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petit-etoile · 7 months

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in the moonlight (my darling, do not fear)

pairing: astarion/tav wordcount: 4184 content warnings: mentions of injuries, no in-depth descriptions, minor spoilers for astarion's act ii romance other tags: canon-typical violence, canon complaint, hurt/comfort, whump, developing relationship, love confessions, gender neutral tav, elf!tav archiveofourown: here. sentence prompt: "you're like a sickness, a disease, and the only way for me to be cured of you is to let you completely consume me until my body has no fight left." — from here. summary: defeating the orthon is no small task. the hardest part is what comes after.

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‘No!’ he shouts, and it’s so loud it echoes on the edges of your mind. ‘You can’t die.’

I’m not dying, you think but the words never leave your lips. In the depths of your consciousness, you can faintly remember the battle with the Orthon. Karlach had killed the displacer beast, hadn’t she? Shadowheart had blinded the Merregon… You remember violent flashes of light and the shaking of the Gauntlet. Trying to remember takes too much energy, and thinking about opening your eyes makes your stomach roll.

‘Get up, damn you!’ Astarion snaps harshly.

He paws at your desperately, shifting rock and ruin, and when he presses his hands to your side, stars flutter behind your eyelids so violently all you can do is moan. It’s your turn to shove at him. You push at his hands and feel your fingers glide against his skin. But I’m too tired, you want to say. I just want to sleep, to dream. Eventually, you give up your fight and relax into the darkness. Maybe when you awaken, the illithid parasite will be gone and you will be cured. You can only hope that it comes true.

Astarion has other plans for you. He curses your name so sweet it could be a perfectly mulled wine and leans forward. His ear tickles your lips, and whatever he hears come from it is enough to make him heave out a relieved sob. His hands are on your face again. His fingers are sticky, and they smell like powder. He jostles you so violently that you groan against your will, but it doesn’t seem to matter much to him.

Astarion rests his head against your chest right where your broken collarbone has begun to throb. You struggle to open your eyes and stare at the roof above you, but you don’t see the familiar ceiling of Shar’s Temple. The celestial glowing swirls have been blocked from sight by ugly granite floors. If you really put your mind to it, you can recognize Karlach’s desperate cries on the other side.

‘What happened?’ you whisper.

‘You were supposed to jump down!’ Astarion snarls. ‘Gods, why didn’t you jump down!’

The panic in his voice is enough to make you try harder to retrace your memories. You had plunged your blade into Yurgir’s chest but couldn’t manage to pull it out. It hadn’t killed him. Yurgir had laughed at you, had laughed at your friends — He had never hated anyone more at that moment.

It had taken the blade you kept on your hip to finally kill Yurgir. He had dropped bombs, you recall. It comes back to you easily now. Astarion had been right behind you and was going to follow you down, but you were so wounded he insisted on helping you jump away from the bombs before they exploded. But you hated heights, you hated the feeling of falling.

‘Scared,’ you admit.

‘Ha! Scared!’ Astarion repeats, tone pitching up in his hysteria. ‘Karlach was going to catch you!’

‘I couldn’t,’ you say. ‘I was scared. I couldn’t jump, I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry, Astarion.’

A shaky sob escapes his lips. ‘Don’t be sorry, my love,’ he whispers. ‘Don’t close your eyes again.’

A shudder of exhaustion runs throughout your body. You want to ask questions. You can feel them on the tip of your tongue, but moving your jaw is more work than you’re currently cut out for. Without craning your neck, you try to assess the damage.

The displacer beast’s claws had torn your sleeve. You remember how its teeth snapped shut close to your face, and how now matter how hard you tried to push it away, its thick neck kept you from escaping. Shadowheart had distracted it with a clone. Desperation had pushed you to follow Karlach up the steps so that you could fight the Orthon. For Raphael’s contract. For Astarion.

You do as you were commanded. You stare at the shaking, makeshift rooftop and blink dust from your eyes as it filters down like mocking snow. Astarion’s head feels particularly heavy at this moment. With a sudden, horrified realization, you fully come to terms with the situation you’ve found yourself in.

You are lying in a puddle of your own blood and too broken to move. Half of the floor you were standing on has fallen beneath you and blocked you from your allies, and the only one at your side is Astarion. It must be like death itself to sit there surrounded by blood while injured. He could heal himself if he drank. You raise your good hand and place it against his white-silver curls.

‘I know I usually offer first,’ you say sheepishly. ‘But if you need a drink — ’

‘Have you lost your gods-damned mind?’ Astarion hisses.

Before you can say anything else, he sits up and leans over you. You are easily distracted by his beautiful, marble-like complexion which is marred by the dirt and dust and blood. He’s beautiful.

Astarion’s cerise eyes are frantic. ‘I do not mean to alarm you, but you are dying.’

Like the ceiling’s fate above them, the reality of the situation comes crashing miserably down on top of you. Shadowheart’s spells cannot penetrate the wall that has come between you. You realize it now. You press your hand against the hole in your side delicately and laugh a little, staring at your fingers coated with blood. You close your eyes, but Astarion’s distressed whine has you search frantically for his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ you whisper, horrified. ‘I’m sorry. I’m — Do not hate me.’

‘Please,’ Astarion begs. ‘Just stay awake. Stay with me. Karlach is trying to get through; All you have to do is stay awake, please.’

You search his face for some hint of comfort, but it’s hard to see through the dark spots knotting in your vision. You do your best to push away the panic, to force the tears back into your eyes. You don’t want to die, not yet. Raphael still has to translate the runes on Astarion’s back. Shadowheart wants to finish the gauntlet. You want to save Karlach’s heart, to absolve Wyll’s pact, to save Gale. Selfishly, you want to kiss Astarion again without any of that which comes after. You want to savor the weight of his mouth against yours.

‘I’m sorry,’ you tell him again. You swallow harshly. ‘This must be like torture for you.’

Astarion chuckles hoarsely. ‘While you are very tantalizing, this is…nothing compared to two hundred years.’

You smile faintly. Two hundred years of carrion, and now you are laid out in front of him as delicious and forbidden as the feast Raphael offered you once. He ducks out of your view to lay his head on your chest. Though he tries to hide it, you can feel the little shudders of his sobs.

I’m sorry, you think to the ceiling. The weight of Astarion’s head against your shoulder is agonizing to your broken collarbone, but whatever he is doing, he is doing it with such reverence it reminds you of the religious devout and their steadfast adherence to their god.

He burrows his face into your chest, careful to stay small over you, to be mindful of your condition. He tries to balance his breathing so that it’s quieter and less disruptive, but no matter how hard he tries, he cannot quell the frightened way his shoulders jump. You close your eyes for a moment just to memorize the sight of it.

‘No,’ he says suddenly, sitting up. ‘You promised. You cannot die, I forbid it. You said you would protect me, and you cannot do that if you are — Speak to me, damn you!’

‘’m awake,’ you say tiredly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

‘You cannot,’ Astarion insists.

‘Next time,’ you say, ‘I will jump.’

Astarion shakes his head, and little drops of his tears rain down on your skin. ‘It isn’t the smell of you that makes it hard,’ he confesses brokenly. ‘It isn’t even about the damned Infernal runes. It’s you, everything about you. What is left for a disease like me when someone like you goes away?’

‘You will lead them,’ you tell him.

Astarion’s nose wrinkles at the idea. ‘I am not particularly interested in being the face of a revolution,’ he says. ‘No matter how beautiful I am. I am still a sickness, a beast. You are the only one good enough to lead us.’

‘You are like a sickness, then. A horrible disease,’ you say, mindful of the way his eyes narrow. ‘The only way for me to be cured of you — to be the cure for you, is to let you consume me until my body has no fight left, Astarion.’

‘How dare you,’ he says with a coquettish shrug.

You can hear Karlach slowly working through the rest of the rubble now. You hate to feel too hopeful, but you can almost hear the sound of the shattered floor breaking free. They were coming to save you, to save him.

‘That was rather poetic, you know,’ Astarion tells you. He watches your face intently as if afraid he’ll miss out on something exceptional. ‘You’ve never been one to use such gorgeous words.’

‘I wanted to,’ you say softly. ‘For you, my love.’

Astarion’s eyes widen as those words fall seamlessly from your lips. You aren’t sure if he meant to say them earlier. After all, he’s only ever been fond of calling you darling or a delectable little treat, treating you recklessly with careful honeyed words. As if getting any closer to you might coax him into accidental oblivion where your name might leave his lips thus solidifying you as something to be treated with care. A pomegranate seed between his teeth.

The shock doesn’t stay for long. Your eyelashes flutter though you fight against it. The decaying darkness around your vision has almost reached the center. You cry faintly and press a hand against your side, horrified that your blood is still pouring from you even if it is slower now. Perhaps you are running out of blood. You want to tell Astarion to drink it all up before it’s mixed with the sulfur and ash, but words are hard to form. Your heart skips a beat.

Don’t let me go to waste, you beg helplessly, reaching out to his mind when yours is all but gone. A heart-wrenching sob erupts from his chest. When you next awake, there is relatively less action than what was happening before. There are no violent tremors of a floor threatening to collapse. The sound of frantic shoving is absent. There’s only a dim hum in your ears, and the sound of a hushed fire burning well into the evening. You slowly open your eyes and blink away your sleepiness.

Shadowheart’s healing spell still hovers over you, but she’s not in your tent so she must be concentrating somewhere else. Your collarbone still smarts and you can definitely feel every single bruise you’ve ever received in your life, but you feel stronger, fuller. You reach a hand as if to inspect the wound at your side again and find the skin there is closed now.

‘You’re awake,’ Astarion says softly. ‘Thank the gods.’

You sit up quickly and feel the world turn sideways for it. Lightning dances along the back of your eyes as you try to steady yourself, and Astarion reaches out to ground you as you sway back and forth. You wonder just how long he’s been sitting there in your tent waiting for you. Your head throbs faintly once you manage to open your eyes.

‘Thank the gods,’ you echo breathlessly. ‘You brought me back?’

Astarion grimaces as though embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t the one who carried you back to camp, no,’ he says almost petulantly. ‘You’ll have to thank Karlach for that. But I have sat here since then, I must admit.’

‘Everyone — ’

‘Everyone else is fine,’ Astarion interrupts. ‘Halsin aided Shadowheart in your healing. Gale procured herbs, Wyll kept vigil at camp while you slumbered. It was all very twee. You’ll be sad you missed it.’

Astarion raises his chin much like a cat who desires petting. He would never admit it, but you can see it on his face. He’s relieved. If he were anyone else, he might weep for joy at seeing you awake again. It isn’t who he is, so you settle for knowing that he has not left your side since you escaped the Gauntlet.

You sit up further and wave your hand through Shadowheart’s healing spell. It doesn’t disperse as much as you wish, but you ignore it, crawling across your lumpy bedroll so you can wrap your arms slowly around Astarion’s neck. He freezes beneath your touch and begins sputtering, but then you feel his arms wrap around your waist. He burrows his face in the side of your neck.

‘I’m sorry for scaring you,’ you mumble against his ear.

You hear him swallow. ‘I’m not apologizing for yelling at you, if that’s what you want.’

‘I would never ask you to,’ you insist.

Before, you thought it would be a small hug. Something to show your thanks to him. You loosen your arms around him so that he can pull away, but if anything, Astarion drags you closer to him. He hides his face in the spot beneath your ear and inhales deeply, memorizing your healthy scent intently.

The hug lasts longer than you thought it would. It’s almost as healing as the magic, too. You hold Astarion as close to you as he will allow, rubbing circles and tracing his curls at the nape of his neck as if to promise that you will never leave again. You decide to sniff him tentatively as well, and beneath the dirt and ash from the collapse, he still smells like Astarion.

You startle a little when you feel his hand tuck beneath your shirt, his fingers reaching to touch a hint of your bare skin. Someone was kind enough to drag the heavier armor from you, but you still have your bloodied shirt on. Astarion’s cool touch is welcome against your aching spine.

‘I thought,’ he says slowly, ‘that you had sentenced me to a lifetime of loneliness again when you were felled earlier. At first, I was so angry that I thought I might hate you for your mistake. I wanted to kill you myself once the dust had settled.’

‘Astarion — ’ you start to say, hopeless apologies on your tongue.

‘You will let me finish,’ Astarion says harshly, though he nuzzles you. ‘Elves reincarnate, but how long does it take? How many years would I be forced to wait before I caught the scent of you on the wind?’

You’re freed from his grasp, but you aren’t allowed to escape far. You both kneel in your tent, one of his hands on the back of your head, the other at the side of your waist where your skin had been ripped open before. Astarion allows you to see him for who he truly is. His eyes are soft, weak when he stares deep into your eyes like he’s afraid he’ll forget you.

‘You have made this sinner a worshiper, though it’s no gods I am on my knees for,’ Astarion says to you. ‘The only hymn I care to rehearse is your heartbeat. The only prayer is your name. I begged the gods for years that they would save me, but you are the only divine who has answered my call.’

Your breath catches in your throat.

Astarion presses his hip into yours. ‘I wanted to wait to tell you,’ he says with a miserable shake of his head. ‘To think more.’

‘You still can — ’

‘I cannot,’ he admits. ‘When I close my eyes, all I see is your body beneath mine with your life’s blood spilling from you. You begged me to devour you.’

‘I wanted you to be strong,’ you admit. ‘Before, you told me you were only allowed to dine on creatures who couldn’t think. Who knows how long your strength would have lasted…’

His eyes seem to contain infinite sadness. You try to be intent with your words, but you’re distracted by the way he releases his head to palm your chest, pushing his fingers so forcefully skin it’s as though he’s determined to dig through your flesh to grip your heart in his hand. You’d allow him if he asked.

‘You are so self-sacrificing it’s insulting,’ Astarion snorts. ‘Do you think I would have continued in this realm without you? Never have I felt so selfishly about someone before.’

Carefully, almost as if he’s never done it before, Astarion leans forward and presses his lips against yours gently. All you can think about is his overwhelming devotion even as you respond to the kiss, melting against the touch. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this.

And you do miss it. You hate being in the Shadow-Cursed Lands more than you hate the lift in the mountains. Everything is dark and dreary and dead, and your companions are prone to being even more distant and distressed than they were before. You feel as though you are of little hope.

But Astarion kisses you now like a man who is breathing air for the first time. His mouth is hungry and insistent, and his hands cling to your skin more than he’s ever clung to you before. It causes you to blush. It’s unlike him to show such desperation. He’s willing, open, honest — yet this kiss is so different from the ones you experienced before. It’s almost chaste. He kisses you like a knight would kiss his charge.

‘But I want this,’ he whispers, breath ragged against your cheek. ‘I want you.’

‘Astarion,’ you murmur. That's all you can say.

He presses his nose against your jaw. ‘Whatever my intentions were before, to the hells with them,’ he says harshly. ‘I want us to be something real, something true if you’ll have me. It’s what you deserve.’

‘I do,’ you confess, almost embarrassed. ‘You must’ve known how silly I felt pestering you. You were the first person I sought out when I returned to camp.’

‘You did have a rather obvious air of desperation about you,’ Astarion says with a small laugh.

‘But I wanted you to come to me of your own accord,’ you continue. You touch the edge of his collar. ‘I lacked confidence. I did not want to force you into something knowing your history.’

He kisses you again. This time, it is a little less chaste. Astarion is determined to devour you, mind, body, and soul. His hands wander as though they’ve never felt your body before, and there’s something anguished about the way he returns to cradling the back of your neck. Your mouth is nothing but a scripture he is determined to practice.

You feel drunk with exhaustion. Having been settled between death and undeath for so long has left you feeling as though there is nothing in your sinew, and Astarion is making matters worse. Your head is filled with nothing but him and his unpredictable mercy. You cling to his shirt and struggle.

What have you done to deserve such boundless devotion? You have listened to, and pleaded with, every emotion he has given you. You’ve taken and given and created anew. Now Astarion becomes. Everything you have given him evolves to become this. When he is finally finished memorizing your mouth, he pulls away and confronts you with barely concealed hunger.

‘Say it,’ he begs desperately. ‘Say you want me too.’

‘I want you,’ you say. ‘Gods, you must know this. There’s nothing I want more.’

‘I wanted to manipulate you,’ he says, horrified. He hides in the crook of your jaw. ‘I wanted to use you as a shield, someone to stand behind.’

‘I am not a very big shield,’ you say.

He doesn’t laugh. ‘I was going to do what I had done before,’ he says. ‘Use your emotions for me as a weapon, but — I never want to see you near another weapon for as long as we live. Do you understand?’

You press a kiss to his hair. ‘Shall I stand behind you now?’

Astarion does laugh at that. He faces you fully now, hands cupping your cheeks. ‘You may as well be regulated to nothing but camp duty. You find a place for us to rest, you sew our clothes up when they come back with holes in them. I’d say you could make dinner, but…’

You brush a lock of his silver hair away from his eyes and run your thumbs against the swelling. He’s just as exhausted as you are even if he has yet to admit it. The building’s collapse has left him equally as tired. You encourage him to lay down with you, and he does, curling at your side with his head on your chest.

‘Will you be our fearsome party leader?’ you ask. You close your eyes and try to imagine it.

‘Oh yes,’ he swears solemnly for your sake. ‘I will hold the map and point us in the correct direction. Hopefully my leadership will lead us away from Shadow-Cursed things and back to the streets of Baldur’s Gate. I am so ferocious that whoever controls these parasites will give up upon seeing my muscles.’

You try to imagine your life without the tadpole. It seems relatively empty without Shadowheart and Lae’zel’s bickering, and you would miss the way Halsin and Gale are prone to rambling on about whatever is holding their interest at the time. You’d miss Karlach and her boundless enthusiasm for dancing. You’d miss Wyll, too. You’d miss the way he always watches your back.

Would you have met them in Baldur’s Gate? Would Astarion have picked up your scent and chased you down an alleyway intent on drinking your blood? He would be as he was before, angry and cruel and distant. For a moment, you’re almost grateful that the mindflayers had kidnapped you that morning. The circumstances surrounding it were dire, and you hated the gross wiggling the worm was prone to doing when it wanted you to be authoritative, but you would miss them.

‘I don’t regret it, you know,’ you say suddenly.

‘You do not regret what, exactly?’ Astarion asks. ‘Getting blown up and nearly dying? You should.’

You snort despite your best attempts not to. You press your palms against your eyes and try to keep from laughing too hard. For what it’s worth, Astarion does let out a small chuckle. You can hear his frown.

‘Aye,’ you relent. ‘I suppose I do regret nearly dying and. I don’t regret what came before it. If Raphael asked me to strike down all of the gods so that he would translate your back, I would do it without asking a question. You deserve to know.’

‘I cannot overstate how…appreciative I am of that,’ Astarion says finally. ‘But, just so you know, I would do the same for you without question. I have most of the time. I trust at least a third of your decisions.’

‘All of the decisions I make,’ you begin.

But Astarion interrupts, ‘I am sure you make them with everyone’s best interest in mind. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes you end up blown to bits.’

‘I do not regret letting you feed from me,’ you say, pretending he never opened his mouth. ‘I do not regret the silly way I fell into your honeyed words. I do not regret killing the Orthon. I do not regret you.’

‘We’ve barely just begun.’

You swallow. ‘And I will see it through until the end of time,’ you say. You’re fully aware that it’s too soon to make sweeping grand declarations of love, but you can’t stop yourself from saying. ‘You will never be alone again.’

You take Astarion’s silence in stride. You want him to know that he isn’t the only one capable of saying disgustingly romantic things. In the wake of your unconsciousness, you feel a rush of things you haven’t felt in quite some time. Life felt dreary in the mountains and worse in the Underdark. You hate when your world feels as though it’s crushing you. Now, even in the dark, it’s as if the sun shines on your face.

‘I love you,’ you say.

‘Say it again.’

‘I love you,’ you repeat, this time with more meaning. You try to roll onto your side, but your shoulder fusses too much. ‘I want you, and I want this. Forever.’

‘Forever,’ Astarion repeats, a sense of wonder entering his voice as he toys with the taste of it on his tongue. Once again, he sits above you, his head pressed against your chest, shaking as he listens to the sound of your heartbeat beneath your skin. ‘I like the sound of that.’ You smile at the sound of a purr in his voice, and allow yourself to imagine what forever means.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x oc #from ，carcosa .#my fic

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davosmymaster · 1 year

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No Time To Die

TAGS AND WARNINGS - +18, Minors DNI, no explicit smut but sexual themes, whump, a lot of angst, blood, graphic wounds and procedures (?) probably not medically accurate, could be almost gore if you squint, hurt/comfort, two dorks in love, canon-typical violence, near-death experiences. Not based on the game, I don’t know anything about the game and I don’t want spoilers please.

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 9.6k.

SUMMARY - The main difficulty of being Joel’s closest friend is not falling in love with him, but you still do. Those feelings are buried until you join him on a mission to trade supplies with Bill and Frank. With your life now hanging by a thread, Joel is determined to get you to safety, but the clock is ticking faster than he can run.

A/N - I honestly don’t know what this is. I tried to look for angsty and whumpy fics and couldn’t find any that hit the spot just right; so I wrote my own. This story is set in some time between 2010 and 2020, or so. Bill and Frank are still very much alive. The only warning apart the amount of blood in this, it’s my own knowledge of the English language.

'Breathe'

With a shiver, you try to comply with your own command. The action itself confuses you, and you don't know where exactly in your mind that thought came from; or why. All you know is that a moment ago you were nothing, absolutely nothing, not even human. You forgot your own existence in a still ocean made of black thick ink. The ink is now backtracking, though, but the remnants of it stay in your foggy mind, clouding it as your consciousness comes back in waves.

Waking up from a dream is easy, you just come back into yourself from a nice trip to your own imagination. Regaining consciousness, however, is a little more difficult. Instead of going somewhere, you go inwards into yourself. Your overworked mind, already tired and busy with keeping you alive, doesn't care much about bringing you to any other place so you can die peacefully. No. And the awakening is not as it should be either.

Coming back into yourself is your body crawling its way to the land of the living, with your flesh drenched in tears, blood and sweat; and nails digging firmly into the dirt. At least that's how it feels as you go back and forth between the two worlds, rocked violently by the waves threatening to drown you in its heavy never-ending dream.

You wake up tired, and cold. The first sense that returns is touch; and with it, a pulsing pain radiates from under the right side of your collarbone and all the way down to your chest and back. The —obvious— wound is warmer than the rest of your body. It's like you've grown a second heart right at the borders of the wound; it throbs relentlessly. The second is taste. Your mouth tastes like salt and melted butter; despite not having eaten either in at least three days. Around the dryness of your tongue you feel a sticky liquid swirling around in your mouth, plastered to your gums.

Whatever it is, you cough it out of your mouth. The old blackened blood splatters on the wooden planks below your mouth. Then, a second later, you feel a sprawled hand on your back; and the rest of your consciousness returns with it.

He calls your name. And he, whose presence you'd have recognized even blindfolded, even miles away from there, doesn't appear in your mind for a few seconds. But even half-conscious and at death's gates, his name leaves your mouth with a sigh of relief.

Joel.

"I'm here," he says, his palm now pressing a bit harder into your back, trying to comfort you somehow. If you had been fully aware, you'd have been embarrassed at the relieved groan that had escaped your lips while saying his name. "How are you feeling?"

His voice sounds less muffled now, but the pulsing pain intensifies the closer you are to the surface. A second groan escapes your mouth as the warmth under your collarbone becomes impossible to ignore.

"I know, I know" he says.

Your eyes flutter open. From your point of view there's not much to see except torn wallpaper, your blood stains, and the shadow of a window. You're on the floor, your cheek pressed against the dusty carpet, your body very still laying on them, and Joel rubbing your back.

The room is dark. His fingers enter your field of vision, they dip on the wet blood stains and turn around so Joel can see the sticky fluid staining his fingers. He takes a breath, a gasp, really.

"Goddamnit," he mutters under his breath. His hand stops rubbing your back, and as black stains crawl from the corners of your vision, trying to take you under the waves again, he talks to you:

"I need to turn you around..." he says with a gentle voice. It's like the icing on top of a sour and burnt cake; he's trying to sound caring, but that doesn't change the fact that it's going to hurt like a bitch. "You hear me?" he says, and his voice breaks for a second. Your ears ring, the next thing he says your brain doesn't process it, your vision has been clouded by darkness again...

A scream tores your throat as a shooting pain lights your body on fire. It feels like lightning going through your backbone. Suddenly, the waves are very far away and you're feeling way too conscious for your liking. Despite your pain, Joel is still as careful as he can as he lays you on the floor, now facing the ceiling instead.

The throbbing pain continues, and you blink to get rid of the tears that distort Joel's face. His hand wipes the tears from your face.

"I know," he says. He has a crease between his seemingly angry eyebrows that you had never seen before.

Both hands are roaming your ribs now, before you can even say anything. His warm hands give you shivers as he touches your naked skin. The pain is so unbearable that all you can do to mitigate it is hold your breath. If you could move, you'd be right now curled on the floor like a pretzel. You are not crying anymore, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't close.

"Can you breathe?" he asks then, when he doesn't find any cracks in your ribs by touch alone. You don't respond because you can't find your own voice, and he sounds desperate at this point. "You coughed blood, I need to know if any of your lungs are collapsing."

"It-it hurts..." you wheeze, your eyes tightly shut. For a split second, you wish you were back to being nothing. Being nothing sounds way better than having a gunshot wound in your chest. The bandages, tight over your bones and shoulder, don't mitigate the pain either. If anything, they worsen it. It feels like a tight sock over a painful pustule on your heel.

Worst part is you know all this pain is for nothing; you know you won't make it. If you go back to the QZ, you will be executed. If not, there's nobody to help you except Joel. But even if there were doctors or hospitals, you highly doubted you could find the necessary tools to extract a bullet and stitch the wound. That is, if you manage not to die of blood loss.

"Where?" Joel asks. Even beyond all this concern and well-hidden panic, he seems to cling to an ounce of hope. "Tell me where it hurts."

Your fingers gently trace your skin until they reach the area under your collarbone, and you sign to your back too. There's a bandage there, but nothing else, and that's when you notice you don't have a shirt on, just your blood-soaked bra.

"Is it bad?"

"Not that bad. The bullet went through," he said. That explains the pain on both sides of your body; you have a literal hole in your chest. "And it clotted soon enough to stop the bleeding, but you lost too much blood anyway... Anywhere else?"

Your whole body hurts and this abandoned house suddenly feels like penance, but you don't want to scare him further, so you shake your head no very slowly.

"Alright," he mumbles. Joel nods once, and it looks like he is reassuring himself. His eyes betray him, he looks like he is very far away from here, very buried under all the scenes playing on his mind; but despite his stillness, his lower lip quivers.

You can't move your right arm at all, but with the other hand, your fingers lightly touch his knuckles still resting on your stomach. He winces, and your fingers are wet with his blood too. He must have beaten to death whoever shot you, that you are certain about.

Your voice, little more than a weak breath, whispers:

"I-I want you to do it."

The crease between his eyebrows deepens. He seems confused rather than angry; the reaction you were hoping for. You take a breath to repeat your own words, but he squeezes your hand.

"Don't," he says.

"Joel..."

"Don't even think about it," he snarls. "You are perfectly fine, don't be dramatic."

You don't know what hurts more; his pain or yours, but his denial makes your eyes wet with tears again. This is already hard, but he is making it even harder. All he will achieve by trying to keep you alive is either prolonging his pain or getting himself killed. You both know this is no world for the injured and the sick, not out of the QZ, at least. And in most cases, not inside either.

All you ask of him is to not leave you for the infected to find. Is that too much to ask?

You want to insist, but you know he won't have it. Joel has lost so much already that the thought of losing what little left he has is not even going to cross his mind. Not until it's too late, at least. Also, you don't want your last moments with him to be a fight. You are tired of fighting, of swimming against the current. You just want to let go for once, give in to the external forces, close your eyes and peacefully breathe.

What's more, you should have already known that he wouldn't do you that favor. He is too selfish for that.

He pats your cheeks gently with his large hands, and your eyes, already rolling back into your skull, get focused on him again with a few blinks. You breathe slowly, trying to focus on him, on the world around you slowly twisting and turning.

"...that's it," he says, it doesn't sound like his first sentence, so you guess he's been talking to you before. When you look back at him, his breathing is shallow, and you know he is trying to take a hold of himself too, trying not to give in to panic. "Good girl, that's it. Keep your eyes on me."

Exhausted and hurting as you are, keeping your eyes open it's like asking you not to drop a weight that you cannot, in fact, handle; but you try nonetheless. It's your fault, really, for letting yourself go, for trying to give up on your fight earlier than you should. Joel is here trying to keep you alive, mending all your broken ends and stitching them together —he has always been good at that— while you're just trying to give up on him —you are really good at that too—.

Giving up on Joel has been one of the hardest things you've ever had to do; and now you're letting him go for the last time. Part of you is glad you don't have to keep watching how he chooses Theresa over and over again. You are even relieved that fate —or whatever there is out there— is forcing you out of the equation. After all, you would never have given up fully on him.

He refuses to kill you, what he doesn't know is that you've been dead for a long while now. Him being your executioner would be the kindest act he could have with you, the most intimate thing you'd ever share; your last moments. You want it to be him, you want him to free you from this torment.

He refuses, though; and it feels like a punch to the pit of your stomach. You shiver.

He gets up from his place on the floor, where you are lying just over the carpet. You follow him with your eyes and see a fire cracking up in a fucked-up chimney. He stokes the fire, throws some more wood on it and then comes back to you, covering you with his jacket, the very same jacket you had on before he turned you around. It's warm, his, and you have to stop yourself from sinking your nose into the collar.

"I had to take off your shirt to patch you up," he says, but he doesn't say sorry. Ever. So you guess it's his way of apologizing.

You simply nod, aware that you had wished for this very moment to happen many times before. You had dreamt of his rough hands over your naked flesh, caressing the sides of your body. You had dreamt of him watching you with those chocolate eyes as you took your shirt off, deep black pupils spreading over the brown as he watched the lace fall like a helpless witness.

But now the bra was covered in blood and he was watching you anywhere but the lace. He had a frightened and concerned look on his face, rather than aroused. A look that would have made you feel guilty and ashamed if it had happened in the other scenario. And instead of undressing you, he was covering your body with his jacket as if you were his child.

"What's wrong?" he is asking now, instead of whispering 'I want you' and it hurts all the same to know he's not ever going to say it, and that Tess now will have all those words for however long their lives are.

You guess they were made for each other. And it makes all the sense, really, no one like Joel would ever look at you twice. You were grateful that he even allowed you to be his friend.

"Nothing," you respond.

It's always 'nothing' when it comes to Joel. It's always that nothing whenever he notices you are under the weather. It's always nothing when you are hurt, when someone tries to rob you and they leave an angry black eye on your face. It's always nothing; and he never believes you.

"I don't make promises, you know that," he says, taking your left hand in his. "but you will be fine, I swear."

You don't know what to say, how to explain that you are not scared of death, that you are just scared of not seeing him again. But you can't, so you say nothing and just nod.

Does he want to hurt himself? Okay. You can't do much while lying on the floor anyway.

After that, both of you stay silent. Joel seems to be avoiding looking at you. His eyes are stuck in the fire creaking in the chimney, but they are too restless to be present and conscious of the yellow and orange haze.

Your palm lands on his thigh, your fingers gently brushing the denim. You want to comfort him somehow, but, at the same time, you are scared he will reject your touch and reassurance. That's all you can do for him: no words, no further touching, just a featherlight touch that indicates you are still present. There, with him.

"I thought we couldn't make a fire."

"Don't be dumb. The windows are all broken, it's winter and you are in shock. How else would you heat up?"

"Got it. You're not in a talking mood," you huff. "Alright."

Silence settles between both of you. However, one of his big, rough hands travels to where your fingertips are gently brushing his thigh. At the touch, even if you don't want to let go, your fingers begin to back off. He's not in a good mood, and you seem to be pushing his boundaries a little too much. Except that, instead of letting you go, he catches your hand in his and puts it back over his jean. This time, it's him who brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

For a minute, the only sound in the living room are both your breathing patterns, the flames licking the air and the wind rushing through the broken windows.

"I'm sorry..." you start. And immediately, his brown eyes are all over you again. Your voice sounds exhausted, more than you'd have liked. "...I fucked up the mission. I know-"

"You haven't fucked up anything," he interrupts. That's Joel, all stoic, swallowing his feelings and denying everything that it is not up to his standards. "Would you mind to just rest-"

Your eyes well with tears.

"Joel, for once... Just for once, don't lecture me, don't ignore what I'm trying to say just because you don't want to hear it," you tell him. Then, he thankfully presses his lips together in a pained grimace, but stays silent nonetheless. "I fucked up the mission getting injured. I know it isn't my fault, but it doesn't matter whose fault it is. If you wanna go on without me, I won't blame you."

His fingers are now squeezing yours, but you know he is not even conscious of that. He leans in a little, his cheeks now reddened in anger. He looks like he is about to spit on your face.

"I'm not leaving you anywhere," he says. He looks offended that you even thought he was capable of that. "You and I are gonna get to Lincoln, either if you like it or not. There, Bill and Frank will help you. We have traded all kinds of things with them, and I know they are very well supplied."

"Why would they help me?"

"They are not just people we trade with," he says. His fingertips brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I know they will."

"What if they changed their minds?"

His pupils lock into your own, his jawline swells as he grits his teeth.

"I'm persistent."

The mission was supposed to be an easy one. Walk out of the QZ undetected, walk fifteen miles to the town of Lincoln, just outside Boston, get our things and come back. Our cargo were the two last spools of aluminum that Joel had promised to trade with them and two packets of seeds. Theirs? Two pounds of rolling tobacco and a gun. Tess couldn't make it, she had appointments with other smugglers, probably the ones who snuck the drugs in; which was more than half of their business. If it wasn't that important, she wouldn't have stayed in the QZ for anything in the world. But Bill and Frank were also important, and Joel couldn't go alone.

The two of you should be home by now, and you wondered if Tess was regretting her decision of asking you to go with him. Last night you had both snuck out of the Boston QZ; and it usually didn't take more than six hours to get to Lincoln. But just outside the city you had bumped into raiders; and a stray bullet had hit you. Now you were stranded in a small cabin lost in the woods, about seven miles away from Lincoln; and unable to walk a single step.

And to top it all off, Joel was enraged and neurotic.

Still with the same expression, he takes your wrist and squeezes two fingers into it. Even if you had preferred him not to, knowing that your heartbeat got wild whenever he was around. You let him check on you, hoping that if your symptoms got better he would let you have a quick nap. Your nervousness, however, doesn't improve despite your efforts of trying to calm yourself down.

"Since when are you a doctor?"

He lets your wrist go, then gets back on his feet and gets his rifle.

"You should rest. You'lll need it," he says, now heading to the entrance. He's gonna be standing on guard all night, you are sure of that. "We're leaving tomorrow morning."

That is when you lose it. You can't believe he is that blind, that caught up in his own world.

"I know in your perfect fantasy this is just a scratch, but I truly can't move, Joel. Even laying here awake is hard. How am I supposed to follow...? Joel!"

But he's out of the house before you even finish the sentence.

[***]

Joel doesn't keep his word.

A few hours later, not even near dawn yet, you get pulled back from a dream. Your eyes take a few minutes to register your surroundings; again. And the memories gallop back to your mind in a rush; accompanied by the burning and piercing pain on the upper right side of your chest. Your eyes shut tight, and you inhale a shallow breath. Even breathing hurts.

"We need to go," Joel whispers. His voice sounds muffled, especially over the sound of your beating heart. "C'mon, wake up."

He is once again rocking you rather than shaking you awake. Just to be able to fall asleep you had rolled back into your chest, cheek once again firmly pressed against that twenty-year-old dusty carpet. When he came back from checking the perimeter, not even five minutes after your argument, he placed his backpack right under your stomach so your right side was elevated. You wouldn't have been able to fall asleep if it wasn't for that. The pain was maddening, atrociously painful. Joel had found you gritting your teeth even in your sleep.

He had said you'd leave the next day, but you felt like not even minutes had passed.

"Morning," you complained, half a grunt accompanying your words. Joel shook you gently again when he saw you relax a second time, and your voice came back. "Y-you said...mor-"

"I know what I said but we can't wait any longer," he answered. "I'm gonna sit you up."

Fear pumped enough adrenaline into your system to wake you up. The ache from before rushed back into your mind, and your 'please' and 'wait' left your mouth like a prayer.

"I can do it," you said, but it sounded more like begging than an affirmation.

"I know you can," he lied. As your eyes opened and you saw his expression —eyes focused on you, trembling hands, half of his face hidden in the shadows, the other half gently licked by the orange-like haze of the dying fire— you understood that you had to be in a really bad condition for him to look at you that way, and feel the need to lie to make you feel better. But then, a second right after that, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes fluttered between your face and the surface of his jacket over your shoulders. His stoic mask was back on. "I'm just gonna help you, okay? But you do it."

He did not, in fact, let you do it.

You had managed to lift yourself barely an inch over the carpet, using all the strength left in your healthy arm, when both his hands curled around your side and pulled you up to his chest. Clenching your jaw, you allowed him to drag you a few feet back and into a seating position against the wall; your whole weight over the left side of your body.

"Don't lean on the other side, your shoulder blade is broken."

"Oh..." you almost chuckled. "Great."

For a second, Joel looks at you as if you were completely insane. He reaches for his backpack, crouching on the place where you were lying just seconds prior. Then takes his flask and doubts when passing it on.

"I'm not that desperate for water," you respond, reaching for the flask and drinking a gulp of the liquid. You swallow despite the soreness in your throat. "Next thing you'll do is spit food into my mouth."

"Not even getting shot shuts your fucking mouth, does it?" he says, grossed out at your comment. However, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Relaxing him has a calming effect on you too.

You try to pass him the flask again, but he refuses.

"No," he says. "Drink it all. You'll need it."

You look at him with narrowed eyes, confused. It's hard to keep a single thought in your head other than the throbbing pain in your chest and back, but you still try. Rather than asking him how you are supposed to walk seven miles, with the aluminum and his pack, you try to approach the matter another way.

"What's the plan?"

He takes a deep breath.

"You're not gonna like it," he says, his deep voice almost slurring the words. It's barely a whisper. He looks into your eyes, then. "I'm gonna carry you."

"What?"

"You heard me."

There's not an ounce of doubt in his eyes. Joel has that look of determination, the one you only really see when he has his eyes set on something really fucking important for him; most times that includes his own brother or not talking about the times before the outbreak. And with that look on his face, you know there's nothing you could possibly say or do to make him reconsider his own words. He's stubborn like that.

You still try.

"It's seven miles, Joel..." you tell him on a thready voice, a whisper. And Joel sighs through his nose —as if he had forgotten. "And we have to carry..."

"We leave everything here," he says. "Come back for it later."

"They won't let us in empty-handed."

"You don't know them."

For Joel to be so certain about it, certain enough as to put both your life and his on the hands of strangers; you understand that their relationship goes beyond trading. Joel had told you about them, about their situation and the first time Tess and him had shared dinner with Bill and Frank. Still, you were suspicious of them, and you thought that he was too; up until now, at least.

"It's still seven miles," you tell him, and you know him, you know he's about to stop talking to you and leave the room if you don't, at least, partly give in to his reasoning. "...are you sure you wanna do it?"

His pleading brown eyes engulf you, then, with an emotion he had never showed before. His gaze diverts for a second to your wound, to the bandages that, as you look at them, you find they are once again covered in blood. They are soaked in it, the skin surrounding it has a large black bruise —internal bleeding, you guess. And when you try to take a full deep breath, you find yourself unable to, at least not at full capacity.

The understanding hits you, then. You don't have much time left.

"I don't have any other choice," Joel says, but what he means is 'I don't want to lose you'.

"Okay."

Not even a full second has passed from your reluctant acceptance, but he is already on his feet. Joel walks to the only table in the room, takes your gun and puts it in his hip, right inside the jean. The only other thing he takes apart from ammo is another set of bandages —and he silently thanks whatever it is out there that he put those there a month ago—. He doesn't have anything to clean the wound, though; and one of his biggest fears is that it might already be infected. Even bandaged it looks bad.

He approaches you, crouches down so he is facing the wound.

"I'm going to tighten the bandage, and I have to keep the pressure," he says, loosening the knot. His fingers are once again stained with you blood, and he has to fight the images of him pressing on your wound from a few hours ago, when he had found you and, with trembling hands, had tried to stop the bleeding coming out in waves. He looks at you, trying to forget the awful picture of your eyes closed, your body limp on the ground. "Bite something."

You reach for the sleeve of his jacket, the one hanging from your shoulders; and put the padded cuff of his jacket into your mouth.

Joel doesn't give you a warning; and you're not sure if that's a good or bad thing, either. He presses the heel of his hand right over the covered hole in your chest, with such strength that you wonder if he will end up breaking your clavicle in half. As he presses your body against the wall, you can almost feel the cracked bones in your back smashing against each other.

Needless to say, the pain is blinding. The view of the room, the feeling of his heat around you, the scent of him under your nose... all gone in a matter of seconds. Your vision turns white, all your senses stop functioning. Over the scream that falls from your lips, muffled by the jacket, you hear him say:

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

He lets go, and your vision immediately darkens, the shadows flowing from the corners of the room quick to reach you. With your last grip on reality you feel yourself melting against the wall, slowly slipping to the side. Joel catches you before you hit the floor.

Cold water is what brings you back. Your breathing quickens at the coldness of it, and the next thing you feel are his wet hands palming your cheeks, throwing water from his flask all over your face.

"C'mon," he mumbles. "I need you awake."

Your eyes flutter open, your whole body relaxed now that he's not applying pressure; but alert enough that your unfocused eyes make a single shape out of him.

While coming back into yourself, Joel does not have any time to lose. He takes his jacket over your shoulders and slips your left arm inside the sleeve, the other, where the wound is, he decides to leave it as it is; and buttons it over your chest so you're not exposed.

"You good?"

In any other situation you'd have said some joke, or just something to piss him off. But as of right now, nothing comes to your clouded mind; and even if something did come, you're too exhausted to even do the mental effort to say it. So you just nod.

"Okay," he nods too, talking to himself inside his head, then takes your face in his hands and looks into your eyes. "You're fine, you hear me? I'm gonna carry you and you're gonna be on my back; so I need you talking all the damn time, alright?

You nod again.

"Starting now."

"Y-yes... okay."

"Good," he says. His hand crawls to the back of your neck, and he joins both your foreheads. He takes quick breaths. He's terrified when he whispers. "You're doing so good. I'm so proud of you."

"Y-you... are?"

"Mm-hmm," he says. And as his words settle into your brain, you feel your chest warm. When you open your eyes and he separates, there's a tear on his cheek, but he's quick to wipe it off. "I'm gonna open the front door."

It's just an excuse, you both know it, but neither dares to say anything. None of you wants to talk about the elephant in the room, the fact that your chances are slim even if this works.

Joel returns quickly, with his lashes wet and reddened eyes. It makes you speechless, to know that all this effort and tears are for you. You'd have never, in a million years, thought you'd ever see Joel Miller cry; let alone for you. He had always been so quiet, so detached from everyone, even from Tess.

Without a word, his hands get hooked on the underside of your thighs. He lifts you up, seemingly effortlessly, and your inner thighs surround his hips. You take a deep breath, again —or at least try to— as you try not to blush and show those feelings you buried long ago. This is not the time, nor the place; so you allow your head to follow his range of motion; forwards. Soon, your nose is pressed against the lapels of his denim shirt. With your good arm, you grab one of his broad shoulders. The other falls limp, and even that little movement hurts like hell.

He freezes, his shoulders now stiff under your hand. His beard grazes your jaw as he tries to look at you, so still in his arms.

"You okay?"

"Yeah..."

Better than okay, you want to respond. Better than I've been in a long time. But you don't.

He leaves you on the table, on the edge, with your legs dangling. His eyes waver for a second as he leaves you there, his hands squeeze your knees in such a brief movement that you wonder if he was even conscious of that. He looks like he wants to say something, but he can't think of what, so he turns around and bends his knees a little to get you to a good height.

"I need you to push yourself up with your good arm," he instructs. "and keep the other still, okay?"

"Okay," you respond, fighting the urge to just nod instead.

Not even following his instructions to a t saves you from the pain. The effort, even with your arm limp in the air, makes your body shudder and an agonizing stab runs through your whole spine. The scream that tores from the depths of your throat is so intense that Joel hesitates to put you back on the table, his back trembles for a second as his body shivers in distress. But, in the end, he has you in the air with a good hold.

He waits, but doesn't hear anything except shallow breaths, doesn't feel anything but the weight of your head over his shoulder.

"You with me?" he asks. He is seconds away from aborting the mission.

"Y-yeah..."

Your arm surrounds his neck loosely. Your fist is closed tightly, grabbing the other shoulder, and he wishes he could touch you, give you some kind of comfort, but he can't let go from his grip under your knees.

Joel does not have the privilege of time, every second is precious, so not even giving it a try, he starts walking as if you weighted nothing. He crosses the front door and the freezing cold wind of the East Coast cuts your cheeks. If he notices —and you know that he has, wearing just his shirt in the middle of the night— he doesn't react.

"Remember what I told you?" he asks.

In less than a minute he has crossed the space from the cabin to the highway, where you were surprised by raiders. You look around, see the bodies of five men sprawled on the floor; lifeless, drowning in a pool of their own blood. One of them has his face mauled to nothing. The sight is so sickening —or maybe you are getting so ill— that a sudden dizziness takes hold of your shivering body.

"Hey..."

"I'm sorry..." you start, teeth chattering from the cold. "I'm sorry I screamed into your ear earlier."

A sound, half a relieved sigh and half a chuckle, leaves his mouth.

"I'm half deaf from that ear anyway."

A light chuckle falls from your lips too. Joel keeps walking west through the highway, and you keep yourself desperately clinging to him for dear life. The moon is your only other companion; without her, you both would be completely blind in the darkness of the night.

[***]

Joel probably hadn't thought about the possibility of taking breaks along the way. That's why, fourty-five minutes later, and under a beautiful sunrise of orange tones, he's struggling to keep going. His knees are screaming for him to stop, his biceps and hands tired of walking with a person's weight over his shoulders. And for the first time in years he remembers the times before the outbreak, when he was capable of lifting and moving huge pieces of furniture; often times on his own, other times with just Tommy.

He might have overestimated his own strength, assuming he was as strong as before. But it seems that not only his mental health has deteriorated after Sarah's death, no. All of him has become older and darker and more broken since then. He hardly recognizes himself in the mirror anymore.

"Joel?"

"Yeah..." he gasps, out of air. "Sorry, I got distracted. You were saying...?"

It is in moments like this that he hates not to be that same person he was before. He wonders if he is, finally, paying for his past sins, for all the people, infected or not, that he has killed.

It is unfair, the fact that you're paying for his piper.

"You should stop for a while," you tell him, your voice low like a whisper. The warm air from your mouth slithers across his skin, up his neck, over his ear, and almost sends a shiver down his spine.

"No."

"Joel..." you huff. Before speaking again, you take a big gulp of air. "We are not getting anywhere if you don't take breaks. You'll just wear yourself off before we reach the halfway mark."

His mind refuses to agree, but it's as if his body takes a relieved breath when he hears the words. Little by little, his body starts to listen to you before his mind does. His thighs are screaming, sore from the pain of exertion; and before he acknowledges, even, his body has stopped moving.

"Okay," he gasps, quick tired breaths quickly entering and leaving his lungs. "...but just a minute, we don't have time for this bullshit."

"Okay," you say, in the same tone he used earlier with you; when he lied and said he knew you could sit up on your own. "Just a minute."

He pulls to the side of the road, and with the last of his strength he kneels down and tries to lay you on the ground as carefully as possible. You fall on your ass on the wet ground, but at least you don't hurt yourself on the spot. He asks you for the millionth time in the last twenty-four hours if you are okay.

"I think I'm doing better than you," you respond, but your voice is so exhausted that Joel would love to just lay next to you and lull you to sleep.

He turns around, his whole weight sitting on the grass as he takes gulps of oxygen. His eyes shut tightly, he wipes off a tear of sweat from his temple and looks at you.

Wide-open eyes stare back at you, but just for a split second. He gets closer, his thumb brushing the shoulder of the brown jacket, his brown jacket. His eyes pierce yours.

"Are you sure?"

"That bad do I look?"

Joel doesn't look at you, not at your face getting paler by the second or the dark circles under your eyes, or your hair now dishevelled. He sees you on his memories and can barely recognize you; your skin and eyes always glowing under the sun, your hair always perfectly done. Your job was often to act as an HR for their clients, and very rarely took actual FEDRA jobs that stained your hands; you weren't like Joel, you didn't care about rations or money or whatever.

Expert fingers gently tug at the buttons, unbuttoning them so he could take a look to the wound. He had barely a glimpse of it when your fingers stopped his hands. Joel looks at you with those puppy eyes, as if you were about to faint in the next second.

"If you wanted to see me naked you didn't have to wait until I got shot, you know?"

You had said it in a playful manner, kidding, as a joke; but he saw beyond that. Part of you had only expected him to laugh, the other was dying —not pun intended— for him to kiss you. You'd have never said it if you weren't in this position, you'd have never gotten in between Joel and Tess.

However, he didn't laugh, didn't make any funny remark. The way he looked at you, from under his eyebrows, lit a spark of hope somewhere inside you. Deep, deeper than your conscious mind would have ever reached. Joel didn't say anything, not even chuckled. His eyes came back to the wound, and uncovered the full sight of it.

He had to fight a shocked gasp. His eyes fluttered, while holding his breath, between your own face and the wound. The bandage was still soaked in blood, that he had expected, but not the large bruise growing into your neck; or your right hand slightly paler than the other. He lifted, with trembling fingers, a corner of the bandage, and his action caused a trickle of dark blood to gush out, as if he had crushed a piece of watermelon between his fingers and it was now running down his arm. He looked below, inside his jacket, and saw a trail of blood that landed right into your navel.

This time, it was impossible for him not to react. Not only his face, but also his body. He tried to get back on his two feet again, but before he finished the action, your fist closed around his wrist.

"Joel..." he heard you call.

"We need to go, now."

Pressing your lips in a sad smile, you pulled him to the ground and he sat, mesmerised on that face he had only yet seen once; that time when he got too drunk on a Friday night and told you about Sarah at three in the morning. He felt his pulse quicken, his heart beating at the ends of his fingertips.

"It's okay," you told him. Your gentle touch brushed his palm, danced around over his tan skin. "You can rest."

Joel felt like he was in a fever dream. The setting certainly felt like it. You hadn't left the Boston QZ in a long while, and he had never pictured you out of those big silver walls either. He had not agreed to Tess' idea either, the dangers beyond the walls were almost impossible to escape. Still, Tess and him knew the city, they could get out fairly easily, had done that for a couple years to share stories over dinner with Bill and Frank. And Joel had loved the idea of seeing you sitting at that dinner table next to him, surrounded by a garden full of flowers, going through the dresses in the boutique that Tess had sworn you'd love.

He had not signed up for this.

"We need to go, please..." he tried a second time, but you just shook your head. He understood, somehow, what you meant.

"A minute won't make a difference," you told him. In reality, you wanted to tell him that you'd be dead when he got the both of you to Lincoln, anyway. "If you are tired we will never get there."

Useless and powerless as he felt, his only option was waiting. He took your hand, intertwined his fingers with yours and took a deep breath. You had never seen him so upset.

"What are you so scared of?"

At your words, his lower lip quivered slightly; it would almost have gone unnoticed if it wasn't because you had been watching him attentively for so many years. He looked at you, eyes barely half open, from under his eyelashes.

"You're very important to me," he said. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, he seemed to be even more breathless than he was before. Joel had a hard time admitting his feelings, even to himself. "I don't know if you understand to what extent you're important to me."

"I know..." you answered, nodding, your hand squeezed his for a second, trying to give him strength. "But you have Tess home, and your brother loves you... It will hurt for a while..."

"Shut. Up."

His eyes were tightly shut when he said it. It was a metaphor, almost, the way his eyes were closed not just to the physical world, but to the whole situation too that he couldn't escape from.

The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

"What I'm trying to say is... it will pass..."

His chest heaved, his gaps the only sound that filled the space between the two of you. And you continued:

"People die all the time, Joel; and most times we can't do anything about it."

His body rushed at you, his hands locked perfectly on both your cheeks, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally in place.

"Not you, you hear me? Not you," he almost growled, his face a mixture of anger, determination, and grief. "Never you. You're not allowed to leave me. I will never forgive you."

There was something hidden between the lines, something Joel wasn't saying. It was something you had denied yourself for a long time, for years, something you had insisted on not seeing because you didn't want to see it. Because, deep down, you were afraid that Joel would never love you back, that he would break your heart, that the only good man you'd ever known inside the walls of the Boston QZ would also be the one to abandon you to your luck.

Joel had been your family for so long, and you had unconsciously protected yourself from seeing him as something else. But now there it was, clearly, latent in his confession. Your punishment for years of silence was now time, or rather, the lack of it.

"I'm not giving up," he said. "and I need you not to give up either."

He's close. His hot breath smells sweet -so instinctively Joel- and it's all around your face. His flesh is warm over the freezing skin of your cheeks. His body around you is shelter, is home.

Joel is soon leaning in. He's all erratic breathing, rapid heartbeat and trembling hands; and as you close your eyes to allow his presence to swallow you like a black hole, he closes his eyes too.

He doesn't let go, not just yet. He breathes in into your quick breaths the same way you revel in his.

"I need an answer," he whispers over your mouth.

"I won't, either."

At first it's like a collision. He kisses you angrily for a split second, demanding and impatient; then, once he knows this is really happening, once he does understand that this is —finally— not a dream, he relaxes into your touch, your fingers delineating his jawline, caressing the beard there.

He's quick, quicker than you'd have expected him to be; definitely quicker then he would have liked. He separates, then; and looks down at his jacket and the drops of blood staining the insides of it. It's not enough blood to send you into shock again, but it means part of the wound is ripping. You need stitches, not just a couple of bandages.

"Enough resting then," he says.

[***]

Seven miles is usually nothing for Joel. In the first few months trading with Bill and Frank, Tess and him usually walked the fifteen miles that separated the city and the town at least twice a month. But this is all the more difficult, not just carrying you there, but knowing that he is running out of time.

And you seem hellbent on making the journey even more difficult.

"So...Tess?"

"Pass."

You huff, and the warm air sends a shiver down his spine; but he says nothing.

"Okay."

Your voice sounds so disappointed that he feels a pang of guilt. You know him better than to insist, and he knows that too. The guilt increases, though; and now he's inhaling a big gulp of air while still walking as fast as he possibly can without hurting his own knees.

"We fucked a few times, before," he says. "but that doesn't mean anything. She's my colleague. That's all."

If he was better with words, and feelings, he could say that he didn't feel anything for her. He could say that their hookups were nothing, just a fun thing they used to do before, before he realized that the one who he really wanted was you. A few months back he had realized that it never actually satisfied him, that those moments with Tess weren't as fun and innocent as they seemed to be before. They had talked about it, of course. He didn't want to play with her feelings, and that had been the end of it. She was just as fine without him, anyway.

"I thought you two were dating."

"If selling drugs for a living is what you call dating, then yes."

Without even looking at you, he knew you were smiling, he could almost feel your lips stretching over his shirt.

"I..." you said, then he heard you take another deep breath before talking again. "I'm sorry I asked you," another breath. "I... ran out of things to say."

His brow furrowed in confusion.

"You can say anything," he says. "Anything you really like, even a story."

Anything just to know you're there...

"Well..." you started. Then, a wheezing noise filled the air, followed by a gasp. "I... liked rock music-" silence. "...back in the day."

"You okay?"

Your fist tightened around his shoulder, your forehead pressing against his trapezius. He heard that wheezing sound again, followed by a pant. His hands squeezed harder the tender flesh under her knees.

Joel tried to look at her, but all he could see from his peripheral vision was the top of her head and one eye tightly closed. His throat turned into knots.

"Baby..." that was the most gentle tone you had ever heard coming from his mouth. "C'mon baby. Hold on, we're almost there."

His whole body felt paralyzed, and he had to force himself to keep walking.

What he didn't know was that your lungs were burning. They felt like a pair of balloons squeezing against your ribs, trying to expand beyond its cage. And it made all the pain in your back, from the shot, double as painful. The air you tried to swallow so bad, sounded like a whistle, like the breeze through an almost closed window. You were suffocating.

"Talk to me, c'mon."

With a painful drag of air, you complied.

"I can't..." your fist tightened around the fabric of his shirt. "I can't."

"Goddamnit..." he was panicking now. "Okay, that's okay baby. Just hold on to me, don't let go."

Unable to do anything else, you just nodded as best you could and kept on holding on to him. His eyes desperately looked for signs of the town, and far away, in the distance, the row of trees ended; and he walked faster, hoping that Bill had already seen the both of you through the cameras.

"J-Joel"

You struggled to find air, and, therefore, the words.

"Easy, easy" he said. "Just a bit more. You can do it, I know you can."

His words lingered in the air, unanswered, not even him fully believed them. Joel was starting to feel his own shirt wet with blood from your wound. The feeling made him sick, his own imagination as he pictured what Bill was watching through the cameras, made it all a hundred times worse.

He kept hearing the panting, the wheezing, becoming more desperate by the second. He realized, with horror, that you were suffocating righ there, on his back; from a collapsing lung, he guessed.

He shouted Bill's name as he saw the fence that separated them from the town. Joel wasn't sure if he could hear him, but tried anyway.

He felt your grip on his shirt hesitate, and he had to fight the instinct to squeeze your hand; if he had done it, you'd have fallen from his own grip. He heard you try and say his name.

"Save it," he responded, even if it came out not as reassuring as he would have liked. "Don't try to talk."

Before he reached the fence, it was already opening. Bill came out running, yelling something that he was too distracted to distinguish, Frank came behind him. Joel felt his knees wobble once through the gate. And now kneeling on the floor, he called your name, tried to turn his head to take a glimpse of you.

"You did it. We're here."

He noticed, then, that everything seemed all too silent. Everything that happened after that, happened very quickly. The hand that had been gripping his shirt slipped, limp over his shoulder.

His mind disconnected, completely unaware of the other two people approaching. He released you with all the care that a person could have had, and his arms immediately caught you in an embrace. The sight of your closed eyes made him panic, and not having even checked your pulse, he buried his face into your neck and sobbed.

Trails of blood ran through his forearms, and he threw up all the words that passed through his mind; a string of 'please stay' and 'I'm sorry'.

"Joel," Frank struggled with him, fingers digging into his shoulder. "Joel you have to let go. Let us help her."

He was too far gone, so much so that once your body hit the floor, Frank didn't allow him to touch you again. He sobbed, and, for a second, Bill saw himself in him. He would have never thought he would see Joel in this state, but yet there he was. He kept pressure on the wound, and saw himself in Joel, and Frank in you; and promised he would never let this happen to the two of them.

Never.

[***]

The sun comes out the next morning. As it always does, as it always has. Orange light and blue skies illuminate the room, the clouds shine a different color; and Joel blinks; absolutely exhausted, devastated.

His body is heavy, even if he's not holding any of his weight. He's sitting on the cold tiles, on the floor, his sore knees and thighs in the space under the bed, his head lying on the mattress, his whole body is bent over and it feels like jelly. His eyes are the only thing moving, they look at the window and see the night sky turn into daylight.

Joel couldn't possibly say that he slept in that position; because he didn't actually sleep. He hasn't had a second of sleep since you got shot two days ago. Lying on the bed, is you, dormant; and his thumb draws circles on the back of you hand even if he's not paying attention to it. It comforts him to a degree, at least.

Suddenly, pretty much everything has lost its meaning. Frank opens the door an hour later, almost tripping with the tray of food and water that he left the night before for Joel. He hasn't touched any of it. In fact, he forgot about it, but if it bothers him, Frank doesn't say anything. He takes it in his hands so he can take it to the kitchen downstairs.

"We played 'I will survive' in the radio" he whispers before leaving. "It's a 70s song, but Tess will get the meaning."

"Thank you," he mutters, his mouth pasty from barely speaking in the last twenty-four hours. Funnily enough, the only word he's said to them is 'thank you'.

"You're welcome, Joel," he says. After a few seconds, waiting, he makes a dissatisfied sound. Frank approaches Joel, his palm squeezing his shoulder. "You should eat something, at least. Is there anything you want?"

Joel looks at him, lifting his cheek from the mattress for the first time. His eyes are blood-shot and black circles adorn his eyes.

"Coffee."

"Not coffee, you need sleep."

He huffs, his eyes lost in the window again. Frank, knowing he won't get anything from him again, vanishes behind the door and into the kitchen. He will bring him warm food later, hoping the smell will make him eat something despite his unwillingness to listen to any signal of hunger from his own body.

A few moments later, your hand slips from his. As he loses your touch, a pang hits the pit of his stomach. But then, as he lifts from the mattress again, your fingertips lightly touch his chin, your thumb lovingly brushing his beard.

"Baby?"

Maybe he lost his sense of time, because he didn't expect you to wake up yet. In any case, when he sees your eyes open he practically pounces on the bed. He sits on the edge, and swallows the image of you looking at him.

"Morning."

He smiles at your words, feels his strength coming back into his body.

"You're here," he says.

Even beaten up as you look, he thinks you are gorgeous. Your face has regained its usual color, the bruising is coming down, changing colors little by little, the wound is stitched and bandaged, and the blood flow seems to reach your fingertips normally once again. Joel has no idea how Bill fixed the collapsing lung, he had said something about medical knowledge being necessary in the field too, but he hadn't paid attention. He doesn't care about the details, though. He just cares that you're safe and sound, and despite the close call, that has seemed to be the end result to this whole dilemma.

There's no blood in sight, not even in the bandages. Frank had washed the blood from your hair the day before, and Joel had helped with the rest. He wished he could have you like this everyday: happy, clean, safe...

In the last few hours Joel had discovered he was jealous. He wished he had a town like Lincoln all to himself, just so he could see you picking flowers in the front garden.

"I'm here," you told him. The words felt like strawberries in his mouth. "and I'm not giving up on you."

He released a breath he didn't know he was holding, leaned in for both your foreheads to meet, and kissed you.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #tlou fanfic #tlou spoilers #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x female reader #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal x oc

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gingerhastoomanyobsessions · 3 months

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the lords in black are so interesting to me because. they’re so us. we’re watching the citizens of hatchetfield suffer for our own entertainment just as much as they are. we’re their accomplices in all of it

pokotho made hatchetfield into a musical because musicals are entertaining. and we ate that shit up! it’s soooo fun watching a little man scramble as the world around him bursts into song. the musical genre is satirized because pokey knows how the genre conventions work just as well as we do. we like watching musicals so much that black friday and npmd are musicals, too, even though they don’t revolve around pokotho’s plans as much as tgwdlm. we want them to sing. pokotho does too.

bliklotep is the audience and the audience is bliklotep. trail to oregon calls the audience “the watcher with one thousand eyes” and that’s not all, in watcher world blinky seems to be able to see through the eyes of anyone and everyone who loves spectacle. he wants to see the characters go through angst because WE love angst. it’s fun to watch alice and bill express their buried frustrations. blinky wants it to end in bloodshed because he loves tragedy, and let’s face it, so do we. it’s like that one post about how hamlet is aware of the audience and is angry that we don’t do anything to intervene because we want to see how it plays out. personally, I think blinky could have stopped the woodwards if he really wanted (he’s an elder god, after all) but alice shooting him shifted the narrative so that the emotional payoff would be more fulfilling if they escaped. and blinky loves a good story.

t’noy karaxis has blorbos. we joke about it, but that’s really what it is, isn’t it? he’s the fan who watches the movie again and again and again and again to see his favorite character’s dramatic death scene. he’s the guy who writes and reads angst fics by the hundreds because he likes to see his faves cry. he’s the hatchetfield enjoyer who’s on the edge of their seat waiting to see how ted kicks the bucket this time. the bastard’s box is pretty much just an ao3 account filled with whump and hurt no comfort. he’s sadistic AND he genuinely adores ted, because we fans are often cruelest to the characters we love the most. he puts ted through character growth— the realization that his life went the way it did because of his own mistakes, his inability to be vulnerable with jenny before it was too late— and he does that by writing a 56-chapter angst fic that’s still updating to this day

nibblenephim is the fan who voraciously devours every scrap of content that a creator produces and demands more, more, more. let’s face it, the fandom will never let starkid rest until we see this story through to its end. and then someone will demand a sequel series. nibbly is hungry because we will never stop yearning for more stories. he’s simple because that desire itself is simple— as humans, we need creativity like we need air to breathe. nibbly wants more because we want more. and we will never be satiated.

wiggog y’rath is the ruler and the king because he’s the self-inserting writer. I think jon matteson plays paul *and* wiggly for a reason— wiggly is the only lord in black to be played by the same actor in every single show, and that actor also plays the protagonist of tgwdlm. wiggly wants to be the protagonist. he tries to force himself into the human world of hatchetfield because he wants to participate, dammit! he wants to be the bestest ruler that the earth has ever seen! everyone has to love him because he’s going to be their bestest fwiend! when he appears in human form he’s gonna be the prom king! he’s the ebony dark’ness dementia raven way of the hatchetfield multiverse. he wants every human character to bend to his whims and to love him and to put him at the tippy-top of planet earth because he’s the writer and the writer’s main character, you fuckheads, and he can make whatever story he wants, whether the other characters like it or not! if you’ve ever written a self-insert story? congratulations! you’ve been wiggog y’rath.

and the funny thing? I don’t think the lords know that they, too, are as fictional as anyone else in hatchetfield. maybe blinky knows— he sees through the audience’s eyes, after all— but I don’t think the others do. if they did, maybe they’d be a little less tyrannical. a little bit nicer.

but then the starkid writers wouldn’t have much of a story to tell, would they?

#the lords in black #starkid #hatchetfield #hatchetverse #npmd #join me in the metafiction analysis hole.#the real villains of hatchetfield are the starkid writers themselves and those of us who want to see the shows!#the only reason the lords in black fuck up the world is because WE want to see that story!!!!!#note: the ‘you fuckheads’ bit was meant to be in wiggly’s voice/pov. I do not think the good people of starkid fandom are fuckheads.

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tightjeansjavi · 6 months

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Slow Hands | Chapter 8

“If I ever were to lose you, I’d surely lose myself”

A/N: This chapter has taken me weeks to write, but I am so happy with the final results. This is another doozy, so tread carefully. Thank you for your endless support and love. 🤍

~word count: 7.0k~

Pairing | Joel Miller x f! reader

Summary: Joel tells you what happened to him and Ellie before they returned to Jackson.

Warnings: angst, anxiety, trauma, mentions of death, child loss, grief, fluff, flirting, another almost kissing situation, lots of flashbacks, mentions of a miscarriage, mild alcohol consumption, Joel gets a little shy, hurt, comfort, protective! Joel, Joel whump, mentions of alcohol consumption, self deprecating thoughts/actions, anger, frustration, alluding to past traumas, no age gap, reader has no physical descriptions, reader's nickname is beanie (coffee beans) +18, minors dni! heed the warnings please this is a very very heavy chapter.

main masterlist masterlist

Angie was a real sweetheart. A country classic that you’d want to play over and over again. Toffee butter sweet with pure southern charm. She was one of the kitchen staff ladies working in the mess hall. She loved to cook. She prepared food straight from her soul that warmed the hearts, and kept all the bellies full in Jackson. Her bubbly spirit was a decoy to mask her ceaseless grief that weighed heavy on her mangled heartstrings that were poorly sewn back together with a dull needle and thread. She recently went through a misscarriage. The brutal endless cycle of life in all its beauty and cruelty swinging like a pendulum. Angie was forever grateful when you and Joel appeared on her doorstep with Honey the fawn tucked protectively in your arms.

“She miscarried last fall. Right before the leaves started turnin.’” He whispered softly to you as he reached up and thrummed his knuckles against the chipped paint on the wooden doorframe.

Angie struggled to let go of her loss. She held onto the hand-me down infant clothes. The baby booties, swaddling cloths and the bottles. Grief causes even the strongest people to break as the world as they know it shatters around them. They try to claw and grasp what little remains of that person, whether they existed in the world yet did not matter. Angie took one look at that innocence bundled in your arms and she immediately darted off to the kitchen. She returned moments later with a swaddling cloth and baby bottle that showed the faint remnants of little hearts and flowers. The decals were peeling upwards like a bandaid, but it was a small token of kindness that this poor woman had to offer for the cost of nothing.

Joel thanked her with a gentle squeeze to her shoulder. Tender hands that could bruise, tender hands that could heal.

Angie only could nod as she quickly wiped away her dewy tears that rolled down her cheeks and dripped down the curve of her chin. Her eyes were glassy, her lower lip trembled under the soft blooming glow of the porchlight overhead. She reached one quivering hand out to gently stroke the soft fur on Honey’s head.

A moment of silence followed by the swishing sound of the front door slamming shut.

Oh, Angie. You deserved so much better than the cards you were dealt.

The walk back to Joel’s home was one in deafening silence. He kicked a stray rock along the ground with the toe of his boot as his arms hung at his slides. He appeared to be deep in thought as you tried to meet his gaze. He was as hard as a stone with furrowed brows. Grief was so prominent, even in a town that was built around ‘peace.’ Grief was there in every corner. Every crack and crevice down to a grain of rice. Even in a garden of Eden, grief sprouted from the stems.

“She likes you.” He murmured gently as he pushed open his front door with a soft huff through his chapped lips. “Honey.” He added.

“I hope she survives the night.” Was the first thought that popped up into your mind as you met his thoughtful gaze.

“She will. She’s n’good hands with you’n me.” He reassured you as his hand came to gently rest along your lower back as he nudged you tenderly inside as the front door softly swung shut behind you.

Honey had curiously peeked her head up from the safety of your flannel to observe her new surroundings as you slowly walked towards the well loved couch in the living area. Your knees cracked noticeably as you sank down onto the cushion.

“Y’want anythin’ to eat or drink while I warm some milk up for our little one?” Joel asked you as he padded towards the kitchen. Seconds later you heard the soft squeak of the refrigerator door opening as you sunk further into the plush cushions.

“Oh, that’s alright. Thank you for asking.”

“Not a problem, darlin.’” He hummed soothingly under his breath as he turned the burner on the stove. Once the milk was adequately warm, but not too hot, he poured it into the baby bottle. It was hard for a wave of nostalgia to not pass through him as he slowly blinked.

“S’matter baby girl? Y’want your baba? S’okay, daddy’s gonna get it for ya.” a considerably younger Joel spoke to baby Sarah in her crib. On the nights she couldn’t sleep, he’d fix her a warm bottle of milk and rock her to sleep on the old rocking chair that he and Tommy built with their bare hands. He’d sing lullabies in her ear and kiss her little head of soft curls.

Fuck.

He stared down at the baby bottle that was nearly engulfed by the sheer mass of his hand as his thumb slowly brushed across one of the peeling faded floral decals.

Fuck.

Keep it together, Joel.

Be still, my foolish heart. Be still.

Please.

God, please.

I’m good.

I’m fine.

Really, I’m okay.

God, she was so tiny.

Used to nearly fit in the palm of my hand.

Remember when she would cry and cry and cry?

Only person that could calm her down was you.

“Joel?” Your voice sounded so far from his reach as if he was across the ocean desperately trying to hone in the almost sweet music of your voice. Not here, not now. Please. He couldn’t shake the feeling of crisp trepidation as he slowly sunk down to his knees in the middle of the kitchen floor.

Breathe.

In and out.

Through your nose, out through your mouth.

Y’can do it.

She was so tiny. So pure. She was my babygirl.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to wail and throw his fists up towards the heavens but instead he sat in stoic silence as his ears rang like a mocking symphony that had him cowering from the harsh reality that he was presently facing.

“Joel?..” There you were again, but closer. Much closer as you went to investigate. The sight that laid before you took your breath away in a morbid fashion. Joel Miller on his knees looking like a man that had the weight of the world constantly pushing down on his aching shoulders. He was vulnerable in this state. He looked ten times smaller with his chin tightly tucked into his collarbone as if he was trying to appear as small as physically possible.

Your heart split in two to see him in this state as you slowly sank down to your knees in front of him. Grief was indescribable. It gnawed at a person with jagged teeth and sharp claws. A constant reminder that what you once held in your grasp, was no longer attainable. It was ripped from the roots, dry and brittle as precious life is stolen so swiftly.

His lips moved as he struggled to speak. To say anything, but nothing. No words could be formed as he stared down at the bottle in his hand. The slightest flinch from your unsuspecting touch upon his cheekbones as the palms of your hands gently caressed his face. “You okay?..” You asked in a hushed tone, keeping the octave of your voice level and gentle.

“No.” He murmured in defeat as his freehand slowly traveled up the length of your arm before resting along your cheek with the utmost delicate care.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You wanted to give him that choice. The open space to speak his feelings only if he chose to.

“Dunno. I jus’ needed to sit down.” He confirmed with a soft wheeze as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

“That’s okay, Joel. Sitting is good. It’s alright to rest. I’m right here.” You were, and you weren’t going anywhere.

“She was jus’ so tiny. Tiniest lil bean. With the cutest toes. A button nose. Used to have to give her a bottle at night when she couldn’t sleep. Would sit with her in the rockin’ chair for hours, singin’ her lullabies.” He croaked out as his chin slowly lifted as his dull faded eyes met yours.

You knew he was speaking of Sarah, and you also recognized his silent desperation for comfort. The baby bottle clutched in his trembling hand was the root cause for his current episode. Loss was so difficult to rationally explain sometimes. It was something that couldn’t be journalized as being the same for every person, because every single human being reacted in a different way. Loss was universal, and inevitable, but dealing with the grief that followed was structurally diverse in its nature.

“She was one lucky baby, getting to have you as her father. She loves you so much, Joel. She’s right here.” You slowly dropped one of your hands down from his face and gently rested it against the left side of his chest, right where his heart lay. “She’s always going to be right here.”

“Jus’ miss her so much. S’been creepin’ up on me lately. Feel like I’m seein’ her everywhere.” He felt discouraged as he slowly shook his head with a heavy sigh. “Thank you for being here with me. You don’t understand how much that means to me. To have..someone jus’ understand me.”

“I know how much you miss her, Joel. It’s better to let yourself feel everything instead of bottling it all up. I know how much it means to you. I’ll always be here to listen, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Hope to have you till the end of my days.

“Should–should probably give this to Honey before it gets too cold..” He trailed off as his thumb gently brushed across your cheekbone.

“Do you want to give it to her?..I bet she’d love it if you did. After all, you are the one who saved her.” You offered purely to encourage him only if he desired to.

“I’d love that. Help me up? Knees are feelin’ a little stiff.”

“Mine too.” You murmured as you slowly stood up and offered him your hand.

A ghost of a smile crossed over his features as he grasped your hand in his and pulled himself up from the floor.

He followed you into the living room where Honey was curled up in a fluffy little ball on the end of the couch. Her head perked up when she could smell the milk in the bottle as she struggled to stand on wobbly legs. Joel was right there to aid her as he gently scooped her up under his arm. Her fluffy little white tail wagged excitedly as she let out soft little bleating noises that sounded more like squeaks if anything.

“S’alright, baby. Got your bottle right here f’ya. Daddy’s got it for ya.” He softly cooed to the tiny creature.

You swore you saw a silent tear trail down his weathered cheek when Honey began to nurse from the baby bottle all the while he was gently petting down her tawny colored ears, and humming under his breath soothingly.

When Honey had consumed every last drop from the bottle she curled up right against Joel’s chest. She felt safe in the presence of you and Joel, which was quite obvious from the way she made herself right at home. Joel was careful to not disturb the sleeping creature as he reached his arm over and set the now empty bottle onto the nearby coffee table. The two of you fell into a comfortable relaxed silence, until the rumbling of Joel’s stomach interrupted it. The last meal he had was around breakfast time, and there wasn’t much substance to it. A cup of coffee, slightly rubbery scrambled eggs, and toast with butter. His appetite had been long forgotten since he and Tommy had stumbled upon the gruesome scene of the deceased doe while on patrol. Time seemingly had gone by in a whirlwind, and judging by the late evening light, it was far past dinnertime.

He shifted uncomfortably when his stomach rumbled again. This time it caught your attention from where you were sitting on the opposite end of the couch. You were currently reading one of Joel’s many coffee table books. Exploring Space, Dinosaur facts, The American Mustang, Woodworking for Dummies. You had chosen The American Mustang, and as soon as you heard his stomach grumble for the 5th time, you gently closed the book with your finger holding the page down before you looked over at him.

“Did you eat today, Joel?”

“Jus’ a bite of breakfast this mornin.’ Coffee, toast, and slightly rubbery eggs. Had the pan on a bit too high.” He softly responded as he lifted his chin slightly in your direction.

“I didn’t have much to eat today either. I could make us something?”

“Darlin,’ you ain’t gotta do that. You’re my guest after all. It wouldn’t be right if I just let ya cook f’me.” He was already attempting to gently lift Honey from her curled up position on his chest when you reached your hand out and gently grasped his forearm.

“Joel, it’s okay. I really don’t mind at all. We both should eat something.” You gave his forearm a reassuring squeeze before you pushed yourself up from the couch.

His eyes slowly followed your movements into the kitchen as he let out a deep sigh. “Y’know, it’s times like these where I wish that takeout still existed. What I wouldn’t do for a pizza right now.” He mumbled as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Dominos, or Papa Johns? You better answer wisely, Miller.” You peeked your head around the corner with a playful smile playing on your lips.

“S’that even a question? Papa Johns. I’d order extra of those goddamn garlic sauces because the amount they gave you was truly never enough. I wish they would have started selling it in tubs or somethin.’” He stifled a chuckle. “Dominos was a last minute resort that I regretted every goddamn time.”

“That garlic dipping sauce was to die for. There was also that really good family owned pizza place on Main Street. Napoli Per Tutti I think is what it was called? They had the best Neapolitan pizza that I ever had the pleasure of trying.” You chatted casually as you opened his fridge.

“Darlin,’ you’re killin’ me over here with all this pizza talk. I actually never tried that place before. Sarah mentioned it a few times, but we Millers like to stick to our roots.” He chimed in as he managed to very carefully, and very gently, move Honey off of his chest and onto the couch where he then proceeded to cocoon her in a blanket that was draped across the armrest of the couch.

“I don’t know the first thing about making a Neapolitan pizza, but I can certainly try? That’s assuming that you have all the basic ingredients of course.” You could hear the wooden floorboards creak under the weight of his feet as you slowly turned around with your arms across your chest. “Just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

He sheepishly grinned and rubbed the back of his neck with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “Can’t stay away when there’s pizza involved, darlin.’”

“Fair enough. All we’ll need for the dough is flour, yeast, water, salt, and I think olive oil?”

“Well, we definitely have flour..water and salt. Olive oil maybe, but does it expire? I haven’t done much cookin’ around here lately so I really don’t know what I've got in the cupboards.” He stepped around you with his arm just barely grazing yours as he opened up one of the many cupboards in the kitchen. “I’ll be damned. Guess we do have yeast and olive oil jus’ layin’ around here.” He reached for the packet of yeast and the bottle of olive oil before setting them down on the counter.

There was something oddly comforting for the two of you to be putzing around the kitchen like an old married couple. You fit right into Joel’s domestic budding life without even grasping the idea of it just yet. You worked together at making the dough, but once it came down to the kneading part, you let Joel take over. Maybe it was your cheeky plan all along to see his hands at work, or perhaps it was totally innocent. Regardless, it was hard to not let your wandering eyes drift across his exposed skin where he had rolled up the sleeves of his flannel revealing strong, veiny forearms. Some areas of his skin were littered in scars, and indentations from years of survival, but his hands were the main part of the show. Strong, weathered, yet gentle as he didn’t want to knead the dough too much. The tendons in his fingers flexed as his eyes drifted upwards towards you.

Gotcha.

“Like what ya see?” He rasped with a teasing grin.

Fuck, were you really staring that long?

You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks as a nervous laugh bubbled up your throat. You struggled to find your words. “Joel, i’m so sorry I shouldn’t–”

“Hey, Beanie? S’alright. You can stare for as long, and as much as you’d like.” He reassured you with a slight nod of his head.

So, this is where you flirt back.

OH!

Right.

“You just..have really attractive hands.” You murmured softly.

Joel cocked a brow at your answer as he looked over at you. “My..hands? What about ‘em are attractive?” He held the same genuine curiosity like the time you had complimented his eyes.

“Well they’re just..strong looking? Maybe that’s not the right verbiage that I'm going for here.” You trailed off.

“S’you don’t mind that they’re a lil rough lookin'?’ Take this hand for example, I’m pretty sure it never really properly healed after I beat the livin’ daylights outta a FEDRA soldier shortly after Tess and I agreed to take Ellie to the fireflies. Sometimes I’ll get like these ghost pains n’my knuckles is what I like to call ‘em.” He shrugged as he grabbed a towel to wipe the flour off from his hands.

“No, I don’t mind at all. I’d honestly be surprised if your hands weren’t at least a little bit damaged. Y’know? I get what you mean with the ghost pains. I get them too, but usually in my wrists and ankles. It’s almost like a tingling sensation.”

Joel felt his heart slowly sink to the pit of his stomach like the sun gradually dipping behind the horizon. It was easy for him to draw the conclusion as to why you’d feel these sensations in your wrists and ankles. There were visible scar indentations along the inside of your wrists. Based on the scarred tissue, it was probably due to them being bound together by zip ties, rope, or possibly even chains. He felt a shiver roll down his spine when he remembered the charred women in the forest having their wrists and ankles bound together by chains.

“Well, I think your hands are beautiful too, Beanie.” He murmured.

I think you're more beautiful than the stars, sun, and moon combined.

You smiled at him. That same soft smile that sent his heart beat skipping every time he was graced by the simple beauty of it. It was as if there was a magnetic force between the two of you that was working on overdrive to bring the two of you closer in proximity.

“Thank you, Joel. I’ve got a real nasty nail biting habit that spurs up every so often. I guess..after you brought me home from the bar, I absolutely tore my nails to shreds, but I had no recollection of it happening..”

“If it makes ya feel any better, I also have a nasty habit of picking at the skin around my nails till it bleeds. Ellie’s yelled at me for it numerous times, but no matter what I do, I can’t stop.”

“Maybe we can help each other break these habits? Or, at least show encouragement when we’re struggling?” You suggested.

“Yeah, I'd like that a lot actually. It’ll be a good way to hold ourselves accountable. Lord knows I need to sometimes.” He agreed. “Well, this dough is gonna have to sit for a bit before we can roll it out..whad’ya wanna do in the meantime?” He had his hands resting along the edge of the countertop that was lightly dusted in flour as he awaited your response.

“That’s a good question. Do you happen to have any records? Maybe we could listen to one? I have a good feeling in my bones that you have impeccable music taste.” You mused with a small grin spreading across your lips.

“Y’know, I actually do have a box of records in the living room. They ain’t mine, unfortunately. They were here when I moved in. There’s a lot of classics in the collection though. I’m sure we can find somethin’ that we both enjoy.” He tilted his head towards the direction of the living room.

You let Joel lead the way as he showed you the box containing the records. There was everything from the Beatles, Prince, Queen, Zeppelin, Frank Sinatra, and so on. “Well,” You started, “whoever lived here, clearly loved their music.”

“Ain’t that right.” his tone was slightly rasped as you made yourself comfortable on the floor with your legs crossed.

“You want a pillow?” He asked softly. “Might be a lil’ more comfy.”

You gave him a small nod in response as you began to carefully flip through the record albums.

He grabbed two pillows from the nearby couch without disturbing Honey before he joined you on the floor.

“Who’s your favorite? I know it’s a tough choice t’make. I don’t even think I could narrow mine down to five.” He chuckled warmly as he rested his weight back on his hands.

“Oh, gosh. I also don’t know if I could narrow it down..Stevie is definitely at the top of my list.”

“Ah, yeah. She was incredible. I was a big fan of Linda Ronstadt back in the day. Although, growin’ up, there wasn’t a song or artist that I didn’t enjoy.”

You slowly looked over at him as your fingers gently played with a torn edge on one of the records. “Was music a big part of your life?..Before, y’know.” You chose your words carefully as you watched him take a deep inhale.

“Yeah, it was. Used to be a big dreamer, believe it or not. Always wanted t’be a singer. Taught myself how to play the guitar, wrote a few songs here and there. None of them were very good, but I got a lotta joy out of it. Then when Sarah was born, I knew I had’to hold down a real job, and push that dream to the backburner. Spent a lot of time playin’ the guitar for her though. She loved it. Used to tease me n’tell me that I had a god awful singin’ voice.” He snickered.

Your giggle was soft, sweet, floating like a warm breeze. “Hey, I’m sure your singing isn’t that bad! It's wonderful that you found a lot of joy in that hobby. What about now? Do you still play the guitar here and there? Perhaps..sing in the shower like the rest of us?”

“Wouldn’t ya like t’know?” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully in your direction. “Yeah, I’ve picked it up here n’there. Started writin’ some lyrics as well. Maybe..one day I can play for ya? Give ya your own lil’ private concert, front row.”

“Yeah, you dork. That’s why I'm asking!” You giggled. “Wow, a private concert, just for me? Well, I'd be honored.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, “don’t go gettin’ your hopes up jus’ yet, but I think I can manage.” He shot you a subtle, yet playful wink. “Now, whad’ya got there? Frank Sinatra, You Make Me Feel So Young?”

“An oldie, for the oldies.”

“I ain’t that old, darlin.’” He scoffed playfully.

“Mhm. Let’s face it, we’re a little old, but silver looks good on you.”

“Not nearly as good as it looks on you.” He countered smoothly.

“Charming.”

“Jus’ tellin’ the truth, darlin.’”

“And they say chivalry is dead.” You were looking directly into his eyes which naturally sent a blush rising to his cheeks. Yeah, he had it pretty bad.

“Y’wanna give it a listen?” He offered with a sheepish grin.

“Absolutely.”

He reached for the vinyl, fingers gently brushing yours as he gently removed it from your grasp before he stood up. He shuffled over to the nearby record player that had been neglected for years. He blew off a bit of dust buildup that had naturally settled along the surface before he placed the vinyl down carefully.

The needle slowly fell into place as the old turntable crackled to life, flooding the small expanse of the room in sweet music.

You make me feel so young

You make me feel so Spring has sprung

And every time I see you grin

I'm such a happy individual

Joel watched the way your eyes suddenly lit up, bright, glassy, beautiful. Your energy was infectious as his knuckles lightly thrummed along the hardwood. He wanted to ask you to dance, to make up for what happened at the Tipsy Bison. Why was he so apprehensive? What did he have to fear?

Connection. Intimacy. Devotion.

You seemed to recognize the inner turmoil he was presently facing almost immediately. The nervous thrumming of his knuckles, the way his brows furrowed inward as if he was deep in thought. The light unmistakable pursing of his lips.

“Hey, Joel?”

He blinked once before his eyes hesitantly met yours, “Yeah, darlin?’”

“You wanna dance with me?..It can be like a redo for our first date?” Your thoughtful suggestion was as comforting as a warm summer breeze as his fingers absentmindedly inched closer towards yours.

“Y’wanna make up for that night?..Beanie, we don’t gotta–I mean..only if you want to?” He was nearly stumbling over his words by the time you had gently grabbed his hand and interlaced your fingers through his.

“C’mon,” You replied with a small smile tugging on the corner of your lips. “Dance with me, Joel.”

His hesitation was evident, at first, but your gentle smile, and kind eyes eased his nerves as you both slowly stood to your feet. You could feel how clammy his palm felt around your own as his other hand slowly dropped to his side. He wanted to hold your waist, but after everything that happened, he was apprehensive.

“It’s okay, Joel.” You reassured him as your free hand dipped down to his side and delicately wrapped your hand around his wrist before coaxing his hand to rest around your waist.

“I’m a shit dancer, honey.” He murmured low and soft as his fingers slightly flexed against your waist.

“Joel, don’t overthink it. Just dance.” You encouraged him with a reassuring smile.

When his nerves slowly began to dissipate, he fell into a rhythm as he spun you around playfully. He was less worried about accidentally stepping on your toes, and more focused on the way the soft glow of the kitchen lighting bounced off your skin. How pretty you looked. How your eyes never seemed to leave his. The increased thrum of his heart drowned out the soothing crackle from the tabletop. All he could see was you.

It was as if a magnet was slowly pulling you in closer. The gravitational pull, foreheads touching, noses brushing, exchange of breaths. So close. So close. You could nearly taste him on your tongue–

“Beanie..” He breathed out. Pausing. Thinking. Just ask her. The worst she can say is no.

“Can I–”

“Please. Please kiss me, Joel.” Your thoughts were swirling, tumbling like a shaken up jar of marbles. You wanted him so bad. Terribly. You wanted and yearned to know what it possibly felt like to be kissed by Joel Miller. The moment was there in your grasps, and gone in a flash from the distinct creaking sound of the front door opening.

Ellie’s footsteps were soft along the floorboard as she pulled the door shut behind her. She was hoping that Joel wasn’t home. She wasn’t ready to confront him after what took place at the Tipsy Bison just a few nights prior. She was still hurting. Her curiosity got the best of her in the end when she saw that the kitchen light was on.

“Joel?..” She rounded the corner, eyes going wide, cheeks turning a deep bright red as she caught the moment you and Joel nearly kissed. She squeaked a fast apology, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” before darting out of the room like a bat out of hell.

You and Joel were startled by her presence to say the least. His eyes went wide before he was dropping his hand from your waist. He murmured an apology of his own before he slipped out of the kitchen to follow his kid.

“Ellie, wait! Kiddo, can we please–” He was hot on her heels as she scurried up the stairs and b-lined to her bedroom. If he was there a second sooner, he would have stopped her from slamming the door in his face.

“Kiddo, please. I jus’ wanna talk.” He sounded gravely defeated as his forehead came to rest upon the chipping paint on her bedroom door. He could hear her muttering to herself as she stuffed her backpack with overnight clothes.

Moments later the door flung open as she brushed past him with her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Ellie.” He tried one more time.

“I don’t want to talk to you, Joel. Sorry for interrupting your date.” She muttered before jogging down the staircase.

“Kiddo, please. I’m sorry.”

“I’m going to Dina’s.” Was her short response. He could detect the hurt in her voice as he pathetically watched her disappear through the front door once more. The entire house was silent as he scrubbed a weathered hand across his patchy beard. Healing took time, he reminded himself. It didn’t happen overnight, but fuck. He missed his baby girl so much.

The old floorboards of the staircase groaned under his heavy footsteps as he trudged back down the stairs. His brain was telling him that it was time to call it a night. Send you home so you didn’t have to witness his pain at the forefront. His heart told him differently. His heart urged him to seek out your comfort, so he did.

He found you right in the kitchen where he left you. You had just taken the freshly made pizza dough out of the fridge and set it out on the counter. Your eyes slowly flitted upwards at the sound of his footsteps.

“Hey, I think the dough is ready to be rolled out. Want to give me a hand?”

Bless you.

“Yeah, of course. I’m sorry for runnin’ off like that. She’s been avoidin’ me since that night at the Tipsy Bison.” He admitted in a hushed tone.

“It’s okay, Joel. You don’t have to apologize for that. Did you..want to talk about it?”

“No, not right now. Let's just..make these pizzas. I’m starving.” He sighed, feeling his own mental and emotional exhaustion begin to way down on him like a bag of cement.

He met you on the other side of the counter, shoulders brushing as he pulled out a rolling pin from one of the drawers. You rolled out half the dough in silence together. It was almost as if you were sharing the weight of his present grief, soaking it in and absorbing it like a sponge.

Once the pizzas were dressed and popped in the oven, he wiped down the counter before grabbing a glass from one of the overhead cabinets. “I uh–really could use a drink. Would you like one? I’ve got wine and some spirits.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Joel.”

“Whiskey it is then.” He murmured as he grabbed another glass. “I really don’t usually drink. I jus–’ need somethin’ right now.” He didn’t know why he felt like he needed to explain himself to you, but it was too late to take his words back when they were already spoken.

“Joel, you don’t have to give me a reason as to why you need a drink right now. We all have our vices, and I hold no judgment towards yours.”

“I know I don’t have to explain myself to you, Beanie. I’m jus–’ I'm not okay right now. I don’t know whether I should laugh, cry, punch a fucking wall in.” He muttered bitterly as closed the cabinet door a bit too harshly. He shuffled past you to the wet bar area where he snatched up the bottle of whiskey with trembling fingers. He popped the cap off with his teeth as he poured a hefty splash of amber-colored liquor into his glass. He was considerate enough to give you half of what he was having.

“Joel, I know you’re not okay right now. Do you want me to?..”

“No.” He croaked softly, “No. I don’t want you to leave, please.” He took a sizable sip from his glass before he returned to your side, sliding your glass over.

“Okay, I won’t go, but is there anything you..need from me?” Your hand slowly grasped the crystal glass before raising it to your lips. The warmth of the liquor coated your insides like sticky molasses. It had a twinge of smoke, finished off with a hint of cinnamon. In short, it was fucking delicious.

“I don’t know.” He admitted somberly before he slowly sank down to the kitchen floor with his back resting against the oak cabinets, and the glass resting in his hand between his knees as his head fell back with a soft thud.

You descended alongside him with your legs outstretched, and ankles crossed. Sometimes all a person needed was a gentle soul. A wordless extended notion of comfort. Sometimes that was enough, but sometimes a person needed more. Whatever Joel needed in those crucial moments, you’d be there.

“Can I be honest with you?” He broke through the growing silence with a heavy huff through his lips.

“Of course.”

“I am fucking terrified of losing every goddamn person that I love, Beanie. I’m terrified of losing my brother. I’m terrified of losing my daughter, and I'm terrified..of losing you. I feel like a broken record that can’t quite find its rhythm because the vinyl is scratched, and the needle keeps catching. Do..you get what i’m sayin?’” His head slowly turned to meet your eyes.

Your heart skipped a monumental beat when he said that he was terrified of losing every person that he loved, and that you had made the cut. (not that there was one to make). You ignored the butterflies fluttering in your stomach, and focused on him, and his willingness to rawly communicate with you.

“Joel, I understand why you are terrified, but you haven’t lost Tommy, Ellie, or me. We’re all right here. I don’t think you sound like a broken record at all. Try and show yourself a bit of compassion, okay?”

He stifled a bitter chuckle as he brought the rim of the glass back to his lips. He took another sip before he closed his eyes.

“Beanie, I don’t think you’d be tellin’ me to have some compassion for myself if you knew what I've done, the people I've killed, the choices I've made. I ain’t a good person. No matter how many times I have tried to justify my actions, I ain’t a saint.”

“Joel, do you think that anyone is truly a saint? Do you believe that we’re all innately good? That we’ve never hurt a friend, or said words we didn’t mean? Joel, even if the outbreak never happened, and we didn’t lose the people we loved, we still would be making mistakes. We still would be hurting people whether it was intentional or not. I mean this with full honesty, your past isn’t going to scar me. It isn’t going to make me think of you in a darker light, because goddamnit, we all had to fucking make some hard choices in the name of survival. I’ve killed people too, you know that, right? I lost count years ago. I lost my fucking faith in the shreds left in the remants of humanity until–” you felt yourself choking up with tears welling along your waterline, and your words lodged in your throat, clawing to be set free.

“Beanie–”

“No, please. Please just let me finish, okay? Joel, you’re so incredibly hard on yourself, and hell, we all are. I just want you to realize that you are not a bad person. You’re not a bad man. You’re not some evil monster lurking in the shadows. You’re a fucking human being that has spent over 20 years trying to survive. You have endured and survived up until this point. You and Ellie will be okay. She’s hurting, and so are you, but one day she will forgive you, for whatever it is that you have done. She needs time to heal, and so do you.” You felt mildly exasperated from the energy you were exerting.

Joel was speechless. He was floored as his pupils were blown out wide. His jaw physically dropped. He scrambled to gather his thoughts so that he could come up with a well-rounded response. He struggled with his words, as you knew. All he knew is that he had to be just as vulnerable as you were being.

“I killed an entire hospital of fireflies. I killed every single one of them to save her. To save my Ellie. My light. They were going to kill her, Beanie. Ellie is immune. She’s the only one. Marlene told me that the doctor that was going to perform the surgery on her thinks that the Cordyceps has grown with her since birth. Because it’s adapted to her, it tricks the normal Cordyceps into thinking that Ellie is one of them. That’s the reason why she is immune. Tess and I were taking Ellie to the fireflies because I made a promise to Marlene. It turned into something else along the way. I grew to care for Ellie as if she was my own. I even–I even told her that we didn’t have to keep going. We could come back to Tommy’s and forget all about the fireflies. My baby girl didn’t want that. She wanted to save the fuckin’ world, but she didn’t want to die. I know she didn’t want to die, Beanie. She thought that after it was all said and done, that we would be going home together.

“And when we’re done, we’ll go wherever you want, Joel.” Ellie reassured him.

“Tommy’s, sheep ranch, the moon.”

“I’ll follow you anywhere you go.”

“But there’s no halfway with this.”

“We finish what we started.”

Ellie was determined to use her immunity to save the world, and Joel couldn’t stop her.

“Ellie..is immune?” You whispered softly as the weight of Joel’s words sunk deep into your soul.

“Yes, she is. You have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone, Beanie. Not even Maria knows. Only Tommy and I. The rest of the community would turn to chaos if they knew.”

“The fireflies were looking for a cure, and Ellie was the answer? But, Cordyceps–”

“Grow inside the brain.” He deadpanned as he finished off what was left in the contents of his glass. “I did what I had to do to save her, and if I had to go back and do it all over again, I would. She didn’t want to die. She never consented to the surgery. Marlene never gave her the option, and neither did I. The worst bit? Beanie, I lied to her. I told her that there were more people like her. People who were immune. I told her there were dozens like her, and that the doctors couldn’t actually make any of it work. That they’ve stopped looking for a cure entirely.”

“They’ve stopped lookin’ for a cure.”

“Where are my clothes?” Ellie mumbled.

“Raiders attacked the hospital. I barely got ya outta there, kiddo.” he squeezed the steering wheel tightly as he lied through his teeth.

“Were people hurt?..”

“Yes.” He didn’t lie.

“Is Marlene okay?”

Joel paused as he glanced back at his daughter through the rearview mirror.

“I’m takin’ us home.”

“You never told her the truth, did you?” You knew the answer, but you wanted him to confirm it.

“No, I did tell her, and she hates me for lying and taking that choice away from her. She feels like..she holds no purpose in life now, and it’s all my fault.”

“Joel, you did what every parent would have done for their child. Biological or not, she is your daughter. She was in danger, and you saved her. I can’t blame her for the way she currently feels towards you. Her emotions are valid, and you should have never lied to her. You should have told her the truth from the start, but I understand why you didn’t tell her. You felt ashamed of your actions.”

“I just wanted to protect her.” He murmured as his eyes casted downwards.

You reached your hand out and gently grasped his shoulder and gave it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“Joel, you did just that. You protected her. You saved her. You saved the world.”

His own eyes began to water. His lower lip trembled, wobbled with uncertainty as his glassy irises met yours.

“You’re right. I did save the world.”

And then, you were hugging.

His tears and your own fell freely as you cradled his head protectively against your chest with your chin resting gently against the top of his head. Your fingers threaded through his soft salt and pepper tendrils as he enveloped your frame in his strong arms. The oven dinged signaling that the pizza was ready, but neither of you moved an inch.

“Spend the night with me, Beanie. Please.” His words fell heavy on his tongue. His heart begging you with a steady thrum to stay.

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hatelangdon · 7 months

Text

Fever

Pt 1, Pt 2 / 3k words.

(Franken!Kyle x Witch!Reader)

Hurt/comfort, & fluff, Slight angst (it's just me rambling about Kyle's mistreatment from the Coven)

(🚨 Warnings: Talks of Fever, Being sick, Vomiting (not in detail), seperation anxiety, Crying, Zoe and Madison being terrible caregivers so neglect, problems with eating and drinking🚨)

Summary: Kyle doesn't feel good, he hasn't for a while...but what he needs now is kindness, understanding, and care from someone who actually wants the best for him.

(A/N: We all just want Kyle to feel better, he's so sweet. You could honestly just read this one by itself, but if you want more lore I would look into the last 2 parts...I definitely got carried away so I understand if ya'll don't feel like reading all this but I TOLD YALL I LOVE WHUMP but Misty is back and Kyle is wearing silly straw glasses so how mad could you be? I would highly recommend that you listen to this song near the end of the story , it adds a layer of sentiment that I can't even describe. I hope you have all enjoyed this little series as much as i've enjoyed writing it <3)

Also, this is not proofread so there's probably errors, ya'll know the drill by now.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

When you returned with the broom and dustpan to clean the glass up, Kyle was laying in the bed twirling the ring around his pinky. He was so enamored by its beauty that he barely even noticed when you came back, until you started to sweep the glass off the floor.

He realized your presence and perked up, watching you with big eyes.

“H-help?” He started sitting up, but you gently pushed him back down onto the pillows.

"I got it Kyle. You need to rest, and I don't want you to accidentally step on something" You assured him.

Cordelia had taught him how to sweep since he basically became the coven’s butler after Zoe and Madison decided to bring him back from the dead. This always raised ethical concerns in your mind because…why would they do that?

Kyle must’ve had dreams of his own, he was in college, he had friends that cared about him, he had a life that he wanted to live. Now he was unable to communicate and in constant pain from the terrible stitch job that Madison and Zoe had used to put him back together. His body never felt like his own, and thats because it wasn't...fully; They had decided to stitch Kyle back together using the body parts of his fellow frat brothers, which caused a lot of issues for both his mental and physical health.

It was all wrong. He was wrongfully killed in a bus crash, by Madison's hand and then he was brought back to be Zoe and Madison's personal toy & used as "the help"

Bringing someone back from the dead after you killed them, just so you could have sex and make them clean your house and serve you drinks didn't seem morally correct or fair. Those two had played “build a boyfriend” with Kyle’s life and didn't even take care of him properly.

Kyle never once took his eyes off of you while you swept, he had always admired how pretty you were and how warm your heart was.

After all of the glass was cleaned up and disposed of, you sat on the side of the bed, gently taking your ring from Kyle's hand and putting it back on your finger

"I told you I would be back" you stroked his hand with your thumb, and he gave you a gentle, sleepy, smile.

“P-p-pretty” Kyle blinked at you, still smiling

“yeah, it is a pretty ring isn't it? I can get you one like it, would you like that Kyle?"

He took a minute, allowing himself to fully decipher your words, before nodding and placing a gentle hand on your cheek

“Y-you pretty.” He blinked hard, and nodded again to insure you knew what he was talking about.

You felt your face heat up and your heart flutter like it housed a butterfly garden,

“thank you Kyle. You are very kind.”

Your words only made his smile bigger.

You had moved yourself to the side of the bed, your back resting on the wall. Kyle balled himself next to you, resting his head on your lap.

You rubbed the side of his head with your thumb to let him know that you were with him, even as he slept. You could feel that he still had a fever....in fact he was burning up. Luckily, he was being taken care of and resting, maybe that was all that he needed.

Kyle only slept for an hour before all hell broke loose

You had stayed where you were, you didn't mind since Kyle was resting peacefully on your lap and no one really noticed that you hadn't come out of your room, it was still pretty early in the day.

You just sat there watching tv on your phone. Kyle had started to stir in your lap, his eyebrows furrowed like he was uncomfortable. He curled in on himself tighter, practically hugging his knees to his chest.

You ran your nails down his spine, hoping to comfort him a bit. His eyes suddenly opened and he sat up, looking panicked and tapping his chest desperately trying to convey something to you.

Your eyes widened, you were just as confused as he was

“Um- what's wrong? Are you choking?” You were very unsure “is it your stitches???”

Kyle’s eyes were tearing up and he started turning red, as he continued to try and show you what was wrong with him by patting his chest. He started gagging and you realized what the issue was, quickly.

“NO! NO! KYLE PLEASE DO NOT THROW UP ON MY BED” You practically sprung 4 feet off the bed and tackled the trashcan by your desk, luckily there was a bag in it. You rushed it over and put it in front of him.

“You’re okay Kyle, just let it up” you rubbed his back gently, as he dry heaved over the bin, sobbing. He didn’t understand why this was happening to him, why his stomach hurt so much, and why his throat burned. The muscle tension from him being bent over and heaving caused his stitches to pull on his skin, which made his experience much more painful.

You hated to see him this way, you didn’t think it would get this bad but he was clearly much sicker than you had anticipated, the sound of him being sick and his desperate cries broke your heart, but all you could do was stay there with him and talk him through it.

“I know it hurts Ky, I know. Just keep breathing. It’ll be over soon.” You pressed your lips to the back of his neck, rubbing on his shoulders.

You could tell he was finished when the heaving stopped and he was just crying with his head in the bin.

You took it away from him with your eyes closed tying up the bag, you’d deal with it later.

Kyle was back lying on the bed, curled up in fetal position while his body shook with sobs. He was exhausted and everything hurt.

“Ky, I know you don’t feel good. I’m sorry.” You were gentle with him, squeezing his hand “I’m gonna get you something to drink okay? You need to hydrate. It’ll help your throat.” you tried to sound encouraging, but he didn’t seem to care at all.

He turned to you, sniffling while his eyes still pooled with tears and his nose blushed in bright hue of strawberry rouge, he held his hand out expectantly.

You looked around confused at first, until you realized that he was eyeing your ring. He had remembered.

You smiled, and pushed it into his palm, closing his fingers around it and kissing the back of his hand.

You made your way down to the kitchen to get some water from the brita, you used some old water bottle you got from a school event, it was best to give Kyle a drink with a lid, because he was prone to suddenly jerking his body. You came back upstairs, where Kyle was staring at the wall completely worn out.

“I’m back, ky”

He just hummed, his eyes closed to keep the light out. You had noticed Kyle didn't like to drink water that much, he didn’t really know why he needed to, so Zoe and Madison would just give him Diet Coke and apple juice all day to keep him quiet. This was a habit you could have fixed, but you didn't feel like arguing and Kyle needed fluids and electrolytes in him immediately.

You opened your nightstand, You kept cherry flavored liquid iv in your top drawer because you were also prone to forgetting to hydrate. You poured the powder in, shaking it up so it would be dissolved.

You kneeled next to the bed, running your hands through Kyle’s hair, massaging his scalp.

“Here Kyle, sip it. I made it sweet for you, it’ll help you feel a bit better”

He nodded, sipping on the water bottle, he liked it enough to take it from your hands and try to drink from it himself, it took him 10 seconds before accidentally squirting himself in the face, flinching

"Careful, Kyle" you took it from him, and he grunted.

You looked around your room for a better straw for him to sip on, your eyes landed on your desk. You had a pair of those silly straw glasses, from your little cousin's birthday party. You looked between the glasses and Kyle's wet face and knew exactly what he needed.

You grabbed them and tapped Kyle on the shoulder so he would look up at you.

“I’m gonna put these on you, alright?”

Kyle was intrigued by the tubing, but he recognized that they were also glasses of some kind and allowed you to put them behind his ears.

You were careful putting the straw back into the cup, making sure he would be able to actually drink it.

“Okay Ky, these are very special glasses,” you showed him the part of the straw that went into his mouth and he just stared at you, tilting his head in confusion “You’re just gonna drink from it like a regular straw.”

You helped him put it in between his lips and he did as he was told, sucking on it like a normal straw. When he realized that the liquid was circling his eyes and coming all the way around the glasses, he immediately gave you a giddy smile thinking it was the coolest thing in the world.

He suddenly latched onto your waist from where you stood in front of him, hugging you close. His head rested on your chest while he happily sipped on his water. This took you by surprise, but all you did was pat his blonde head and return the favor by wrapping your arms around his back, giggling at the unanticipated declaration of love.

“Y/n care Kyle?” He took the straw out of his mouth, lifting his head to look you in the eyes.

You nodded, giving him a smile. You had never felt so much love and admiration for someone in such a little amount of time.

“Yes Kyle, I care about you very much. I will always value you and make sure you’re treated well from now on.”

He smiled, and went back to sipping his drink through his silly little glasses, still holding onto you.

All you wanted to do was keep him safe and comfortable in your arms but you still had other things to attend to, like breakfast for both of you…well brunch.

“Kyle,” You were careful with your movements as you wriggled your way out of his grip, you watched his entire face drop as he reached out for you once again wondering why you suddenly didn’t want to cuddle him. It took every ounce of your strength to not jump right back into the bed and hold him.

“I gotta make us some food, are you hungry?” You put your hands on the sides of his face.

“Hungry.” He repeated, nodding.

“Okay, I’m gonna make you something. Do you know what you want?”

“Mac n cheese.”

“Alright, I’ll make you some Mac and cheese.” You made your way to the door and Kyle tried to follow, holding his water and looking at you like a lost puppy.

“Ky, you can’t come. You’re sick honey.” You guided him back to the bed

“Cold. B-bored.” He whined, trying to pull you into the bed with him. If he wasn’t sick he probably would have been able to.

“No Kyle, I gotta go. I’ll only be gone a little while.”

That’s when the tears started, he was exhausted and these past couple of days had been really difficult for him. He felt like you weren’t listening to him, like you didn’t care.

“Oh no no no, Kyle please don’t cry my angel,” You sat with him, wiping his tears away “I know you don’t feel good and you want me to hold you, I promise I will come back. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I would never lie to you Ky.”

He sniffled, he didn’t get it 100%, words always got fuzzy in his mind but as he studied your face, he realized the sincerity in your eyes.

“I think it will help if I make the room comfy for you, hm?” You got up and closed your black out curtains which helped take some strain off of Kyle’s eyes and dull his headache, you had twinkling fairy lights that added some warmth to the room.

Kyle looked around, seeing the change in scenery and almost instantly he felt calmer.

Autumn had just begun, Kyle always loved the change of the seasons, but autumn was his favorite. It was so cozy and pretty.

You set up your laptop on a pillow near him, turning on the first episode of “over the garden wall” and covering him back up with your weighted blanket.

He suddenly felt relieved of all the tension left in his body.

“Is this better?” You rubbed the bottom of his back and he nodded, sipping away on his drink.

He was so entranced by the show, that you were able to slip out without saying another word.

You went down into the kitchen where you were graced by the presence of Misty dancing to Fleetwood Mac and twirling around in her flowy clothes

“Good morning, darlin!” She took your hand and twirled you, “Can I interest you in some French toast? I think I made too much batter.”

Misty was by far your favorite sister in the coven, she was so kind and sympathetic, especially towards the vulnerable creatures of the world.

“oh Misty, you know that I love your French toast, but I gotta make a mac & cheese cup for Kyle so I’m probably gonna eat one too.” You tried to make your way over to the pantry, but Misty pulled you back towards her playfully.

“no, you both can eat my French toast it's better for ya, and I'll even put some strawberries and cream on top to sweeten the deal.”

You happily obliged and sat on one of the bar stools in front of the stove watching Misty do her thing.

“What’re you doing with Kyle, where’s Madison?”

You raised your eyebrows, “Well there was some conflict between the two of them so I decided it would be best if they took a pause- and Kyle is pretty sick, so I told him I’d take care of him.” While it wasn't technically a lie, it also wasn't the truth but you couldn't tell Misty that you had froze Madison in time and kept her in her room for the past 2 days.

“Aw that’s too bad, why didn’t you tell me the poor angel was sick? I made some elderberry gummies a couple of days ago.” She flipped the toast in the pan, “They do wonders for the immune system, we're coming up on cold and flu season. I'm gonna get ya’ll some, I'll be right back!” she skipped off to her room her golden locks bouncing behind her, “if you smell something burning, just take the pan off the heat!”

She came back with a mason jar, filled with dark purple star shaped gummies,

“these will help him get better faster, but you should probably take some too.”

You nodded, giving her a big smile “Thanks Misty, you're the kindest person I know.”

“Awww, you don't have to say that. I try to help out where I can. I've seen you do the same, don't think that big heart of yours goes unnoticed.” She gave you a wink as she plated up French toast for both Kyle and You.

“I’ll cut his up,” She grabbed a butter knife from the drawer, cutting the toast in tiny square pieces, “Now, you go take this up and make sure that boy is taken care of!” She handed both plates off to you and turned her little radio up louder, quietly humming the lyrics to herself while she cooked.

“You could be my silver spring Blue-green colors flashin' I would be your only dream Your shinin' autumn ocean crashin"

The music followed along as you made your way back up the spiral staircase, opening the door to your bedroom to see Kyle resting peacefully with his cheek smushed against your pillow, his eyes sleepily taking in the calm scenes of the show.

“Ky, Misty made us some French toast” you sing-songed.

He turned to you eyebrows furrowed. That wasn't what he asked for., you noticed his confused expression and took a seat on the bed right next to him.

“I know it's not what you asked for, but did you wanna try?” You asked encouragingly.

He could smell it, and he liked the smell, so he was willing to try. He opened his mouth for you to feed him and you stabbed a piece with your fork, placing it in.

He chewed it up, it was very sweet so he liked it and showed you by opening his mouth for another piece. If he wasn't sick, you wouldn't have babied him so much, but you could still feel the warmth of fever on his skin so you needed to coddle him for just a little bit more.

and after a few minutes and what felt like magic you had managed to feed Kyle and yourself with no mess, you placed your dishes on your desk you would worry about them later.

Kyle had felt much better, but he still wanted you all to himself.

“Y/n done?” He perked his head up and looked at you with his big puppy eyes,

“Yes Kyle, I’m all done with everything” You came right over and grabbed his hand, which caused him to smile, shyly.

“L-lay with Kyle..and-and watch p-p-pumpkin?” He pointed to the show, wanting you to enjoy it as much as he did even though you were the one who introduced it.

“Of course, Ky.”

And with that, you wrapped your body right around his, holding him close to your chest. Your fingers intertwined as both of your faces were illuminated by the warm orange lighting of the show. You didn’t know what to call your relationship, you didn’t know if Zoe would ever return, and you didn’t know if you would ever unfreeze Madison by your own will…but you did know one thing, You would love Kyle forever and no one else would ever be able to hurt him as long as there was breath in your body.

#american horror story #ahs coven #ahs fandom #ahs murder house #evan peters #franken kyle #tate langdon #kyle spencer #whump #whumpee #sickfic #hurt/comfort #american horror story coven #american horror murder house #ahs fanfic #evan peters x reader

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aziraphales-library · 1 month

Note

Do you have any Hurt/Comfort fics with Aziraphale hurt and Crowley going apeshit about it? I just need this atm 🥲

(Smut is Bonus but not a requirement 😊)

We have loads on our #hurt aziraphale, #aziraphale whump, and #protective crowley tags! Here are more to add to the collections. Mind the tags on these!...

I Forgive You by Sparkling12 (NR)

As Aziraphale arrives in Heaven, having left Crowley, he is captured and tortured by Heaven authorities. It turns out the job offer was all a plot to lure him there. How will Crowley save him? Or Crowley taking care of his traumatised angel, while plotting revenge on Metatron.

Jailbreak by Tigerphoenix (M)

Crowley was just relaxing in the bookshop when Muriel returned from reporting to Heaven. They bear horrible news. Aziraphale got himself into serious trouble. He's locked up, with the threat of being cast down to Hell hanging over his head. Crowley has to do something.

Pyrophore by Aethelflaed (T)

The Great Fire of London. Aziraphale is trapped in a burning church with a strange creature born of fire. A creature who isn't a demon, but has a connection to a demon he knows very well. What is the pyrophore? What is its connection to Crowley? And what does it want with Aziraphale?

Revenge, Served Cold by Fire_Traveller (T)

Disclaimer: major character injury When Aziraphale intends to get his hands on some rare old books, he ends up walking right into a trap. It's up to Crowley to find him and save him - but can the demon reach him in time? And who is behind all that, anyway?

freshly disowned in some frozen devotion (no more alone or myself could i be) by shadoweddepths (E)

“I choose Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice both soft and firm at the same time. Meets Crowley’s gaze so steadily, as if it’s easy for him to say those words. And it’s as much to Crowley as it is to the Metatron, as much promise as it is a renunciation, and Crowley’s heart hurts. “Very well,” the Metatron says. “You will not like the consequences.” “Damn the consequences.” Aziraphale uses his just-enough-of-a-bastard voice, the one that makes shivers race up and down Crowley’s spine. “You may see yourself out, Voice of God.” There’s a rustle of feathers, and then the Metatron is gone and the bookshop is silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the furious staccato of Crowley’s heartbeat. Aziraphale – an angel of grace and poise and grandeur – stumbles. His expression twists in confusion, first, and then pain – horrible, gut-wrenching, unexpected pain – and then he falls to his knees, voice breaking in a pained whine. “Oh,” he gasps, head thrown back, eyes glazed and unseeing. “Oh, that – damned indeed,” he says, just before he crumples forward and blacks out. (Aziraphale rejects the Metatron's offer and chooses Crowley instead. Crowley helps him through the aftermath.)

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #good omens s2 #hurt aziraphale #aziraphale whump #protective crowley #hurt/comfort #mod d #mind the tags

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weirdstrangeandawful · 2 months

Text

What is whump?

I get asked this question a lot so I figured I'd just make a post about it! I doubt a lot of people will see this since I'm a small whump blog but at least a few people will have a quick reference.

The short answer is that whump is a fictional genre of media. Like any genre, it's difficult for one person to entirely characterise but I'll do my best.

Whump is a fictional genre focused on the experience of pain. This can be physical pain or emotional pain. The pain could be acute or chronic. The focus could be on the recovery from the pain or on the pain itself. It's a super versatile genre!

Some frequently asked questions:

Okay, but how is this different from hurt/comfort?

This is a complicated question (hard to entirely characterise an entire genre, eh?) and it really depends on the writer. For me, hurt/comfort is a subset of whump where the comfort is required whilst whump is the larger, overarching genre where comfort is not an absolute necessity, but many others have different opinions!

What is a whumpee?

You'll often hear writers (especially prompt writers) in the whump community refer to characters as 'whumpee', 'whumper', and 'caretaker'. These are placeholder names like your good old A, B, and C. 'Whumpee' refers to the character experiencing the pain (literally 'the one being whumped'); 'whumper' is the (optional) character causing or contributing to the pain; and 'caretaker' is the (also optional) character helping care for the whumpee and alleviating the pain.

Why would I support someone who thinks people should experience pain?

Pain and adversity are facts of life. In fact, many of us as whump writers and readers engage with the genre to cope with pain and adversity in our real lives. It's important to remember that whump is a fictional genre and someone's interest in the fictional themes portrayed really aren't a reflection of what goes on in their real life. The name 'whump' may be contemporary but this is definitely not a contemporary genre (Shakespearean tragedies anyone?) so there is no use criticising its existence. If you don't like it, that's okay! Scroll on by and block the #whump tag if you need to. Like many artists, we're an accepting community and won't judge. In fact, we probably understand better than most that there is too much pain in the world and not everyone wants to read about more of it.

What's the difference between whump and BSDM/kink?

This is a complicated and very individualised answer. The oversimplified answer is that BDSM and kink are explicitly sexual/sensual whilst whump is not necessarily related to sex. But that is extremely oversimplified and doesn't cover all or even most people's experiences with either whump or BDSM/kink. The most generalised answer I can give is that whump is an overarching genre whilst BDSM and kink are individualised cultural practices and activites. But even that needs nuance and context to understand and apply. For me personally, I don't like combining the two because I experience them in very different ways, but that's just my experience!

Edit: I realise that I was not clear in the above answer. BDSM and kink are absolutely not inherently sexual at all. In my personal experience, I've found there to be a lot more overlap between BDSM/kink and sexual experiences than with whump but this is not true for many and maybe most people. No one person is qualified to answer this question.

#whump #whump community #what is whump #informational post #frequently asked questions

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vexingwoman · 1 month

Note

I'm radfem adjacent, and primarily consume "whump" for a lot of the reasons already detailed here. For me personally I find a lot of catharsis in this kind of content, but I admit a large part of it is probably my brain being rotted by fanfiction.

A lot of it is self fulfilling prophecy. It's simply way too difficult for me to see a woman character being hurt or tortured, and seeing a man under the same situation is in both parts a kind of revenge or catharsis for my own suffering. And if I desire to see this dynamic, there are truckloads of fanfiction and doujin about this specific topic, sometimes even with a happy ending. Someone else proposed that seeing your favorite character that vulnerable is appealing, which I think holds true for me as well. I think so many women are primarily drawn to gay male fiction because of internalized misogyny, but primarily in the sense it is difficult to see oneself in a sexual fantasy. Projecting or inserting myself into a female character requires so much internal observation of the self. It completely changes the dynamic in my mind, so it is so much easier to just insert a male character that I can project onto as the victim. With a female character I'm asking myself all these questions. Am I as attractive as her? Would the character I'm interacting with in this scenario ever be attracted to me? Would the sexual fantasy proceed in the same way if the other character perceived me as female? It is too painful to think about these things, so I just default to a comfortable impossible yaoi fantasy.

I find female fandom space fascinating, because it is the only part of the internet men have never had any interest in colonizing. So it's an almost clear mirror of how women feel in a hypersexualized society. There are certainly women who sexualize real gay men, but a fictional man is not a man. A fictional gay man is not a gay man. Lines on a screen will always be a projection. As long as women exist in a society where they are told constantly they could be raped, when all real life porn is men getting off to random women being raped, a lot of women will naturally turn that fear into a fantasy that can take the edge off of this constant, looming fear.

Very interesting. You touched on a sentiment I’ve had for a long time, which is that male characters get to be viewed as human first and male second, but female characters are viewed as female first and human second. For example, when a male character is emotional and vulnerable, it’s viewed as a consequence of his individual self. But when a female character is emotional and vulnerable, it’s viewed only as a consequence of her being female. I can definitely understand the feeling that envisioning yourself as a male character is much easier and requires less self-awareness or internal observation.

Honestly, it’s fascinating that you’re interested in the victimization of male characters, at least partly, as vicarious revenge for misogyny. It almost comes across as though you hate these male characters. However, as I mention here, most women in these communities are extremely vocal about loving, caring for, and adoring the male characters whose anguish they romanticize.

Overall, I’m learning that the radical feminist community has very differing opinions on this matter. You and many others have expressed the opinion that whump consumers are interested in male victims because female victims are too real and horrifying to read about. However, myself and others are of the opposite opinion, which is that whump consumers are interested in male victims because there is a lack of compassion for female victims—meaning, female anguish is only recognized for the horrifying tragedy that it is when imposed onto a male character.

@misandry-is-justified articulated this view nicely: “when a woman is victimized its to titillate the (male) audience, but when a man is victimized it is treated rightfully as a horrific and traumatizing incident […] this is why whump so often uses a male victim, because only then is trauma and violence treated as it should and only then is the victim truly treated as a victim.”

#terfblr #radical feminism #terfsafe #radblr #gender critical #radical feminist safe #misogny #sexism #trans logic #gender abolition #whump community #whump

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kastlequill · 11 months

Text

i. beggin' for thread

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader word count: 3.9k synopsis: your first run-in with the not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man as the black cat of earth-928 tags: whump/angst, first meetings, strangers to enemies, restraints (and not in a sexy way), unresolved tension, size difference, hurt no comfort, black cat!reader warnings: reference of past canonical sexual assault, dealing with trauma ao3: read here next →

Your head was pounding something fierce—this was the first and only thought that entered your mind, still a bit dazed upon only just regaining consciousness.

Despite the fact that you could hear your own heartbeat pulsating loudly in the space between your two ears, it didn’t seem likely that the dull, rhythmic thud had roused you from sleep. As you gradually became more lucid, your awareness of the other parts of your body also improved. Then, the sudden sensation of blood rushing towards your head threatened to pull you under once again.

That’ll do it, you thought, a small groan escaping your lips.

You were upside down. Hanging by your ankles, which were tied to the neck of a streetlamp with the thickest, stickiest, weirdest rope you’d ever fucking seen.

The force of gravity on your entire blood supply had probably signaled your nervous system to implement its fight-or-flight response, causing you to jerk awake. You didn’t know how long you’d been hanging here, but you did know that the pressure was quickly becoming unbearable.

A wave of dizziness hit, and you clenched your teeth to keep another pained hiss from slipping out of you.

It’d be easier to come up with an escape plan if your brain wasn’t currently being compressed into mush.

Think, think, think.

What had your father always said? All you’ll ever need to get yourself out of a nasty situation is one free hand, sweetheart.

Wiggling your hands around in your restraints allowed some blood to return to them, and with the feeling in your fingers back, you used the sharpened edge of your index claw to saw away at the ties around your wrists. This material was thinner in comparison to that of the other rope that bound you to the lamppost, but at the rate you were going, you’d nonetheless be stuck for at least the next hour.

Several minutes of silent work passed until you couldn’t contain your frustration anymore. Although it would only waste your precious energy, you thrashed about in your confines, too angry to care much for logic. After a few more seconds of struggling, you felt your body go lax, truly spent. However, while you were physically exhausted, you’d only become increasingly riled up as time had gone by, and you were ready to verbally spar whoever had decided to play this dirty trick on you.

“Ever heard it’s impolite to leave a lady high and dry?”

You spoke the question into the dead of night, your intonation steady and unaffected. Something gave you the impression that whoever had tied you up would be able to hear your words even if you whispered them, so you didn’t want to debase yourself by yelling or appearing as though you had lost your cool.

But oh, were you furious.

“Little criminals like you are exempt from that rule, or haven’t you heard?” a male voice traveled with the wind, reverberating everywhere around you. “It’s a shame that you gave in so soon, I was quite enjoying those last ten minutes. Is that all the stamina you’ve got? Que decepcionante.”

He emerged from above and landed smoothly in front of you, feet planted, knees bent, ground trembling. When he uncoiled himself and rose to his full height, you had to swallow a gasp.

This man was a fucking tank.

The form-fitting navy blue and red suit he wore did nothing to hide the definition of his infinite many muscles or the planes and curves of his body. So though he technically showed no skin, only his masked face truly left something to the imagination; unlike yours, which covered just the areas that bordered your eyes, he had complete anonymity. His broad shoulders blocked light from the other lampposts across the street, outlining his silhouette in a way that should have terrified you.

It didn’t. It really, really didn’t.

Rather preoccupied with appraising his physique, you didn’t notice him stepping closer and closer until he was now but two feet away. This was the moment you discovered that, in addition to being built like a tank, he was a giant.

His shadow loomed over you, painting you in darkness. Hanging from a streetlamp ten-feet tall, you resigned yourself to awkwardly staring at the navel of his stomach, while he was level with your upper thighs.

The unfair reality of being at a height disadvantage.

“Before we continue sizing each other up,” you started to say, releasing a puff of air that sounded more like a wheeze than an exhale. “I should warn you: if I’m down here any longer, my brain will explode. Maybe it’s just me, but I sure wouldn’t want to spend my evening cleaning that up.”

In response, the man knelt on the pavement so that you both were finally able to at least somewhat look at one another for the remainder of this hopefully-short conversation. Even kneeling, he was still tall enough to look down his nose at you, probably scrutinizing your sweat-drenched face.

Had his mother fed him horses as a kid? Why was he so fucking huge?

You heard his tongue click and watched him tilt his head to the side, as if he was seeing you for the first time. “Bit dramatic, aren’t we?”

“Easy for someone rightside up to say,” you grumbled, squinting at where the red details of his mask indicated his eyes. “Is this how you flirt, big guy? Bit old to be picking on girls we find pretty, aren’t we?”

The growl that tore itself from deep within his chest warned you to tread carefully, but you were never one to turn tail and run when things were just getting interesting.

If he wanted to be sassy, well, you’d show him sassy.

“How about this: you free me, then we can play fair and square. No restraints necessary.” You accompanied the suggestion with a subtle pout for good measure. Sure, curiosity killed the cat, but your desire to know the limits to which you could push this man temporarily surpassed your self-preservative instincts. To contrast how your eyes widened in mock-innocence, you adopted a low, sultry tone of voice. “Unless, of course, you’re into that.”

Faster than you could fathom, the man stood, unsheathed his talons, and cut a seamless line through your restraints, sending you straight into his awaiting arms. What might’ve initially seemed sweet quickly turned sour as he immediately pushed you against the pole of the streetlamp. Heedless of your protests, he rewrapped you in more of that strange rope. Except, the ‘rope’ projected out from his wrists.

Who the hell—?

In your state of confusion, you failed to anticipate him clasping a hand across the lower half of your face, preventing you from saying another word.

“Enough games. I have questions,” he spoke directly into your ear, the sarcastic humor he had previously addressed you with now completely absent, replaced by an eerily calm inflection. The hand over your mouth moved to grab your chin, tilting it towards his own face. “And you’re going to answer them. Nod if you understand.”

You briefly considered biting his fingers just to teach the ass a lesson, but you held back. He had tensed each and every muscle in sight, his reflexes newly primed for a possible attack, which meant that the fun stuff was over, and all that remained of this interaction was the not-so-fun stuff.

Reluctantly, you nodded.

At your acceptance, his hand left you altogether and relocated to grab onto the bit of pole above your head to support the weight of his body as he leaned forward. The textbook intimidation tactic to accentuate a preexisting size difference between foes, evoking the feelings of prey, like fear and defeat.

You were feeling something alright. Intimidated wasn’t exactly how you would describe it.

“What’s your name?”

A standard first question, and yet you hadn’t expected it in the slightest. Naturally, he wasn’t asking for your civilian name, but rather for your alias; the name that corresponded with the suit.

Compared to his fancy, high-tech, synthetic suit, your all-black spandex accented with white fur was a joke. You couldn’t be too harsh on yourself, though. This—vigilantism, petty theft, getting superglued to a lamppost by some guy—was a new world to you. It was a given that you would have an adjustment period.

Soon, you’d have your shit figured out; a name, a better suit, a concrete idea of what you were even intending to accomplish in the long run.

“My name,” you echoed. “Would you believe me if I told you I still haven’t decided?”

A few seconds went by of him presumably staring into your eyes, which were actually unclouded and unguarded for once. Perhaps he was searching for something particular, and perhaps he found whatever it was, because he continued on.

“Did someone hire you?”

“Slow down there, mister. Don’t I get to ask you a question too? I scratch your back, you scratch mine, that type of thing?”

He mumbled a string of words to himself that you couldn’t understand, but the annoyance he injected into whatever he’d said transcended language barriers. “You’re in no position to be making demands. Besides, I don’t negotiate with criminals.”

“Not a criminal,” you huffed, tearing your eyes away from his invisible yet penetrating gaze. Or at least, you weren’t a criminal yet. “What’s your name?”

Through the conforming material of his mask, you could tell that the question had also surprised him. The material stretched upward as his eyebrows raised then lowered again, settling into a straight line, furrowing at the middle. “I’m Spider-Man.”

The name rang a bell. You had read a number of morning newspapers that featured him as the headline, Spider-Man typed in bold lettering to entice prospective buyers. They usually contained editorials about his impressive résumé against an array of villains and interviews with people he had saved, but the only photos of him were always blurry shots taken mid-swing.

“Spider-Man? That explains the whole hanging me upside down thing. Is this how you court all your women? For future reference, you don’t need to knock me out just to lure me into your little web. I’m not usually a booty call type of gal, but you can be my special boy.”

“Stop that,” he—Spider-Man—snapped.

It was your turn to raise your brows at him. “Stop what?”

“You know what.” The red markings of Spider-Man’s eyes narrowed into a glare, and his voice dripped with disapproval. “Stop trying to flirt with me.”

Oh, you’d been terribly wrong earlier; there was still much fun to be had here.

“I’m not trying to flirt with you, silly.” You made a great show of batting your lashes, stepping into the role of a lovesick fan infatuated with the superhero in front of you. “I either am, or I’m not.”

He inhaled sharply, and his breathing quickened. The back that had captivated your attention from the get-go hunched further into you, caving in, as if he wanted nothing more than to encase you in the breadth of him. His movements were so incremental and inadvertent that you didn’t think he was even aware of how he’d closed the gap between the two of you.

Absolutely fascinating.

“If it’s working, then I am,” you teased, donning a sly smile, nudging your lips higher to brush against his neck, gaze lifting to where a slight dip in the mask revealed the curve of his mouth. “If it’s not, well. . .”

The sound of metal crunching startled you, and an upward glance confirmed the presence of a sizable dent in the part of the pole he had been holding onto; it now resembled a crushed soda can. When you redirected your focus from the lamppost to him, you were greeted by the image of him running a hand over his masked face in frustration. Whether he was upset at you or at himself, you weren’t sure.

It sent a shiver down your spine regardless.

Sooner than you had predicted, Spider-Man recollected his composure and resumed towering over you. He’d assumed a more reserved stance, both hands on his hips, nowhere near you. The placement drew you to the slimness of his waist, the large expanse of his upper body tapering to a defined V-shape—

“Be a good kitty and answer the question,” he interrupted your train of thought, punctuating the command with a condescending pat on the top of your head.

As shameful as it was to admit, the combination of the pet name and the casual contact did you in. And judging by the arrogant uptilt of his chin, he’d known just the right buttons to push.

“Alone,” you relented. “I’m alone.”

Spider-Man gave a noncommittal hum and started to slowly circle the pole, and therefore you, like a shark honing in on its prey after scenting blood from a distance. Within the span of a few short minutes, your sarcastic remark about being ensnared in his web had manifested your current reality: you were the poor, unfortunate fly who had strayed into the territory of an apex predator, and he was the ravenous spider who was going to capitalize on your carelessness.

Once satisfied that you were telling the truth, he ceased pacing and finally asked the question he’d been building up to all night.

“Why did you attempt to murder an innocent civilian tonight?”

Time itself came to a resounding hault. This inquiry was unlike the previous two in that hearing it felt akin to having a bucket of freezing cold water dumped onto your head. You were yanked from the false sense of security into which he had lulled you through his reciprocity of your banter.

Blindsided by the enemy. A rookie mistake.

Never again.

Your brain, slow to recover from the disillusionment, had to pick apart the sentence so as to even begin processing its implications.

Attempt. Murder. Innocent. Civilian.

Innocent.

“Innocent?” The laugh that ripped from your throat was dark and bitter. “You think that son of a bitch is innocent?”

Spider-Man recoiled, clearly not expecting such a vehement reaction.

“Let me tell you this, Spider-Man,” you said his name like a curse. The direction he had decided to lead this conversation extinguished whatever fascination he’d initially sparked. “That trash deserves a fate worse than death, but seeing as he’s managed to avoid every punishment the universe has thrown at him thus far, death will have to do.”

“Who is he?”

“A fucking rapist, that’s who he is. Another man who can’t take no for an answer, who thinks he’s entitled to a woman’s body. He—”

The reflexive constriction of your airways forced you to pause and compose yourself before persevering.

“There was a girl a few years ago. She trusted him to never hurt her, and he—” You couldn’t even say it. “The legal system failed that girl, has failed so many girls just like her. But I can get them their justice, I can bring them a bit of peace in knowing that the men who hurt them are no longer on this godforsaken earth. That those scum can walk among us freely, can go about the rest of their lives without consequence—it makes me sick.”

Acid coated your tongue, and the taste of your own venom inflicted further pain upon you. That was the thing about hate: it gradually poisoned its cultivator in addition to its target. Nevertheless, you would gladly sacrifice your health if it meant you could wield this double-edged sword and find comfort in its damage until the very end.

“So no, me killing that maggot piece of shit isn’t murder. It’s what I’m owed,” you spat. The effects of adrenaline had faded, and an awful ache was spreading throughout your fatigued leg muscles as a result of the night’s physically-intensive events. Its searing throb reminded you of the fact that you were still tied up, at the mercy of this so-called superhero. “Though I suspect you don’t understand, and you probably never will. You men are all the same.”

Spider-Man had ignited within you the familiar burn of betrayal; you had lowered your guard, and then he had aimed for where you were most vulnerable. Of course, he hadn’t been aware of your history with the target, but he had chosen words that would hurt you just the same.

A sudden realization threatened to incapacitate you entirely:

Attempt.

Spider-Man had said attempt.

“My turn.” Your voice was hoarse from the strain of choking back tears. “Did I get him?”

The most important question yet; you were at a fork in the road, and his response would determine which path you walked. Should it be the case that you had succeeded in your objective, then there was a glimmer of hope for you to have a normal, law-abiding life. On the other hand, if you failed to exterminate that vermin, this personal quest for revenge would morph into something much bigger and badder.

The latter scenario would allow you plenty of chances to show Spider-Man why he shouldn't interfere with a kill that was rightfully yours.

At some point, he had opted to give you your space by distancing himself from the lamppost that bound you. Not once had he spoken since asking you who and why; no reactions or comments, only intent, quiet listening. And though you had now posed him a question of your own, his masked features offered no hints as to what his thoughts contained.

That just wouldn’t do. You needed an answer.

“Spider-Man, did I get him? Tell me I got him. Please, tell me I killed him.”

If there was anything you despised more than feeling helpless, it was groveling. However, despite the humiliation that blanketed you and brought heat to your cheeks, you were not above begging when necessary.

This specific scrap of information was well worth the bruised ego.

He inhaled deeply, held the air inside his lungs for longer than was normal, then exhaled. This process was repeated several times as evidenced by the rise and fall of his chest. Therapy had taught you that the intentional regulation of breathing helped clear the mind, so you speculated this was a method of meditation for him too as he mulled over whether or not to answer your pleas.

“You got him. Already dead when I arrived.”

The confirmation triggered your shoulders to slump forward and collapse in relief now that they were relieved of carrying the weight of the world upon them.

I got him. I got him.

The sobs building in your core could no longer be silenced, and years of repressed emotions finally poured out of you, wave after wave. First was anger, then came sadness, then relief, and ultimately emptiness. Incrementally, each wave subsided, giving way to its successor; this final wave, however, mounted into a tsunami of insurmountable height, seeking to drown you in its depths.

For the past many years, you had funneled the sum of your waking hours into the sole task of securing this kill. So who were you supposed to be now that the work was done? Where were you to go, what were you to do?

Hollow of life, drained of energy, devoid of meaning.

This was who you had become.

Through vision blurred by tears, you noticed something sharp glinting in the moonlight—talons. They were all you could focus on as he stalked closer to the streetlamp and extended them towards you.

You stiffened, readying yourself for the possibility of a fight, but Spider-Man continued to surprise you.

He trailed the back of his hand along the side of your face, one talon wiping away a lone tear from your cheek, another catching on the skin at the edge of your jaw, nicking it. The cut stung, and Spider-Man pressed down on it with his thumb, either because he was a sadist who wished to witness you wince in discomfort, or because he found the sight of your blood troubling. Ironic, considering he’d been the one to spill it.

Or maybe that was exactly why it troubled him.

After ensuring the injury was superficial, his taloned fingers continued their exploration of you, traveling south to skim the base of your neck. There was nothing you could do to stop him from delivering your death then and there, and yet he didn’t seize the opportunity. Still, you couldn’t be certain that he had no plans to at last put an end to this dangerous game, of which you both had undeniably been active, willing participants.

Except, rather than striking a killing blow, he sliced through your bondages with a solitary swipe then retracted his talons.

“Go home,” Spider-Man ordered softly as he walked a few paces backward, his masked stare never straying from you. “Next time, I won’t let you off so easy.”

Without another glance, he slung away into the night, leaving you to your own devices. But although Spider-Man was gone, the ghost of his touch lingered.

You hated that you didn’t want your skin to forget his hands, wishing instead that he’d stay. You hated that you were glad to have met him, circumstances be damned. You hated that he had more of an effect on you than you on him. You hated that you wondered how things would be different between you if he weren’t Spider-Man, if you weren’t you.

Most of all, you loathed that Spider-Man had witnessed you come undone.

Everything culminated into a single, guttural scream, the kind that made you double over at the sheer force of it and dig your nails into your chest. It echoed, bouncing off the sides of nearby buildings and returning to you, its source.

Unable to support the heft of your own body anymore, your shaky legs gave out from beneath you. Unlike earlier, no Spider was around to catch you in his arms, so your knees hit the ground, hard and unforgiving. Your already-sore joints protested upon impact, but that didn’t matter.

I got him. I killed him. Years of training and preparing have led me to this moment; I can finally rest.

Yet the emptiness and the hatred remained, latching onto you like a wound that had festered for too long and was now forever etched into your flesh. A scar that hurt when prodded despite having ceased to bleed ages ago.

The pain refused to be erased.

There on the concrete pavement of a random alley, you knew that your crusade was far from over. As soon as you recovered from the ramifications of tonight, to the streets you would return, prepared to take on the worst this city had to offer. And maybe you’d also make some money on the side by putting to good use the feline art of burglarizing, like your father had always hoped you would.

Crossing paths with the Spider-Man again was inevitable. He’d warned you to stay clear of crime, but he had disappeared before you could warn him that, the next time he got in your way, you’d claw his heart out.

tbc.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman x reader #my fic #marvel #spiderman #fic: beggin' for thread #series: cursed from the start

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fiction-is-the-new-reality · 10 months

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Liv my wonderful writer. I'm in desperate need of some protective Frank Castle fic. Frank and fem reader are best friends and know each other for a long time. He's always very protective and soft with her. Finally settling down they're both happy that they know live near each other and see each other as often as possible (both are harboring deep feelings for the other, but both are too dumb to admit it) unfortunately the two had a big fight and reader storms out of Frank's apartment, clearly disappointed at Frank's harsh behavior towards her (maybe she criticizes him for his one night stand or you can come up with something else) one evening reader is attacked at her apartment and hurt badly... With her mobile broken (the guy who attacked her smashed it) she's not able to call for help, so she stays at her apartment for two days until she's able to stumble to Frank's house. He finds her at his doof, hurt badly with a raging fever....

Hopefully with a fluffy ending, after Frank takes care of her and apologizing to her. I know the best friends to lovers is a trope which is rather used often. But I LOVE it so much and as a sucker for whump hurt and sick reader fics, I really need this trope.

Love ya girl =)

Thank you so much for requesting this, it’s such a cute concept. I changed it a small bit so I hope you don’t hate that. :)

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Violence and Language

Yours and Frank’s friendship consisted of almost daily check-ins, so you found it odd that he hadn’t checked in. You realized you hadn’t spoken to him in a few days, and this worried you. You called a couple of times and received no answer, which wasn’t too strange considering his line of business. Occasionally, he had weeks here and there where he would need to be unbothered or keep a low profile, so he’d turn his phone off, but he always warned you. Having waited a bit longer and still having no answer, you grabbed your coat and keys and exited your apartment. Walking to his apartment wasn’t too bad, as it was a few blocks away. You knocked on the door, but there was no answer. You gave it another try, this time you accompanied it with a shout of his name.

"Frank?"

However, there was nothing, no shuffle, no callback, and no door pulled open. There was silence. You stuck the key in the handle and unlocked the door. You slowly opened it and stepped into the apartment. There was nothing out of the ordinary at the front of the apartment. Everything was still in its place and nicely organized, just as Frank liked it. You headed towards the bedroom, finding the door slightly jarred. You pushed it, and as it creaked open, you could see that Frank wasn’t on the other side. No Frank in his apartment. Instead of returning to your apartment, you became comfortable on his couch and decided to wait.

Frank couldn’t have been happier to see his shitty one-bedroom apartment. His night was completely shit. The situation escalated, causing his arm to receive grazing from a bullet and his thigh to throb from a stab wound. Nothing that would kill him, just more of an inconvenience, and he was annoyed by the pain. Covered in blood and disgusted, he wanted to shower and collapse into bed. But upon inserting his keys in the door, he realized it was unlocked. He perked up and was ready to fight again. Slowly creeping down the hall, he strained his ears to hear anything. His gun was held tightly and ready to unload the clip. He cautiously stepped into the living room and scanned for any sign of an intruder. All was silent, but he held his breath. He knew that he was not alone. As he turned to check the kitchen, you had started your return to the living room. He pulled his gun up as you screeched.

"Oh my fucking god Frank!" You covered your face with your hands as you tried to calm your heart which was racing a like you ran a marathon. His hands trembled as he put his gun away, he had almost shot you. He was relieved that it was just you. He took a deep breath, calming his own racing heart.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I almost shot you!” He dropped the weapon on the counter.

“I was trying to check on you, I hadn’t heard from you so I was worried.” He knew that your intentions were pure, but he was stressed from the night and wore out, and still upset about almost killing you that he had become more irritated.

“You can’t just be in here like that.” His eyebrows were furrowed, you looked him over, there was a lot of blood, How much was his?

“I should help you, you look in pretty bad shape,” You wanted to change the subject, you wanted to help him. He wasn’t having any of it.

“Nah, I’ll be fine. You should go home.” He moved away so you could make it to the door.

“Frank I can’t just leave you here without helping-”

“I don’t need you here, there’s nothing you can do. Leave.” He wasn’t shouting but his voice was stern.

“Goddamn it Frank, can you please stop being so stubborn and let me help you?" You outstretched your arms to him, hoping that if you touched him, he would melt and let you in. But not tonight. Frank wasn’t having it. The last thing he wanted was to feel your warmth, both physically and emotionally. You being sweet on him would only make him feel worst for almost killing you.

He didn’t deserve you. He didn’t deserve love. How dare he try and not feel guilty.

He flinched backward like you were going to burn him. You stood still processing and feeling your heart begin to ache.

“Go home. You shouldn’t be here anyway, I don’t need your help.” He almost snarled at you.

“Fine, hope you don’t fucking die.” You turned on your heels and stormed back to your apartment. How dare he? All you wanted was to help and he treated you like that? Of course, he didn’t need or want it. How foolish of you to believe that he needed you. Your eyes burn from tears, and you feel idiotic . You felt stupid for being there and stupid for letting him hurt your feelings so easily. Slamming the door to your apartment you quickly made your way to the bed and laid down. You wanted to sleep to forget tonight. You prayed that when you woke up in the morning, this night would have just been an awful dream.

There was a loud noise. Loud enough to wake you up. You groaned and sat up in bed, looking towards the door, you couldn’t see anything. Getting out of bed, you slowly made your way toward the hall. There was nobody in the hallway, but the noise seemed to come from the living room. As you approached, you noticed a man standing in the living room holding a huge knife in his hand. You needed to get back to your room to call Frank. As you walked back to the room, you tried not to make any noise. As you approached your room, you grabbed the door, and as you moved it to close it, the door made a loud squeaking sound. You knew he had heard, so you knew it was only a matter of minutes before he got to you. Closing the door and locking it, you could hear him running towards your room. You quickly grabbed your phone, which had a charge of 2 percent.

Fuck

As your hands trembled, you quickly thought about what to do. The only thing you could do was to hide. Running into your bathroom closet, you attempted to call Frank, but your phone had already died. You hear the man outside, banging on the door. He would get in soon

You grabbed the metal bar you kept in the closet, you were relieved that your paranoia was paid off. The bedroom door cracked open, you gripped the bar so tight your hands were hurting.

“I know you’re in here, it’ll be easier for you if you just come out.” He moved his way to the bathroom, looking to see if you were hiding. As he made his way, you stood and quietly emerged from the closet. As he turned back, you slammed the rod against him. It collided with his ribs. He stumbled back, and you moved to hit him again, but his hand caught the bar and yanked it toward him. You wanted to fight to keep the rod, but you knew that there was no reason. He was strong, and if you kept your hands on it, you would have been too close.

You took off running to the living room. If you could just get out of the front door, you would be fine. You could run to Frank, and he would keep you safe. He would hold you in his arms and congratulate you on your bravery and kiss your forehead, as he had done before. He would be firm against your body, and that’s all you could think about. You had almost reached the door when he grabbed your arm and his other hand wrapped itself in your hair. He shoved you on the ground.

“I just want to ask you some questions about Frank and depending on how nice you are determines how well I’ll be treating you.” Crawling to the kitchen you were hoping you could get a knife, he flipped you over on your back and stood above you. “Don’t try anything or it’s gonna get worse.”

As he interrogated you, you denied knowing anything. He became angrier, and he took it out on you. He started hitting you and threatening to kill you. You felt the blood drip down your face. The warmth of the sun started to leak into the apartment, in stark contrast to the coldness of the behavior you were receiving. You were dizzy and your eyes felt like cinderblocks. He had taken a break to use the bathroom and thinking that you were too weak, he left you untied. The knife he had wielded was left on the counter, waiting for you to grab it. As he approached you, you struck. The knife slashed across his chest and into his shoulder.

You slashed again, using your fleeting strength. You made contact over and over again, but you faltered stumbling back at a loss for breath. He knocked the knife out of your hands and slammed your head to the counter.

Frank let the coffee cleanse him of his sleepless night, but it couldn’t save him from the fight replaying in his head. The look on your face when he snapped replayed. His eyes squeezed together, and he shook his head in the hope that it would disappear. He knew he had to apologize; he needed to fix what he had broken. Taking a deep breath, he reached for his phone to call you. He had to try to make things right. He pressed the call button, but it didn't ring. It was sent directly to the voicemail. He gave it another shot and got the same outcome. He almost lost his breath. He knew you would need your space but didn't realize how much that would break him.

Your body must have woken you up. You were sweating and freezing; the sunlight made the pounding in your head worse, and you listened carefully, not wanting to show you were awake. Not hearing anything, you looked around. You were alone. You began elbow-crawling to the bedroom, praying your phone was there. Getting your arm up on the bed took all of your remaining strength. You can see the phone towards the top of the bed, just out of your arm’s reach. Trying your hardest to reach, you couldn’t make it before your eyes begin shutting and your body collapsed onto the bed.

Not waiting any longer, Frank left his apartment and headed to yours. He needed to see you, even if it meant you were mad, even if you slammed the door in his face. He just wanted to see that you were still there. Making his way up to your door, he noticed that it had been cracked open. His blood ran cold.

He called you, but there was no response. He pushed slowly inside and noted the blood in the living room and kitchen. His mind raced. Making no noise as he entered the room. His eyes landed on your sweating, bloodied form. Rushing to get to you, he gently inspected you to make sure that you were still breathing.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” You were breathing, but unresponsive. He needed a rag and bandages. He helped you quickly, cleaning the sweat and blood off you. Although you grumbled, you didn’t fight against the help. To you, this whole situation was just a fever dream. You knew Frank wasn’t here, but at least your brain was kind enough to conjure an image of him. You had accepted the fact that you were fighting a fever and probably bleeding all over your bed.

Night had passed and so had your fever. Frank kept a watchful eye on you. He cleaned up your apartment and fixed your door. At noon, you opened your eyes. Blinking a few times, you registered you weren’t alone. The smell of soup from the kitchen and the sound of low music playing let you know it wasn’t anyone with malicious intentions but instead, it was Frank.

“Frank?” You tried to call out to Frank, but your voice was too hoarse to do anything, but squeak. There was tightness all through your body. Your body was unhappy to move. Frank appeared at the bedroom door, holding a glass of water. His black shirt stretched tightly against his arms, and his hair was slightly disheveled. Damn, did he still look so handsome.

“Don’t move,” He brought the cup gently to your lips and allowed you to drink as much as you needed, his eyes soft.

“What happened?” Sitting on the bed he rested a hand on your leg. You looked away from him, having trouble finding the words to say. Frank waited, he would have waited years if needed it.

While you found your words, Frank already knew what he needed to say. When he found you lying in your bed, passed out, and covered in blood, he knew he needed to tell you how he felt once you were better. He couldn’t go without you knowing he loved you anymore.

Once you turned back to him, he held your hand. You told him everything, how the guy wanted information on Frank, how you almost whooped his ass, and how all you could think of was Frank toward the end.

“I am so fucking sorry you got in the middle of my shit, sweetheart. This should have never happened to you, you didn’t deserve this. I was so–so scared that you were gone when I got here. I have never been that scared. And I’m sorry for the other night. I shouldn’t have snapped, and I didn’t mean anything I said. I need you in my life. I want you here.” He shook his head and licked his lips, you could tell that his words were heavy with emotions. You can see it in his eyes that he wants you to feel these emotions.

His truth made you cry harder. You pushed yourself forward and hugged Frank. His arms wrapped around you tight enough to make you feel safe and secure, but not enough to cause pain. Slowly pulling back, you looked back into his eyes. He was so close, you could see the small scar on the side of his head and the little stubble growing.

Frank looked down at your lips and then back into your eyes. He brought his hand up to your face, rubbing your cheek, and gently guiding your face toward him. Your eyes closed, and you waited for his lips to meet yours. Kissing him now was far better than you imagined. You hoped Frank felt butterflies like you were. You hoped his heart was racing. If only you knew just how much of an effect you were having on him. He never wanted to stop kissing you.

Finally, pulling apart, you rested your forehead on his chest and basked in his scent. Frank’s smile was so big, his eyes were bright from the love he was allowing himself to feel. It had been so long since he felt something like this. That horrible night was far from you. Frank chased it away. Now that you had Frank, you were never letting him go, and you knew that Frank would never let you go. You couldn't help the smile on your face, as you reveled in the feeling of Frank being all around you.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #frank castle oneshot #askLiv!#marvel #the punisher #punisher x reader

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