoring Minho’s calls. The blurry remnants of unshed tears dotted his vision as he stumbled down the path. The soft earth underneath his feet turned into the fine sand of the beach. Large waves were smashed against the sides of the ship while others reached the shore, dumping their foamy residue in the sand before retreating again. 

He pursued his trek along the beach. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the smoke of fire trying to reach for the moon until they were shattered and dispersed by the wind. The sound of laughter was drowned out by that of the waves as Thomas neared a large rock formation. Amidst the asymmetrical blocks of grey sat a black, rounded stone with a name notched into it. Upon coming closer you could see delicate leaves carved underneath the name. 

Thomas didn’t know when he stopped visiting Newt, but now that he was here, it felt like coming home to an empty house. He sank to his knees while soft sobs wretched themselves past his lips.

Instead of saying something to the boy sleeping beneath the stone, Thomas settled on shifting the sand through his fingers, gathering the grains in small piles besides the grave. Thomas watched the tide change. 

“Thought you’d be here.” Minho took his place next to Thomas.

“Sorry, I just… I just lost my shit when-” 

Minho cut him off. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Clyde’s not mad.” 

Absence of either of their voices left the silence to be filled by the sound of waves and screams of seagulls. 

“Is this a closed meeting or can we join?” Brenda’s voice filled the silence. She, Gally and Frypan were standing behind them, holding a bottle of what seemed to be the drink Gally used to make back in the Glade. 

As an answer, Thomas scooted to one side to make room and together they formed a semi circle around Newt’s grave. The silence was filled by the waves once more while they passed the bottle from hand to hand until it was empty. 

“Do you remember, Gally? When we snuck into Fry’s pantry to steal some jam and using it to dye Newt’s hair?” Minho suddenly asked. 

Between a couple snorts of laughter Gally managed to muster a nod. 

“So it was you?” Frypan gave both of them an incredulous look. Thomas could laughter bubbling from his lips. 

“Why did I never hear of this story?” 

Gally shrugged. “Newt can be pretty scary when he places a knife on your throat in the middle of the night…” The grumpy faced blond shuddered.  

“At least he got the jam out.” Fry muttered. 

“Not completely, though,” Thomas could feel a grin making its way on his face. “I remember when coming up in the box, Newt’s hair had this pink shine.” 

Each story or memory that came afterwards earned round of loud laughter. Brenda, at some point, went back to the camp to get some more drinks and the laughter went on. 

You deserve to be happy. Maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t as far away as Thomas thought. 

“If there is a reason why I’m still alive when everyone who loves me has died, I’m willing to wait for it.” 

[thewritewolf]

Nino’s Quest Chapter 1: Gathering the Party

When his uncle leaves for Morocco, it looks like Nino might be stuck without any Dungeons and Dragons for a few months. Since this is a terrible fate, Nino takes it upon himself to make a campaign of his very own.

Now if only he could find a party...

Thank you to @alienducky for inspiring me to expand on this one shot from last year’s fictober prompt! And thanks to @marinoodles for letting me steal her name!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 (Final)

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3. My ko-fi.

“As you clutch Raygar close, he whispers a single name into your ear as if it were the most important thing in the world: ‘Doznak.’ The moment the word passes his lips, the light leaves his eyes.”

“No! Not my dude Raygar!” Nino wailed, his fist hitting the table, gently shaking the drinks that had been set on it.

“...And I think that’s where we’ll end this session. Thanks for coming out, you guys.” Uncle Hassan gave a hug to the other two party members as they left, leaving just him and Nino to pick up. “Thanks for the help, little man. How are you liking this campaign?”

“It’s totally awesome, uncle dude!” Nino raised his voice to be heard as he carried the glasses to the kitchen and left them in the sink. “Each story gets better than the last. And man! Tonight’s cliffhanger. I can’t wait to get the low down on who this Doznak dude is next week.”

When he returned, he saw his uncle smiling sheepishly and rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… about that.”

“What?”

“I’m going to be visiting your grandpa in Tangier. So, uh, you might be waiting on that thrilling conclusion for a while.”

Giving his uncle a suspicious look, he asked, “How long is a ‘while’, exactly?”

“I won’t be back until New Year’s, kiddo.”

Nino gaped. “Dude!” He said, betrayed. “We’re only just at the end of summer! How am I supposed to wait that long?!”

Uncle Hassan chuckled. “Well, you’ll be starting school soon. That’ll help keep your mind off it, right?”

“Maybe a little.” Nino pouted and pulled his cap down, trying to hide his disappointment.

A large hand settled on his shoulder and Nino looked up into the hazel eyes of his uncle. “Kiddo, you’ve been doing great and it’s been fantastic having you around in the game. But sometimes groups have to take a break for a while. These things happen.”

Nino sagged. “But… I was just getting the hang of Dungeons and Dragons…”

“Well, you don’t have to stop.” Nino looked up, curiosity getting the better of him. “My books are just going to get dusty waiting for me here. Why don’t you take them and make a campaign of your own? Invite your friends. Trust me, it’ll be way more fun than playing with us geezers.” Uncle Hassan laughed, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

His friends? Nino thought of Adrien, with his impenetrably dense schedule. Alya and her lack of interest in games, whether they be board games or video games. Marinette and her tendency to always be juggling fifty projects at once. Although… they weren’t his only friends, right? It couldn’t be that hard to find two or three people willing to game with him like once a week.

“You know… you might be onto something.” A grin reached Nino’s face as he took the rulebooks that his uncle passed him. Outside, a car honked its horn - his dad was there to pick him up.

“Tell my brother-in-law I said hello. And good luck, kiddo!”

Nino waved and felt his mind light up with the possibilities of adventure.

--------------------

The last month of summer went by in a blur as Nino put his mind to work getting his campaign drafted. When school started, he took a few weeks to get back into the swing of things before he started the hunt for a new party.

That’s where he hit a snag.

There weren’t that many Dungeons and Dragons players in his class. Or, at least, not many that he knew of. He managed to corner all three of them during lunch and pitched his campaign to them.

“...So what’d ya think, dudes? Sound like a party or what?”

Max cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses. “I really am very sorry, Nino, but I’ve been kept adequately busy with my work on game design. While I’d love to join up, it would cut into my other projects. Regrettably, I’ll have to decline.”

“Alright, dude, no sweat.” Nino patted Max on the shoulder and turned toward the other two. “What about you guys?”

Juleka shook her head. “Sorry. I just started one with Rose. Can’t back out now, you know?”

“And I just got hooked on a new MMO with Ivan,” Mylene said with a wince. “If I stop now, I’ll lose my placing that I worked so hard for!”

“Major bummer.” Nino tugged at his cap as all four of them got up to return to their usual seats.

“According to my projections, I’ll have a greater likelihood of joining on the next adventure.”

“Maybe next campaign,” Mylene patted his arm as she walked past him.

“Yeah, we can try again next time.” Juleka paused. “Have you tried asking Adrien?”

Nino shook his head. “Nah, dude is always super busy.”

‘Sure, but he was asking me and Rose about D&D. I dunno, maybe just try it?”

“Really?” Nino perked up. His best friend had gone home for lunch, but he was still just a text away. “It might be worth a shot. Thanks, Juleka.”

“No problem. Good luck.”

Taking a seat at the table next to Alya, Nino shot a quick text to Adrien.

Nino: Heard you were asking about DnD. You game?

“What’s that about, babe?” Alya asked, looking over his shoulder.

“I’m trying to get a party together for Dungeons and Dragons.”

“Dang, and the first half of that sentence was so promising.”

“So is that a pass then?” Nino said with a faint smile. While sometimes he could get her to play games with him, he understood that it wasn’t her favorite. Just like how he didn’t share her love of rom coms, but indulged her every now and again.

“Yeah, babe. Although…” She looked at Marinette as she rushed into the building clutching a brown bag with the Dupain-Cheng bakery logo. “...there might be potential there.”

“Hey, guys!” Marinette sat down opposite them and opened the bag, passing some chocolatines to the two of them. “What’re we talking about?”

“Hey, M.” Alya leaned forward. “Do you ever play roleplaying games?”

“Um, sometimes? You know my favorite is fighting games, but I’m up for some adventure sometimes.” Marinette tilted her head to the side. “Why?”

“Well, Nino here was thinking about running a Dungeons and Dragons campaign…”

“I’m… not sure.” Marinette’s eyes widened. “Not that I’m not interested! It sounds like it’d be fun to do with friends. But I don’t know if I’ll be able to find the time. Plus-”

She was interrupted by the sound of Nino’s phone going off. He’d left it on the table, so everyone could see that it was from Adrien. A small smile crept across Nino’s face when he heard the little intake of breath when Marinette noticed.

“S-so, um, how’s- how’s Adrien?”

Poor dude. The guy isn’t even here and she is stuttering. Nino pulled up the text.

Adrien: Yes!!! I got all the rulebooks months ago and I’ve done my best to learn but no one plays. [sad cat emojii] Are you going to be a DM??

Chuckling, Nino sent him another message.

Nino: You bet! Would you be able to meet once a week?

The response was immediate.

Adrien: Maybe if I say I’m working on a group project? I could pull it off, yeah.

With a huge grin, he looked back up at the girls. “My boy is in!”

Marinette bounced up and down in place. “Then so am I!”

“Oh?” Alya leaned forward with a smirk. “What happened to not having the time?”

“I will find the time, I promise. But gaming with friends? And Adrien? Too good an opportunity to pass up.” She met Nino’s eyes and had the good graces to look sheepish.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. If this means I get more players, than I don’t mind.” He turned towards his girlfriend. “Speaking of more players… Now everybody else is in. How ‘bout you?”

Alya rolled her eyes with a smile. “I guess someone has to keep an eye on you hooligans.”

“Nice. This is going to be great!”

-------------------

Nino: And… we… are… LIVE!

We’ve been expecting you, Adrien Agreste

Marinette joined your party. Everyone look busy!

Alya is here, just as the prophecy foretold.

Nino: Say hello everybody

Adrien: Hello everybody

Nino: You’re hilarious

Marinette: hello! Hey guys!

Alya: Sup

Nino: We’ll be using this Discord server for all Dnd related things, k? Mostly for planning new sessions

Adrien: What about… spicy memes?

Nino: Know what, bro? I’ll make a channel that you can spam to your hearts content

Adrien: <3

Nino has changed his name to Lord DM

Alya: Seriously

Lord DM: Definitely

Adrien has changed his name to Adrien Regreste

Alya: Pffft

Adrien Regreste: Come on, Mari! Its what all the cool kids are doing!

Alya: Hey now

Marinette has changed her name to marinoodles

Marinoodles: ...How’s that?

Adrien Regreste: ;-; Its so cute. And also hilarious??

Marinoodles: I mena thank you! *mean

Alya has changed her name to Alya’ll Beware

Alya’ll Beware: Sweetie you know you can just edit your comments right

Marinoodles: ...Now I do.

Lord DM: Lol Anyway. How’s this weekend looking?

Alya’ll Beware: Just jumping right into it, arent you? But yeah I’m free

Marinoodles: I babysit Manon on sunday but saturday is clear!

Adrien Regreste: I can pull off saturday! Where are we meeting??

Lord DM: Whoever we meet at provides food. Since I am DM, I am exempt. (Plus my place is always supes crowded)

Adrien Regreste: Uh I can probably manage it off. Father will be out of town with Nathalie. The Gorilla is much more lenient hwen it’s just us.

Marinoodles: Gret sounding! *Thta sounds gerat! **That sounds great!

Adrien Regreste: Haha, yeah! I’m pumped to have you guys over. :)

----------------

Despite Nino’s fear of a repeat from last time, none of them were thrown out or belittled on their way to Adrien’s room. The worst that any of them received was an uncertain glare from the Gorilla as they filed upstairs.

As it turned out, the most difficult problem they had to face was Adrien’s purchasing habits. Nino had to explain to him that even though they were teenagers playing D&D, there was no way they’d be able to get through five pizzas and all the drinks he’d ordered. After he’d extracted a promise not to go overboard again, Nino went straight into explaining the basics and had them roll for stats.

“You sure about this, dude?” Nino leaned over Adrien’s shoulder and frowned at his character sheet. “I get you’re gonna be a bard, but max Charisma and low Wisdom just sounds like a recipe for disaster.”

Nino could just barely overhear Alya whisper to Marinette, “Attractive but kinda dense? Doesn’t that sound like someone we know…?”

“ALYA,” Marinette whispered back in a scandalized tone.

“Maybe, but that just means it might be more memorable, right?” Adrien looked up at Nino and couldn’t hold out against the excitement he saw in his eyes.

“Sure, bro.” Nino walked over to the girls. “And how’re you two hanging?” He craned his neck to see where Marinette was sticking her highest stats. “Dexterity… and intelligence? Good choices for a rogue.”

Marinette smiled. “Thanks! I’ve been thinking about her background. Get this - the rebel daughter of an elven baron.” She nudged Alya. “Pretty neat, right?”

“Wow, that sounds way cool, Marinette!” Adrien beamed at her and she melted.

“Than- than- Thanks, Adrien! You’re cool too!” She winced, but Adrien’s smile didn’t dim.

Nino raised an eyebrow as he noticed her hit points. “But, uh, why’d you stick your lowest stat in Constitution? Your dude isn’t gonna be able to take a hit.”

A sly smirk spread across her face. “I won’t need to take a hit if I play my character right.”

“Heh. Fair enough.” Nino turned his attention to Alya’s sheet, only to see it blank. “Um, something wrong, babe?”

“I dunno.” Alya shrugged. “I’m not big into games like you guys are, so its all going in one ear and out the other.”

“Well…” Nino took a seat next to her and thumbed through the core rulebook. “Maybe we should just keep it simple, right? So you can get your bearings.”

“A fighter?” Alya raised an eyebrow. “Seems kinda boring.”

“Yeah? How about a knight errant, looking for glory to make her name in the world? Rushing forward to defend the weak from the strong? Still sound boring?”

A grin split her face. “Now you’re speaking my language, cappy.”

“That’s Lord DM Cappy to you, babe.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Okay, so let me see if I get where we’re standing.” Adrien pushed the hair out of his face and looked at the three of them. He pointed to himself. “I’m a half-elf bard.” The finger shifted to Marinette who blushed and frantically waved at him. “Elven rogue.” Alya fell under his digit next. “Human fighter. Where does that leave you, Lord DM Cappy?”

Alya groaned and Nino chuckled. “Since someone needs to watch out for you guys, I’m going to be playing a human cleric. A priest of the sun.”

“Sounds like we’re pretty well balanced? Well,” Adrien ducked his head. “Except for me. Maybe it’d be better if I just played a wizard…?”

“N-no!” Marinette quickly interjected. “Adrien, you can be what-whatever you want to be!”

“Dude has a point. There is more to having fun than being the most efficient party possible, bro.”

“Alright.” Adrien relaxed. “Awesome.”

“Now, let’s get everything else sorted for character creation. And while we do that, I can tell you a little about the world you find yourselves in…”

As Nino began by telling them of the Good King Hamon, he felt a spark light up from within. He could already tell this was going to be the best campaign.

[theprodigypenguin]

what do I do if I want to read all of your stories cause I read one a long time ago and love it bUt am afraid of becoming anxious cause you have a lot of them? you kind of captivated me and now I want to listen (read, actually) to all the stuff you say (write) here on tumblr or on ao3, and comment in all of the content just because you deserve the support since you're pretty awesome, BUT I AM SO AFRAID OH GOD I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO YOU'RE COOL AND I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND BUT CAN'T SO AAA sorry

Anon you’re the sweetest ever and this is the nicest message I could have gotten before going to bed, thank you so much for sending this. If you want to read all my stories in a binge then please be my guest, and I hope you enjoy all of them to your hearts desire, but please don’t feel any responsibility to comment on every single one. Of course I absolutely adore every single comment I’ve ever gotten, and I’ll appreciate every comment you might end up leaving, but I know sometimes it’s difficult to articulate how a fic made you feel. If you leave comments, I fucking worship you, but I’ll be just as happy if you simply enjoy my work.

Don’t ever be afraid to send me messages, and if it makes you feel more comfortable I’m totally fine if you just want to ask me questions through anon. I know sometimes reaching out to people you admire can be super scary, but I definitely encourage you to contact me at least through anon, which would be a lot less intimidating. I love getting questions about my work or just nice anons now and then, and I really enjoy interacting with people who enjoy my fics.

Of course I really have to tell you, I’m not special or really cool in any way. I’m just some trash bag who likes Jeddy. I’m just a normal fan like anyone else, so you don’t have to be afraid to contact me. I definitely won’t be able to reply to every single DM (I’m pretty busy irl because I work full time and just can’t keep up with that kind of thing, please understand), and I'm not be the greatest friend, but I’ll try to respond to anons and messages here as often as I get them.

As for my fics, I definitely see how it might be intimidating that I have so many. If it helps I can put a list of all my Cursed Child/Harry Potter work on my Ao3 (theprodigypenguin) with their word count so it makes things less intimidating:

Love Me Tender (4k words, rated G) “Teddy loved James. Tender and true; and James loved Teddy back.”

Memory, Memory (3k words, rated G) “Teddy visits his parents grave every year on the same day, but he always goes alone. This year turns out a bit different.”

Damages (27k words, rated M) “James wasn’t one to hide things about himself from the people around him. He was brought up to be proud of who he was, every piece of himself. He wasn’t ashamed of his sexuality or his preferences, the gender he was attracted to or otherwise, and his family wasn’t ashamed of it either. No, in the end he was ashamed not for who he was, but for who he loved, and the fear that everyone else would be ashamed and would hate him for the same thing.”

Stargazing (2k words, rated G) “The lack of lighting made his eyes look like glass covering shadows, mirrors that had no discernible color but reflected all the stars that he seemed so entirely enthralled with. He looked like a charcoal oil painting on canvas, and Teddy was starting to become an avid art lover.”

Woke the F*ck Up (10k words, rated G) “When an ex who broke it off because James wouldn’t put out re-enters his life and asks to have lunch together, James reaches out to Auror partner Teddy Lupin, who’s all too happy to help scare away the little bastard, no matter how he has to do it.”

OK (13k words, rated M) “An Auror mission gone awry proves just how essential having a specialized clinic for Lycanthrope-Afflicted witches and wizards is.”

Bones (15k words, rated E) “The Potter’s and Weasley’s had always been Teddy’s unofficial family, he’d grown up with them after all, but in the past he never would have imagined actually joining their family. Till now that is, and there was no one else Teddy would have wanted to share this day with.”

Slow Down Time (6k words, rated G) “It was so domestic, Teddy always found himself in awe of it. That he’d grown up almost entirely alone, and somehow was blessed with this family. There had always been an empty space in his heart that could never be filled by those he grew up with.It was an empty space that ached unimaginably whenever he looked at pictures of his parents, whenever he visited their grave or saw it was May second on the calendar, because what he longed for the most was family of his own, his parents, shared blood, and now he had that.”

Creation Out of Nothing (4k words, rated G) “In retrospect, Lily and Lysander don’t have much in common, but if you can’t bond over feelings of self doubt and the concept of not being good enough for your family, then what else are you supposed to bond over?”

Just a Scary Dream (5k words, rated G) “When they were younger, Albus always went to James when he had a particularly bad dream. He grew out of it, but in light of recent events, the murders of Craig and his grandparents and his involvement with Delphini, the bad dreams had just gotten worse, and only one person was ever able to help him through those nightmares.”

Moon Sick (9k words, rated G) “James is in his final year at Hogwarts, seventeen and thriving, but no matter how long he’d spent in Slughorn’s class over the past few years, he still didn’t much see the point of potions, and he was running out of time to finally get motivated about it. His seventeenth Christmas at The Burrow, however, proves a better teacher and motivator than Slughorn or his father ever were, as a dear friend becomes ill, where the only method of healing and relief is through the brewing of a special tonic. Though James has little to no interest in such things, if it’s to help relieve the pain of someone he truly cares for, he would do just about anything.”

Thicker Than Water (15k words, rated G) “James Sirius Potter loves his family, and he isn’t shy about announcing it. He’ll say it to their faces and say it to whoever is listening, that he loves his parents and his amazing sister, his cousins, aunts and uncles, even his ever frustrating younger brother, Albus. Difficult he may be to talk to sometimes, James still loves him, even if he struggles to make Albus understand that; but when Albus disappears not once, but three times, before the first term back at school is even halfway over, James starts to wonder, maybe he didn’t tell Albus he loved him nearly enough, and worries if he didn’t start saying it sooner, he’d lose his chance to entirely.”

Holiday Dysfunction (26k words in 5 chapters, incomplete, rated G) “People say that if you have a confession to tell, the best thing to do would be to simply rip it off like a Band-aid, but for Albus that metaphorical Band-aid has been stuck in place for the past six years, and it’s hard enough talking to your dad when he happens to be Harry Potter, so it makes things a little more complicated when you’re also in love and married to the son of your father’s former school rival and ex-death-eater. Throw a new kid into the blend and the Holiday Season just gets more festive.”

Stupid Deep (24k words in 6 chapters, incomplete/ongoing, rated E) “October of 1981 came and went, Halloween night left James Potter with lasting mental and physical scars, his wife lost to him and his son marked by a madman who had the audacity to disappear before James could get his revenge. He’d lost so much in so short a time: his loving parents, his beloved wife, his long time friend; a betrayal that stung more than the curse to his chest ever could. He struggled to live, he regretted every breath, only living because he had to, because he had Harry to look after, but he ached in ways that shouldn’t ever be endured by any human. James thought for sure everything was lost, even the things he still had seemed too far away and easy to lose. He doubted anything in the world could make it less painful. Until a chance miracle is brought to light, a former infatuation rekindled into burning flames, and the Gryffindor bravery James thought was long lost roars back to life inside of him. He’d lost so much, but if he could help it, he would not lose this. Not again.”

I hope this helps, love! And thank you for sending in such a sweet message!

[midoriyaizuhugs]

p&p FAQ v.3

Updated as of September 21st, 2020.

Scroll down to get the newer updates.

I just read p&p and I loved it! What’s this zine thing about? 

So! If you haven’t been here from the start, first of all, thank you so much for reading and for being interested! On 2016 Ryan started writing, and by 2017 we were a team, and I suggested printing the whole fic as a zine, with my own illustrations. Thing is, p&p is long, so we ended up needing to cut it into Book I and Book II, and since I’m extra, there’s a concept artbook nearly done and ready to print with the other books. So, we made bundles- one with both books- the whole fic- and one with the concept artbook and extras (keychain, bookmark, stickers), the ultimate bundle. For those interested in prices, they were as so: 

♢ Each book separately for $25 each Vol., $20 for "Kingdoms" Concept Artbook 

♢ Bundle (Vol. I + II, bookmark, stickers) for $50 

♢ Ultimate Bundle (Vol. I + II, "Kingdoms" Concept Art zine, bookmark, stickers, keychain) for $66 

♢ Digital Bundle (Vol. I + II) for $30

Not including shipping. Shipping went from $7 to $30, depending on place and bundle- two 300ish pages books + a concept artbook can really get expensive to ship. We will ship from US (Ryan).

Amazing! Can I still buy a copy of p&p? Physical or digital? 

You will be able to buy a digital copy yes or yes, eventually. As for physical orders, we’re finishing Book II as of now, and we need to get numbers sorted out- a lot of people have canceled orders and we need to finish to calculate exactly the rest of the costs (we can’t check exact price without exact page count, so on and so forth). We are planning to open them again ONCE EVERYTHING IS SORTED OUT, AND READY TO PRINT. They will be open for a short time, on a new store, and we will probably not open them again. People who bought physical version WILL get the digital version anyways, as soon as we have it ready to print, independently of how long it takes to print or ship, so they can choose whether to wait for their copy to arrive or to read on digital as soon as possible.

Will the rest of the fic be uploaded to ao3?

Eventually, yes- though we will release it AFTER we ship physical copies, gradually, and will get the finale way later than people who did buy.

Why will the new preorders be on a different store than the old one? 

Our store got closed down because of a single bad handled refund case (someone reached out directly to storenvy and we didn’t notice in time- they have their refund in place by now), so we’ll resume digital copies on there once every single order is shipped and we fulfill storenvy’s conditions to open it again. We will need to open a new store to add to the physical orders, since it will lower costs for everyone, but we’re not trying to scam anyone here, if that’s what you’re worried about.

Do we have a solid timetable for once?

UPDATE, JUNE 1TH, 2019: We’ll be mailing all the people who ordered the fic digitally, as illustrations are still missing. Hopefully our new release window will be around July, 2019, and no more late...! UPDATE, SEPTEMBER 21ST, 2020: life’s been getting in the way, on more ways than one. I’m getting out of a wrist injury, but I’m working on the books as I’ve been for these past years.

I want a refund. 

Please DM ME ON TWITTER (@midoriyaizuhugs) if you wish to get one. We’d been issuing refunds for a long time now, but we HAVE used some money so it won’t be a full refund- we have both bookmarks and keychains printed since 2017. I’ve been missing some emails so I want to make sure you get an answer. 

I want to keep supporting you guys! 

Thank you! We only ask for a little more of patience and any positive encouragement you guys have to offer is more than welcome. Any art, comment, message, tag, cosplay- they’re all wonderful and we wish to see it all. Damn, I miss that blog that used to have everything in once place!

I want more regular updates.

I made a discord earlier this year, mass emailing it to people who bought the zine. You can get in too, to have more regular updates. It’s been pretty quiet because of my wrist injury but it’ll be livelier soon, hopefully.

The finale got leaked on drive!

I unfortunately can’t do anything about it, but if you choose to read it, I hope you enjoyed the last few chapters. I hope people who have been holding out on reading it until illustrations are done are rewarded for their patience.

That’s all! If there’s any questions left please message me here or on twitter (@midoriyaizuhugs), and I’ll get to you as fast as possible. Please avoid asking questions on tags or replies, since there’s 80% of chance I WON’T see it and thus, wont’ be able to answer. Have a nice day!

[adorkablephil]

Fic: Listen (Chapter 1)

Title: Listen Word Count: 735 (this chapter) — fic will be approximately 9 chapters total Rating: PG Summary: Phil is a successful YouTuber, and Dan is a fan desperate for attention. Sounds like 2009, right? Except Phil is Deaf. Tags: AU, Deaf!Phil, Strangers to Friends to Lovers Author’s Note: I’ve never written an AU before but was inspired by an anonymous prompt (from a couple months ago) and Phil’s creative early videos, which often included little or no dialogue. The dialogue-free video mentioned in this chapter, “51 things in my room!” is a real video Phil made in 2008. Additional Author’s Note: Thank you especially to @appreciatedanhowell and the entire Treehouse Mailing List for their support and encouragement. Fic also available on AO3 here

[Masterlist of all “Listen” chapters on Tumblr]

Chapter 1: The Lonely Boy

Phil watched the video through one final time, just making sure he was happy with the last few edits he’d made, and then emailed the finished product off to Craig for music suggestions. He’d made a couple of videos that were completely silent, but his hearing viewers—and that was most of them—seemed disconcerted by a video with no sound at all.

Welcome to my world, he thought.

Sometimes he wondered what sound might be like, but honestly it didn’t concern him overly much. He was happy with who he was, and if it meant he occasionally had to ask a hearing friend for advice on choosing music for his videos, well, that wasn’t so hard to do. Craig seemed to enjoy the task, actually, and it gave them a reason to keep in touch after they’d both left for uni. They’d lived on the same street their whole lives, so maintaining some amount of connection to someone who knew him that well was comforting.

He noticed a new comment on last week’s video, “51 things in my room!” and recognized the username: danisnotonfire—a fan he’d seen popping up a lot lately, and in fact this was the second comment he’d left on that particular video, as he’d also commented within an hour of it being originally uploaded. Phil read the new comment:

danisnotonfire 1 minute ago Have you listened to the FFVII soundtrack? It’s amazing. No pun intended. xD

Phil remembered that the first comment “danisnotonfire” had left on this particular video was something about hair straighteners, and indeed the icon beside his comments showed a boy with very straight dark hair in a style that resembled Phil’s own.

Phil looked at the icon beside this most recent comment more closely. The boy looked sad, but it didn’t seem like the pretentious emo bleakness that was so popular these days. Something in his face looked genuinely … lonely.

Phil could relate.

And apparently “danisnotonfire” hadn’t caught onto the fact that Phil was Deaf, despite commenting on so many of his videos over the last few months. True, Phil didn’t go out of his way to advertise his Deafness, but neither did he try to hide it—it usually just wasn’t relevant to the types of oddball little films he liked to make for his videos.

He decided to respond to the comment, typing, “I’m not much into music. What do you like about it?”

The boy had apparently still been sitting at his computer, as he responded immediately:

danisnotonfire 1 minute ago Interrupted by Fireworks is incredibly beautiful. You should listen to it.

Phil contemplated whether to reply or not. He typed, “I can’t. I’m Deaf.” Then he deleted it. It would just embarrass the kid, make him feel like he’d said something wrong. It might even scare him off, and Phil found himself surprisingly hesitant to say anything that might do that.

He stared at the comment, at the icon, the tiny, slightly blurry photo of a possibly lonely boy with hair like his own.

He thought of this past week, how he’d walked through the halls of the university every day without speaking to a single person because no one here knew how to sign. How the only person who had spoken to him directly was the interpreter who translated his professors’ words for him.

He missed his friends back in Manchester, at the Deaf school where everyone knew how to sign and where the choice not to speak orally was considered perfectly reasonable. Here, both teachers and classmates seemed to expect him not only to read lips but also to vocalize, and while he didn’t bother to sign to them when the interpreter wasn’t present, he saw their facial expressions when he wrote his comments to them on paper instead.

Here, he was weird. A freak.

His only friends were far away. Or strangers on the Internet.

He looked at the photo again, then reread the boy’s two comments, remembered the earlier comment about hair straighteners, remembered that he’d seen the name numerous times not only in video comments but also on Twitter. This “danisnotonfire” clearly wanted to reach out, wanted to find some connection, wanted someone to hear him.

How ironic would it be if a Deaf boy was the one who heard?

Phil quickly typed, “DM me on Twitter. :D” and clicked the blue Reply button before he could lose his nerve.

[Continue to Chapter 2]