Apr 19
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Continuing on if you have lmao
seen from Italy
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Indonesia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Japan
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Saudi Arabia
Please check out the rules before beginning to complete the prompts!
Continuing on if you have lmao
2026 ao3 collection: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Maylancholy_2026
Maylancholy Prompts 2026:
May 1. Dreams and Nightmares
May 2. Hidden Injury
May 3. “On Your Knees.”
May 4. Sleep Deprivation
May 5. Blood Loss
May 6. Hallucinations
May 7. Stitches
May 8. Panic Attacks
May 9. Forced To Watch
May 10. “It’s… It’s Not Too Bad—”
May 11. Nonconsensual Drugging
May 12. Delirium
May 13. Memory Loss
May 14. Strangled
May 15. Restraints
May 16. “Stay With Me.”
May 17. Broken Heart
May 18. Betrayal
May 19. Isolated
May 20. Magic With A Cost
May 21. Doomed From The Start
May 22. Left Behind
May 23. Long-Term Captivity
May 24. Truth Serum
May 25. Mental Shutdown
May 26. “I Can’t Do This Anymore.”
May 27. Hypothermia
May 28. Manipulation
May 29. Self-Harm
May 30. Stabbed In The Back
May 31. Unwanted Immortality
Alternative Prompts (If any daily prompt doesn’t take your fancy feel free to replace it with one of these!):
Alt 1. Gunshot
Alt 2. Wing Whump
Alt 3. Barbed Wire
Alt 4. Head Injury
Alt 5. Withdrawal
Alt 6. Concussion
Alt 7. Pressure Building
Alt 8. Living Weapon
Alt 9. Electric Shock
Alt 10. Forced Confession
@may-lancholy challenge continues
Day 22 - Left Behind
"Madoka... is that what you want? Even if I don't remember you ever again? How am I gonna know you're there when I can't even feel you standing next to me anymore?!"
May-lancholy 2025 Prompt Day 1 - "Don't leave me here."
Featuring everyone's favorite miserable lesbians!
@may-lancholy
Tangerine Quarters - Eloise Bridgerton x Reader (Bridgerton)
summary: It begins with a basket of fruit delivered to the Bridgerton estate, a gift from an admiring suitor that Eloise has zero interest in. But she’s particularly fond of the tangerines, and more fond of sharing them with you, her closest companion.
She peels one apart with quick fingers, and hands you a quarter. Then another. Then another. It becomes a ritual, until one day the gesture lingers just a bit too long.
Part of May Prompts: Day Three, tangerine quarters
It starts innocently enough.
You’re in the Bridgerton garden, tucked beneath a flowering tree, your legs stretched out on the grass, an old book opened across your lap. The sun is gentle this afternoon, soft on your skin, and the quiet hum of bees in the distance adds to the tranquility. You don’t even hear her coming until there’s a dramatic thud beside you and a familiar groan of impatience.
“They sent fruit,” Eloise declares, as though this is the greatest injustice of the day. She tosses a tangerine into your lap with theatrical disdain.
You glance at the fruit, then at her. Her bonnet is askew, cheeks flushed from wherever she’s come rushing in from. “Is it meant to symbolize fertility or something else even more scandalous?”
“If it is, I’ll never eat another,” she retorts with a scoff.
And yet, a beat later, she’s peeling it with swift fingers. She works quickly but methodically, the smell of orange juice releasing into the air, a sharp sweetness that clings to you. Her nails dig into the rind, fingers stained and sticky, but she doesn’t complain. Instead, she begins to segment the fruit, turning each quarter over with care.
When she offers you the neatest slice (not the first, not the last, but the best one) you blink in surprise. But you take it. Your fingers brush. Neither of you pulls away.
You both look down at the fruit in your hands like it's suddenly taken on a new meaning.
No one says a word.
Then, after that, it becomes a thing.
A strange sort of ritual that repeats without explanation. A silent offering between chapters of conversation or shared glances. Sometimes it’s her pressing a tangerine into your hand mid-walk, with a wink and no context. Other times, it’s left waiting on your windowsill, perfectly round, with a note beside it that simply reads, In case you missed me.
No one else seems to notice. Or if they do, they don’t ask. Not Daphne, who raises an eyebrow once before moving on. Not Penelope, who likely suspects everything but wisely says nothing.
It becomes comfort. It becomes habit.
You begin to associate the smell of oranges with her laugh, with her skirts brushing against yours, with the sound of her boots running through the halls as she hunts you down to share some ridiculous bit of gossip. It follows you into your dreams, into the creases of your pillow, into the way your heart quickens when she sits too close.
It’s silly, of course. It’s just fruit.
But it’s never just fruit when it comes from her.
And as the days slide into weeks, and spring slips lazily into summer, you begin to wonder if you’ve ever shared something so small that felt so impossibly big.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It rains for hours.
The kind of rain that softens the world around you, turning the estate into a haze of grey. Thunder rolls lazily in the distance, and the windows fog from the warmth inside. You’re glad you made it to the Bridgerton house before the rain descended. You’ve resigned yourself to a slow day, curled up on the chaise with a fresh book in hand, the scent of old paper and damp leaves drifting in through the cracked window.
Eloise appears with all the force of a minor storm. She slams the door behind her, kicks off her boots, and flops, quite literally, beside you.
“There’s nothing to do,” she announces, dramatically. “Mother has commandeered the parlour, Colin’s snoring in the library, and someone,” she glances sideways at you, “has been hiding in here like a ghost.”
“I’m reading,” you reply, not looking up.
She ignores you. Or rather, she ignores your protests. Instead, she scoots close, peering over your shoulder at the page. Her chin nearly rests against your shoulder, and you can feel her breath on your collarbone, warm and steady.
“You always smell like oranges now,” you murmur, not entirely teasing. "I like it."
She grins, and without missing a beat: “You'll never eat an orange without thinking of me." Her breath falters momentarily, "Not that you need any help, you're always thinking of me, no?"
You choke, on your breath, on the weight of that sentence, and she just laughs, full and delighted.
She doesn’t move away.
Instead, she reaches up, fingers brushing a stray curl from your forehead and tucking it carefully behind your ear. Her touch is casual, but her fingers linger, just long enough for your heart to betray you.
“Sticky fingers,” she whispers. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Your throat tightens. You don’t know if she’s talking about the citrus, or the closeness, or the way she keeps looking at you like she’s memorising something. Maybe all of it.
You shake your head. A quiet gesture. But the meaning is loud in your chest.
Outside, the rain continues. Inside, time slows.
She reaches into her skirt pocket, and, as if by magic, produces another tangerine. “You know,” she says idly, “if I were a different sort of girl, I’d make a grand romantic gesture out of this. Perhaps declare that each fruit is a token of my undying devotion.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And what sort of girl are you?”
She shrugs, smiling faintly. “The kind who prefers slow rituals. Quiet things. The kind who peels fruit on rainy days and hopes you’ll let her stay close.”
You don’t answer. Not with words.
Instead, you rest your cheek lightly against her shoulder.
She peels the tangerine in slow, curling spirals, the scent of citrus curling around you like a secret. One by one, she offers you slices, fingertips brushing your lips, touch feather-light, like punctuation to everything unsaid.
You eat each one.
You don’t look away.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s a Bridgerton garden party, the kind with too many guests and not nearly enough places to hide. The lawn is a sea of pastels and parasols, laughter bubbling from corners, children darting between grown-up conversations.
You’re standing near the edge of it all, holding a glass of lemonade and pretending to admire the rosebushes. It’s easier than weaving through endless introductions or enduring yet another matchmaking attempt from a well-meaning aunt.
Then he appears. A young gentleman. He’s polished, affable, with the kind of smile that suggests he’s memorised it in a mirror.
“You looked like you could use company,” he says smoothly.
You raise a brow. “Do I?”
He chuckles. “Only because I felt the same.”
To his credit, he’s charming in that easy, practiced way. He talks about music and travel, leans in just a bit when he laughs at your jokes. You’re still half-listening when a sudden weight hits your side, not hard, but deliberate.
Eloise.
She appears beside you like a thunderclap in human form, eyes narrowed and expression coolly unimpressed.
“Hello,” she says flatly to the gentleman. Then, to you, “You’ve been terribly hard to find.”
“I’ve been standing in the same place for fifteen minutes,” you say mildly.
“Precisely. Who lingers by rosebushes when there’s fresh lemonade and scandal near the terrace?”
The man attempts to recover the conversation. “Miss Bridgerton, is it? I was just telling your friend here about my travels-"
Eloise cuts in, sweetly venomous. “How lovely. Did your tailor travel with you? That cravat looks freshly traumatised.”
You nearly spit out your drink. The gentleman blinks, excuses himself with a stiff nod, and walks off with as much dignity as he can salvage.
Silence stretches between you and Eloise. Then, “Jealous?” you ask, teasing, curious.
Her brows lift. “Don’t be absurd.”
You turn to face her fully. “He was just being polite.”
“He was being dreary, and your time is far too precious for tedium,” she replies, arms crossed.
“You’re protective now?”
“I’m always protective. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
Before you can respond, something small and firm hits your chest. You glance down.
She’s already turning to go, satisfied and smug. “You forgot this,” she calls over her shoulder. A tangerine is rolling softly away.
You pick it up, cradling it like a secret. It smells like her, bright and defiant.
Later, you’ll find it in your pocket still, slightly bruised from the day. You won’t be able to bring yourself to eat it. Not because you don’t want it, but because some part of you is waiting for her to peel it for you.
Because somehow, the ritual is only complete when it’s hers to give.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s late and Eloise sits beside you on the blanket, legs tucked to the side, skirts rumpled with careless grace.
Neither of you speak at first. The silence is comfortable, tinged with the familiar scent of citrus that you have grown to expect, and love.
Eloise pulls a tangerine from the pocket of her dress. She holds it up between you like a peace offering, like a question. You nod once.
But this time, she doesn’t peel it quickly, doesn’t chatter while doing so. Her fingers are slower, more thoughtful. She works the skin off in long, deliberate spirals, the scent of it rising between you like something ancient and sweet.
You watch her, the way her brow furrows slightly in concentration, the way she separates the fruit into even quarters as always but with uncharacteristic gentleness.
Then, instead of placing one in your palm as usual, she turns to you, her eyes searching your face, slowing down.
She gently lifts the piece, soft, sticky, perfect, against your lips.
You freeze.
Her hand pauses there, fingers grazing your cheek now, breath catching like she’s just realized what she’s done, or what she’s about to do. You gently part your lips, taking the piece of fruit, hoping she keeps her hand there.
“You always let me feed you,” she says, quiet. Vulnerable. “Even though you pretend it’s silly.”
You swallow… the fruit, the emotion, all of it. “It’s not silly.”
“Then neither is this.”
She leans in. Slowly. Carefully. Her lips meet yours like a question she already knows the answer to. It tastes like tangerines and sunlight, and something else entirely, something soft and sharp and real.
She pulls back just a little, her eyes still closed. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ve been trying not to do that for weeks.”
You shake your head. “Don’t be.”
The words are barely a whisper, but they land heavy in the space between you. Your forehead touches hers. You don’t know what happens next, if it’s the beginning of something, or the tipping point of everything you’ve been pretending not to want.
But for now, there’s this.
The scent of citrus on her fingers. The warmth of her beside you. And the quiet, undeniable truth of a kiss you’ll never forget.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
The next day is a mess.
Not outwardly. The sky is bright, your breakfast unburnt, your dress ironed, the Bridgerton estate humming with its usual chatter. But inside, everything feels off-kilter. You see Eloise at a distance, speaking animatedly with Benedict. She glances at you once. Quickly. Then looks away.
It stings more than you’d like.
You retreat to your usual spot in the garden, book in hand but unread. The page blurs from how long you’ve been staring at it. You think of her fingers, sweet with citrus, pressed to your mouth. Of her lips on yours, not demanding, but hopeful. Like a beginning.
What does it mean, now that it's happened?
You’re just about to get up, maybe wander aimlessly until the feeling fades, when you hear footsteps behind you. A familiar shuffle of boots, an annoyed huff, the rustle of skirts. Eloise.
She appears beside you, holding out a tangerine in both hands like a peace treaty.
“Still friends who eat fruit together?” she asks, voice too breezy to be casual.
You take the tangerine slowly. Turn it over in your palms. “Friends who kiss, perhaps?”
Eloise’s face shifts, wariness first, then wonder. Then she lights up like the damn sun. “Well,” she says, voice lighter, “that’s considerably more fun.”
You peel the tangerine this time. It feels like a statement. The skin comes off in clumsy chunks, and your fingers get sticky but you manage.
You pull apart the first quarter and hand it to her.
Her grin is a little crooked, a little shy. She takes it, but doesn’t eat it right away. She just looks at you.
“Does this mean I’ve been replaced as chief peeler?” she asks.
“Only temporarily,” you say. “You’re still my favorite citrus supplier.”
She hums, then pops the fruit into her mouth. “I should hope so. I’d be dreadfully jealous of myself.”
You both laugh. The sound is easy, light, and beneath it, something deeper. Something settled. Her foot bumps against yours and doesn’t move away. She doesn’t lean in for another kiss. Not yet. But the way her gaze softens when it lands on you says more than enough.
You sit there like that for a while, passing quarters back and forth, letting the silence speak where words can’t.
You’re not just friends anymore.
You’re something else now.
And whatever it is, it tastes like oranges and possibility.
xxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s late afternoon, the sun soft and golden, filtering through the trees. You and Eloise are curled beneath one of them, tucked into a quiet corner of the Bridgerton gardens where the world feels far away.
Your legs are tangled together, not deliberately, but not accidentally either. A half-peeled tangerine rests in Eloise’s lap. You’re lying with your head against her shoulder, and she’s absently threading fingers through your hair between bites of fruit.
“You taste like summer,” you murmur, half-asleep.
Eloise hums a pleased little sound, then leans down and kisses your forehead, your cheek… and finally, your lips. The taste of oranges lingers, familiar now. Yours.
She rests her chin atop your head. “You’re terribly distracting, you know. I used to get so much reading done before you.”
“You were always reading near me,” you point out.
“Well, yes,” she concedes. “But that was different. You weren’t quite mine yet.”
You shift so you can look at her. “And now I am?”
“Entirely,” she says, matter-of-fact.
You smile into the next kiss. It’s lazy, content, slow, not the heart-racing kind, but the steady sort that says this is home now.
Later, Daphne finds the two of you there and smirks knowingly. “Is there a reason all the fruit disappears when you're together?”
Eloise waves her off with a dramatic sigh. “We’re cultivating a citrus-based courtship, obviously.”
Daphne just rolls her eyes and leaves the two of you to it, not wanting to wade in to whatever peace you have found.
You snort. “You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”
“And you’re the one eating oranges under a tree with me like it’s a Shakespearean love story, so what does that say about you?”
“That I’m in love with someone who peels fruit like a menace and kisses like it’s the only language she knows.”
Eloise’s smirk falters. Just for a second. Something in her chest seems to twist, loosen.
She blinks fast. “Well. That’s… wildly unfair of you to say without any warning.”
You just kiss her again.
And this time, it tastes like forever.
extra (epilogue)
You find the letter tucked inside the cover of your favorite book, the one Eloise always pretends she hasn’t borrowed (but absolutely has).
It’s folded in thirds, the parchment a little wrinkled, clearly written in haste. And love. Her handwriting is as chaotic as her thoughts. It is slanted and uneven, but unmistakably hers.
Dearest (and most vexingly irresistible) Y/N, If I am to fall in love (and I am not saying that I have, mind you, because declarations are dramatic and terrifying and prone to being misunderstood) BUT IF I AM TO FALL, Let it be with someone who peels fruit better than I do (you do), who laughs when I am the least funny (you do), and who doesn’t mind that my opinions are louder than church bells (you really don’t, and it’s suspicious). Let it be with someone who shares my oranges, my secrets, my dreadful metaphors, and who lets me steal their warmth on cloudy days. Let it be you. Yours in citrus and chaos, Eloise (P.S. I have fallen, in case that wasn’t obvious. Do something about it, please. Preferably with fruit, my supplies are running low.)
You don’t hesitate.
The next day, you show up at the Bridgerton household with a basket full of tangerines, a ridiculous number of them in truth. You’ve even tied a ribbon around the handle.
When the butler announces you, Eloise bounds into the entryway like a girl summoned by magic. She sees the basket, then you, and stops short.
“I wasn’t sure how many I’d need to bring,” you say, voice soft but certain, “to say it right. Officially.”
She looks at you like she wants to kiss you and bolt in equal measure.
“To say what? Officially.” she manages, her voice just barely steady.
You set the basket down gently. Step closer. “That I’m yours. That I want to be wholly yours. That you were right in your letter.”
Her face breaks into a smile in the most beautiful way. “I’m...” she trails off, unheard of from her.
You smile anyway and nod. “I know.”
“I love you,” she blurts. “In the… wanting-to-share-every-tangerine-I-ever-eat-with-you sort of way. Which, for me, is quite serious.”
You reach for her hand. “Then let’s be serious. And silly. And everything in between.”
She stares at you for a beat, eyes bright.
Then, grinning, she pulls a tangerine from the basket, peels it quickly, and hands you the best slice. the perfect one she always saves for you.
May 16. Held at knifepoint
May daily drawing challenge - "May Maylancholia - Angst and Suffering Challenge" of @may-lancholy
"Pours you a drink with one hand, judges you with the other if you take it...I gave that fuck pieces of my soul, Adriana. You know what he said to me? He said I should have a fucking drink!"
day twenty-eight of @may-lancholy - manipulation
I’m Wide Open and Deserving
Summary: Ellie dies in Joel’s place, and you’re left to pick up the pieces.
Paring: Jackson!joel x Jackson!reader
WC/tags: 3,440 / established relationship, grief, character death, mourning
A/N: title from ‘Janine’ by Ethel Cain. For day 25 of maylancholy: mental shut down @may-lancholy
Joel Miller may as well have died the day Ellie did.
He still walks this earth, breathing, blinking, but something essential has gone with her. His mind and heart lie buried six feet deep beneath a cracked headstone, lost in the same grave she occupies.
With his back to you, you gently slip into bed beside him, your hand grazing his side in slow, comforting motions. The chill of his skin beneath the fabric of his shirt sends a quiet tremor through you, and you tug the blanket up higher, tucking it gently around his abdomen. The plate of food you had left for him still sits on the side table, untouched, its warmth long faded into nothingness.
“Joel, baby,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper, but your heart pounds fiercely beneath your ribs. “You need to eat something.”
He doesn’t answer, his breathing slow and steady, the rise and fall of his chest almost too deliberate. The silence in the room weighs heavily, each breath he takes a reminder of the distance between you, the emptiness in his eyes when they meet yours. You chew at your lip, your hand moving in slow, almost mechanical circles against his side, each touch a silent plea for him to feel something again, to come back to you. The worry gnaws at you, the fear of losing him in every way but physically clawing at your chest. You’ve never seen him like this, not even when the world itself seemed to break apart.
His gaze remains unwaveringly fixated on some distant point on the plain white wall before him. The only indication he's aware of your presence at all is the subtle, almost imperceptible shifting of his jaw, the muscle there flexing like a reflex. The room hangs heavy with silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the bedsheets as you shift closer to him.
“Joel. Please,” you try again, your voice barely above a whisper. Your hand moves up to his shoulder, your thumb tracing gentle circles on the tense muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
He says nothing, and you feel a quiet fracture in your heart.
Without a word, you sit up, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, just beside his ear, the touch fleeting but full of everything you can’t say. You slip from the bed, moving silently as you collect the untouched plate of food.
“Going to get you some water,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath. The air in the room feels thick, heavy, as if the darkness could pull you both under, suffocating all that remains between you.
As you rise from the bed, the mattress creaks softly in protest beneath you, the sound hanging in the air like an unspoken tension. Joel’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift that you catch only because you know him too well.
“Not thirsty.”
His voice is scrapped through, like sandpaper running over your nerves. It’s the first word he’s spoken in a few days, and it strikes you like a blow. His eyes though, remain distant, fixed on some invisible point on the wall as if it holds the answers you both need but can’t find. A quiet ache settles in your chest, his silence feeling unbearable.
You glance at the plate, then back at him. “Joel, talk to me, please.”
When his eyes finally meet yours, it nearly shatters you. The raw devastation in them is all-encompassing, a silent plea for something he can’t express. It stirs deep within you, and you carefully set the plate back down, moving toward him. He sits up slowly, his movements heavy, like the weight of the world is pressing down on him. Your hands find their way to his neck, then trail down his chest, your fingertips brushing against the softness of his shirt. His face, though, betrays him—his brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes hollow with a sorrow that goes beyond words. He is drowning, suffocating, even as breathes before you.
Joel's eyes briefly close at your touch, a small shudder running through him, but he doesn't push you away. Your hands continue their slow, soothing path down his chest, pausing to flatten against his heart, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your palms.
His expression remains stoic, his eyes snapping open again, but the raw emotion you saw earlier still flickers within them, a storm brewing just beneath the surface. “There's nothing to talk about.” he finally grumbles, his voice ragged.
You swallow hard, shaking your head, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if holding on to something, anything, that might keep you both in place.
“You haven’t left the house in a week,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of a mountain. “You barely eat. Barely speak. I don’t… I want to help you, sweetheart. But I don’t…” You chew at your lip, the bitter taste of helplessness overwhelming you as his eyes remain distant, unfocused, gazing somewhere beyond you. “I don’t know how to.”
The words hang in the air, thick with the sorrow of your own frustration, and a quiet tear threatens to escape as you realize that no matter how much you want to, you can’t seem to reach him anymore.
Joel's jaw clenches, his muscles shifting beneath your hands as if straining with the effort to keep his emotions in check. He looks away, avoiding your gaze, and his next words come out as a growl, biting and venomous.
“I don't need you to help me. I don't need anyone.”
But even as he says it, you can hear the hitch in his voice, the subtle crack that betrays the lie in his words. His shoulders tremble barely perceptibly under your touch, and for a moment you think he might pull away.
“I lost her too,” you whisper, the words breaking in your chest. Joel flinches, just a small tremor, but it’s there, unmistakable. “I lost her, and somehow, I’m losing you too. And I… I can’t survive that twice.”
His eyes glisten with unshed tears when they meet yours, the weight of his grief mirrored in the depth of yours. He shifts, his forehead gently brushing yours, and for a moment, everything feels unbearably close, as if the world has shrunk to this fragile connection. Your brows furrow, and you let out a soft, pained whimper, your knuckles gripping the cotton of his shirt so tightly your fingers ache.
The soft whimper that escapes you is like a punch to Joel's gut, and for a moment, his gaze flickers, the wall he's built around himself crumbling ever so slightly. He doesn't pull away from your touch; if anything, he leans into it, his forehead remaining against yours.
“I don't…” His voice breaks, and he takes a shuddering breath, his hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. The gesture is tentative, but the warmth of his palm seeps into your skin, offering a brief moment of comfort. “I can't…”
“Don’t disappear,” you whisper, your voice fragile with the weight of your plea. “You’re mourning. So am I. We can grieve together. Please?”
Joel’s eyes close slowly, his breath escaping in a heavy sigh. His thumb and ring finger brush gently against the muscles of your neck, a quiet comfort in the midst of the pain.
“I need to see her.”
You blink, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, your heart tightening at the rawness in his words. His eyes open, and for a fleeting moment, you catch a spark of life in them, a flicker of something he thought he’d lost.
“Okay,” you reply softly, your voice steady despite the weight of it all. “Sure.”
Joel's jaw tenses at your answer, his fingers flexing slightly against the nape of your neck. He swallows hard, once, twice, like the words are lodged in his throat and he’s forcing them out.
“Don’t say it like that,” he mutters roughly. “Like I'm askin' for a goddamn favor.”
But there's no real heat behind it; just exhaustion and something else you can't quite name yet. His eyes flicker to yours again before darting away, landing on the far wall with an intensity that suggests whatever image is burned into his mind right now is anything but kind.
He exhales sharply through clenched teeth before adding quietly: “...Just wanna go where she is.”
You nod slowly, the word slipping from your lips like a quiet surrender. “Alright.”
-
The ground is nearly frozen at the grave site, a stark reminder of the cold that has settled over you both. You pull your jacket tighter around you, feeling the bite of the winter air as it cuts through the fabric. You pause several feet away from the grave, and Joel stops beside you, his presence a heavy silence at your side.
Tommy had carved Ellie’s tombstone with his own hands, a simple yet heartfelt piece, made from rough cement. The edges were imperfect, but there was beauty in its rawness, in the care that had gone into it. The small flowers Dina had left, vibrant once, full of life, now lay wilted, their petals crushed beneath the weight of time and the cold, their fragile forms pressing gently into the frozen earth as if they too had surrendered to the chill.
Joel’s breath catches the moment his eyes fall on the grave, his body stiffening beside you. His hands ball into fists at his sides, the strain evident in the whitened knuckles. For a heartbeat, it seems like he might turn away, retreating from the weight of it all, as though it’s more than he can bear.
But then something inside him shatters.
Without a word, he falls to one knee in front of Ellie’s headstone, the thud of his weight sinking into the earth causing your chest to tighten. One hand rests against the cold stone, anchoring him, while the other presses over her name, his fingers trembling as if trying to connect with her spirit through sheer force of will.
He swallows hard, his voice barely audible as he mutters, “Goddamn it,” his words sharp with both anger and sorrow, though it’s unclear which one is fueling his grief, perhaps even he doesn’t know.
After a long, silent moment, his gaze lifts to yours, and the anguish in his eyes is unmistakable. His voice trembles, barely above a whisper, “Please… come here.”
You move to him, falling to your knees beside him with furrowed brows. Clenching your hands together your eyes trace over Ellie’s name, and you make a sobbing sound.
“Oh Els,” you whisper, touching her name. “We miss you baby.”
Your words, though softly spoken, seem to echo in the winter air. Joel watches you silently, the sound of your sob like a dagger in his heart. When you touch Ellie’s name on the tombstone, his gaze flickers between your face and the stone, his eyes reddened with unshed tears.
His hand reaches out, seeking yours, the calloused fingers wrapping around yours tightly as he pulls you closer. He shifts, his body curving around you, as if shielding you from the cold and the pain.
Tears slide past your lashes and you shake your head, covering your face into your hands. Joel holds you, his own body shaking and you lean into him, pressing into his chest.
“I forgot,” he whispers, his breath warm in your hair. “I forgot you lost her too. M’sorry baby.”
“N-no, it was different for you,” you whisper. “She was your girl.”
Joel's arms tighten around you at your words, his breath shaky against your cheek. He takes a long, trembling breath before responding, his voice low and ragged.
“Don't do that. Don't lessen what you felt.” His chin rests atop your head, and you can feel the steady thumping of his heart against your cheek, the rhythm of a man trying to stay afloat amidst the wreckage. “She loved you, too. In her own way. You know she did.”
You nod, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat.
The cold seeps through the ground, biting at your knees as you kneel beside Joel, the weight of the silence pressing heavy between you. His arm wraps around you, a quiet anchor as you both face Ellie’s grave, the frost-dusted earth beneath you a reminder of the distance between this moment and all that once was. The world feels distant, as if it’s holding its breath, and the only warmth comes from the quiet comfort of his embrace. His breath is shallow, the only sound the steady exhale of both your lungs, a rhythm shared in grief. No words are needed; the closeness between you speaks volumes as you lean into him, seeking the solace of his presence, the only thing that feels real in this stillness. Time seems to slow, the cold a distant thought as you hold each other, lost in the weight of everything that remains unsaid.
The silence stretches on, the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric the only disturbance in the snowy air.
Joel's hand rubs slow circles against your back, a gentle rhythm meant to soothe. His chin remains resting on the top of your head, the gesture both protective and intimate. Despite the cold, you don't feel the chill, the comfort of his touch outweighing the icy grip of the winter air.
When he finally breaks the silence, his voice is rough, barely louder than a whisper: “We should go before sunset.”
You blink, your hands numb with cold before you nod. He stands, slow as his knees creak and he tugs you up, keeping you close to him.
The leaves crunch underfoot as you walk back to his home, your home, and the silence between you seems to stretch for miles. Joel pushes open the door, ushering you inside as you rub your hands together.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice is flat as you turn around, raising your brows at him. You fold your arms, stepping into his line of sight and he blinks.
“You didn’t do anythin’.”
“I did,” he murmurs, and grinds his jaw. “I left you alone.”
You purse your lips, looking away and hugging yourself tighter. “It’s alright.”
Joel sighs heavily, his gaze flickering over your body, taking note of the way you've folded in on yourself. He reaches out, but stops just short of touching you, his hand clenching into a fist before falling back to his side.
“It's not alright. You needed me, and I wasn't... I…” His voice trails off, and he seems to wrestle with something he's trying to keep inside.
“You lost your daughter,” you whisper and he jerks as if you’d hit him. “Whether you admit that to yourself or not, that’s what Ellie was to you. It’s okay that you…you needed time. I was just worried.”
Joel's expression hardens, his jaw clenching so tightly you can see the muscles twitch. He looks away from you, his shoulders tensing as if bracing for a blow.
“You were worried?” he growls, his words sharp as a knife. “Don't. I don't need your damn pity.0
“It isn’t pity,” you whisper, arms tightening. “It’s caring. Its-“
Love.
The words die on your tongue and you swallow them, standing straighter.
Joel's jaw clenches again, his gaze still fixed on some distant point beyond you. The tension in the air is thick, and for a moment, you think he might argue further. But instead, he exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping with the burden he carries.
“I don't deserve your care,” he mutters, his voice like gravel but lacking the anger of a few moments ago. “I let her die.”
“You didn’t,” you whisper and hurt seeps into your voice. “That wasn’t you. None of this, is your fault.”
“Shoulda been me,” Joel whispers and you swear for a moment, you stop breathing. “It should’ve been me.”
“Don’t-“ you shake your head and raise a finger, pointing at him. “Don’t you say that.”
“Why not?” he snaps back, his eyes flashing in anger. “It’s the truth, isn't it?” He stalks closer to you, his body coiled tight with tension. His eyes are wild, filled with a grief that he's been keeping inside for far too long. “ was supposed to protect her. I failed you, too. Ellie, you – it doesn't matter. I failed both of you.”
“Joel,” you breathe. “That isn’t on you.”
He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots and you step forward, into his space, and take his face between your hands.
“She never forgave me.” He whispers and your brows pinch.
“You know she would have.”
“She hated me,” he murmurs and he’s pulling away again, you can feel it. Not physically, but in his head, his heart. You brush your thumbs over his skin as your eyes prick.
“She didn’t,” you say softly. “She loved you. She was just hurt. And she was young, and confused, but hateful? No. Ellie…Ellie could never hate you.”
Joel's breath hitches as you hold his face, your words slicing through the armor he's built around himself. For a second, he looks almost lost, like a man who’s spent so long drowning that he can’t remember what air feels like.
His hands rise to grip your wrists, not pushing you away, just anchoring himself. His eyes flicker between yours with something desperate in them.
“Then why…” His voice cracks. “Why didn't she stay?”
The question is raw and broken; it’s not an accusation anymore, it's just pain laid bare between you two on the cold floor of this house neither of you feel safe in.
You sigh, a broken, choking sound as you shake your head. “That choice wasn’t up to her, baby.”
Joel sniffs, his eyes closing and he moves forward, arms pulling around your waist and his forehead presses into yours. His tears mix with your own, salty and cold, and you move your hands into his hair, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp.
Joel shudders at the sensation, his arms tightening around you as if he's terrified you'll disappear. His breathing is uneven, shallow and uneven like a man struggling to come up for air.
“Didn't mean to…” he mutters into your shoulder, voice rough with tears. “Didn't mean to push you away too." His hands slide up your back, clutching at the fabric of your shirt like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. “You shouldn't have had ta see me like this.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whisper, eyes closed and throat clogged. “I knew you’d come back to me.”
“Always,” Joel murmurs, and his head dips as he presses a kiss to your mouth. The action surprises you, and it’s so quick you’re barely able to register the pressure of his lips on yours. “I’ll always come back to you.”
You nod, lips parting as you try to breath evenly. “I know.”
Joel lingers for a moment, his forehead still pressed to yours as he tries to steady himself. His breath is warm against your lips, unsteady but there, present in a way that makes something tighten in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes red-rimmed and tired but clearer than they’ve been in weeks. One hand lifts, calloused fingers brushing away the tear tracks on your cheeks with rough tenderness.
“Gonna be okay,” he mutters gruffly, as if trying more for himself than you right now. “We will.”
You nod, and for the first time since Ellie died, your mouth pulls into the smallest of smiles. “We will.”
The silence that lingers between you both is heavy, but not unbearable. Ellie’s absence hangs over you, yet amidst the sorrow, something quietly shifts. Grief had once driven a wedge between you, but now, it seems to be the thread weaving you back together. Joel’s hand finds yours, the touch grounding, unwavering. His eyes meet yours, tender and haunted, but there’s a spark of something familiar there, something that had been lost but is beginning to flicker back to life. You squeeze his hand gently, and in that simple gesture, an unspoken promise is made. You don’t have to be whole right now, and neither of you are. But you will move through this side by side. The road ahead may be long and the scars of loss deep, but in this moment, you find a quiet hope that healing, though slow, is still possible. And love, even in its brokenness, can find its way back home.
x
Ao3 link
Joel Miller ML
Joel miller taglist @joelsmolotov
Divider @pixopix
Maylancholy day 13: Choking on blood
Tag: @may-lancholy
This fic contains: impalement, blood
"Okay Whumpee, I need you to keep talking to me."
Caretaker tried not to cry as they held whumpee close. It looked bad, they had been pierced straight through the chest and blood was rapidly seeping out of the wound.
"Caretaker, I'm scared. I don't want to die. I don't-"
They were interrupted by the rivulets of blood forcing their way up through their mouth and onto Caretaker's clothing. Whumpee coughed and wheezed. Their eyes widened in terror as they struggled to find breath beneath the blood. They clawed at their throat, desperate for air.
Caretaker never let them go, they would make it. They had to.