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kaedekolya · 11 months ago

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clarence and his counterparts: man or monster?

So we were talking about Clarence’s new android SSR (Faint Night Light) in the LBC discord server, and it got me thinking about the monster allusions that seem to be a common thread across Clarence’s main stories. Then we discussed the diary entries from his White Day event, and it occurred to me that this monster imagery also ties into his modern-day counterpart – and with that, this post was born.

In other words: is Clarence a man, a monster, or somewhere in between?

[ SPOILERS: Clarence’s main stories and Chrono Theatre diaries. This meta analysis is structured as story-specific sections, namely Godheim, Eden, and the modern world, so you can skip over the world(s) you haven't read yet. No Awakening spoilers, don't worry! ]

- ☽ -

Godheim: Archmage Clarence

First, let’s talk about Godheim Clarence. As the Archmage, he bears a heavy responsibility upon his shoulders – to oversee the Magi Tower, to fight the Glacial Butterflies, and, ultimately, to protect the country and its people.

In order to fulfil this duty that he has chosen to undertake, Clarence seals his heart and shuts others out. He denies his emotions, and resents himself for having these emotions, to the point that he disparages MC for “[acting] impetuously” and belittles her capabilities when she shows concern for Amelia’s wellbeing. Archmage Clarence’s impassivity is his shield against the emotions he views as a hindrance.

Yet he was not always this way. Clarence is a casualty of cruel circumstances, a tender soul torn apart by trauma. When MC is confronted with the truth of the mages’ magic, having witnessed a mage die before her very eyes, she notes that “[there] is no pain or compassion on Clarence’s face,” because “[this] is a sight he has seen all too many times before.” Decades of watching his fellow mages succumb to the Glacial Butterflies that nest inside them, and decades of having to end the lives of mutating mages under his purview, have conditioned Clarence into numbing his heart to such pain. How else could he have stayed sane, after a century of bearing witness to suffering wrought by his own hands?

Archmage Clarence’s disposition is initially described by MC as an “[icy] presence,” but this is the facade that he projects as a defence mechanism, not his genuine self. Clarence is so accustomed to the chill of the Glacial Butterflies within him that he has taken on the frost as a personality trait, believing that his frigidity defines him. He does not view himself as a human capable of warmth; instead, he thinks of himself as a mutant, as an icy monster.

Even so, Clarence cannot deny his innate inclination towards kindness. When he notices that Amelia isn’t feeling well, he tells her to sit in the carriage. When Amelia’s temperature drops, he casts a spell to warm the shivering child up, even as he grumbles that he’s wasting his time and magic. When Amelia’s death is imminent, he tries to send her off in the gentlest way possible, then grants her final wish by conjuring a connection to the water mirror. Clarence may insist that he does not care, but his actions reflect his compassion.

It is this very kindness that steers him towards a path of selfless sacrifice, for the sake of his country and its people. The life of a mage may have been forced upon him, by the man that gave a gravely injured child no other option but the potion that would transform him, yet Clarence learns to harness his power for good. He spends his youth eliminating Glacial Butterflies and protecting the village of the snow plains, and despite the harsh conditions of the path he now treads, he does not hold a grudge against the family that sold him off and thrived in the resulting profit. Instead, he returns to check on them from afar, and when an onslaught of Glacial Butterflies attack, he protects them with every last bit of energy within him.

Still, his family’s betrayal left an indelible mark on his psyche. Back when he’d been given the potion, he’d resolved to succumb to his injuries rather than drink it. Despite his instinctive desire to live, MC notes that his “will to live [had been] virtually non-existent,” because there is “[no] despair greater than being betrayed by your own family.” The young Clarence had not seen a reason to live, when his family had forsaken him. It is only when MC saves him, urging him to live on, that he resolves to survive and repay this debt. Each time MC encounters him in her voyage through time, he is on the verge of death, and each time, his dwindling will to live stems from his despair over those he could not save. What ultimately keeps him alive is the vow he swore to his saviour.

This characterisation is one that carries through his immortal lifespan. Clarence does not live for himself; he lives for others. Whether that means risking his life to defend a village, or sacrificing himself in a ritual to save the country’s inhabitants, the underlying premise is the same – Clarence lives for the person who saved him, and for the promise he made to them. He allows others to form negative opinions of him based on the assumptions they’ve made, in order to keep the secret of the ritual and the Glacial Butterflies from them, because their scorn towards him matters less than their safety. He closes himself off from others, never permitting them to reach out to him, because he cannot allow companionship and compassion to distract him from his purpose. He “[cannot] afford to be sentimental,” because he cannot have anyone or anything clouding his judgement. Better to be the enemy of the state that saves it, than the friend of the state that cannot do anything as it crumbles.

It is ironic, then, that Clarence’s devotion to his promise leads him from striving to live and fulfil it, to voluntarily dying for that same promise. His life, his existence itself, is secondary to the promise he has made. He will live to protect the world for his saviour, but if the only way to protect it is to die, then die he shall. Perhaps he views it as a penance of sorts, an atonement for the sins he’s committed. Perhaps he believes the new world would be better off without a monster like him.

For all his calculative callousness and stoic solitude, Clarence is deeply self-aware. Not only is he conscious of the suffering he inflicts and the ramifications of his actions, but he also ruminates upon his sins until they turn to guilt in his gut and self-loathing in the deepest recesses of his soul. He does not turn a blind eye to the pain he witnesses; instead, he looks it straight in the eye, internalises it, and forces himself to feel nothing at all.

Clarence may appear to have no qualms about exploiting people and reducing them to cogs in a plan greater than its constituent parts, but his interactions with Amelia prove otherwise. Right before he sends her off on what is meant to be a suicide mission, his carefully-crafted defenses slip, and he asks whether she hates him. Clarence believes that he has failed to live up to the Archmage’s title, that he has fallen short of being a “guiding force for all the mages” and a “protector.” He condemns himself for his callous strategies and merciless manipulation, since he has been treating people like chess pieces and “using them as [he sees] fit.” He disparages himself for ��[standing] by on the sidelines, safe and sound.” He believes others hate him because he’s given them all the reasons to, because he deserves to be hated, because he, too, hates himself. All this while, he fails to recognise that he has taken on the greatest sacrifice of all – the burden of leadership, of decision-making, of being responsible for all the blood on his hands.

This downplaying of his own suffering, alongside his disregard of his own well-being, is what drives Clarence to self-sacrifice time and time again. When a theory about the Glacial Butterflies begins to take shape in his mind, he does not test it out on one of his mages, because he does not view them as expendable despite what he claims. Instead, he uses himself for his experiment, slicing his chest open and bearing the agonising pain in order to ascertain the truth of the magic within him.

On the verge of being overcome by the Glacial Butterflies, despite having prepared for this eventuality by shackling his limbs, he makes one last selfless request. “My Lord, you must kill me before I turn,” he entreats, willing to relinquish his own life for the safety of others. Even when Philip protects him from the Glacial Butterflies, refusing to kill him, Clarence believes that there is no place for him in the future that his Lord envisions.

Decades later, he still echoes this same sentiment. “There is no future without sacrifice,” he tells Lars, and he does not see himself as part of that future, does not see himself as deserving of that future. Archmage Clarence thinks of himself as a monster, not a man, and a monster is better off dead than alive.

It is a revelation, to him, that Amelia does not hate him. MC does not hate him. Lars, Alkaid, the mages that carry on the legacy of the Magi Tower, none of them hate him. They do not view him as a monster; they view him as a martyr, a protector, a saviour. Someone who did his best, and gave his all. Archmage Clarence leaves behind a legacy through his sacrifice, spurred by the human heart he still harbours deep within.

- ☽ -

Eden: Falcon Clarence

Next, we have the Falcon Clarence of Eden. The lone ranger of the desert, the mercenary that eliminates Sandswimmers with impeccable precision and works with no one else.

“A bait that only knows how to cry is a burden,” his mentor tells him, and Clarence internalises that into his cognitive framework and guiding compass. It is “the first lesson Liore taught [him];” that he must prove his worth in order to live. His scent lures the Sandswimmers to him, and so he must make himself useful by seeking out danger.

Valued only for his utility as bait, Clarence learns that his worth is determined by his fighting skills. With no other way to survive, he becomes a NEOS by fusing Sandswimmer gems into his body. Clarence pays the price of this acquired power through the gradual erosion of his memories, but that is far from the only thing he has lost. His decision to accept the integration of these foreign, beastly objects into his body has changed him irrevocably. He thinks of himself not as a human, but as a mutant being only one step away from becoming a monstrous Lost. Still, he endeavours to “remember [his] humanity,” because he refuses to become a “mere weapon [that knows] nothing but destruction.” Falcon Clarence understands that he is, by definition, a monster, but he refuses to relinquish the last shreds of his humanity.

In his first encounter with MC, he is rational and pragmatic as always, scrutinising her motives and seeing no reason to work together. Years of solitude, with no one else to depend on, have honed Clarence’s reflexes into an “instinct for self-defence.” Yet his reaction to MC’s request reveals that his solitude has been shaped by circumstance, not entirely by choice. When MC explains her reason for seeking out Eden, even though it does not sound particularly convincing, Clarence accepts it as sufficient and agrees to lead the way. Despite the potential risk of allowing a stranger close, he offers MC a ride on his motorcycle. Subsequently, he continues to help her out, defending the children’s shelter and giving her the gems he’d collected, even as he refuses to follow her any further.

Falcon Clarence claims that he works alone, but everything he does is for the sake of protecting others. He fights in the desert to protect the shelters from Sandswimmers, and he fights in Eden to protect Lin and the other NEOS from the Lost. He brings MC to the NEOS Association, so that she can rest for a night and learn essential skills from Lin. He knows that the night is dangerous, so despite his own preference for working alone, he ensures that MC has a community of protection around her.

Even as he dismisses everything and everyone else as burdens, his actions speak otherwise. Despite having met MC for only a single day, he offers his assistance to her time and time again, from rides on his motorcycle to filling water bottles with her. He could easily leave her to fend for herself, but he chooses not to leave her behind even when that would be the easier way out.

Perhaps the reason Clarence refuses to work with other people is that he’s afraid. Afraid of dragging them down, afraid of becoming their burden. He fears that history will repeat itself. He cannot bear to lose someone he cares for again, so he refrains from caring about anyone at all. Each time Clarence chastises others for being a hindrance, he is reproaching his past self for his inadequacy. Each time he risks his life to protect others, he is atoning for his failure to save his mentor.

MC says that she understands how Clarence feels, because “acting alone means nobody will be hurt because of [him].” In a way, acting alone also protects himself from being hurt. It is a defence mechanism born from his past, when he had to “learn to accept [his] losses” from a young age. He couldn’t afford to grieve Liore for long, not with the constant threat of the Sandswimmers, and so he could do nothing else but “live on with what memories [he] had left.” He’d forced himself to harden his heart to his emotions, but he could not suppress them entirely.

Clarence blames his moment of weakness, of emotional folly, for causing Liore’s death. It was her humanity, even in her final moments as a Lost, that held her back from killing him and caused her to die. He regrets his choice to this day, and perhaps it is this survivor’s guilt that pushes him to fight harder until he reaches the brink.

It is this same guilt, alongside his resolve to not lose anyone else he cares for, that drives him towards self-sacrifice. When he realises that MC needs a soul stone – his soul stone – to open the door within Central Control, he unflinchingly raises his gun to his head, as if it were the natural and logical decision to make. He is ready to offer his life without a moment’s hesitation, because that is the utility he can offer in this moment, in order to keep MC safe and help her achieve her goal. She has given him a reason to fight, and he will die trying to fulfil it.

Ultimately, it is his encounter with MC – and the companionship which blooms from it – that saves him. Without demanding anything in return, she cries for his pain, fights by his side, and shoulders his burdens with him. Clarence doubts his humanity, even as he holds fast to it, since he is all too cognisant of the monstrous traits within. In turn, MC’s unwavering trust reaffirms the humanity within him, reminding him that he is worthy of living.

Falcon Clarence may not be fully human on a biological level, and he may still succumb to the effects of the monsters within him from time to time, but he has managed to preserve his heart and his humanity. His tale is one of healing, of opening up, and of learning to value himself for who he is and not what he can do.

- ☽ -

Modern World: Clarence

Finally, let’s circle back to modern-day Clarence. At first glance, he’s the calm, collected, and capable Student Council president, who always seems to have affairs in order and circumstances under control.

Then, in his Chrono Theatre diary entries, we learn that he had a psychiatrist observing him from a young age, due to his gifted aptitude and exceptional intelligence beyond that of his peers. This revelation sparked a discussion in the LBC discord server, which spurred this message of mine that then became the basis for this meta post:

Clarence is well-versed in decorum, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it comes naturally to him. It’s likely that he learned social etiquette by picking it up from observing how other people behave, so he knows the appropriate responses to give and the socially-acceptable ways to carry himself. However, because this social understanding is not an innate trait but a learned one, there are often times when he doesn’t recognise the need for social niceties, and instead his instinctual response – founded on his internal logic – comes through.

One example of this can be found as early as his second interaction with MC, after she paints an artwork of him:

The polite thing to do would be to express interest in or appreciation of the finished product, regardless of one’s actual feelings towards it. However, Clarence “doesn’t show the slightest interest” in MC’s painting. Does this mean that he doesn’t care for it, and doesn’t see the need to put on a pretence? Quite the contrary. Instead, it’s because he thinks he doesn’t have anything useful to offer in response, and thus he stays silent.

Here, we see a disconnect between how Clarence understands the world, and how other people tend to view it. While most people would appreciate receiving praise or validation, Clarence doesn’t particularly see the need to receive either, and thus doesn’t immediately think of giving them to others. Rather, he takes a more pragmatic approach, focusing on utility; a piece of work deserves feedback for the effort poured into it. However, as a law major, he does not have sufficient knowledge or expertise regarding art. As such, he believes that his feedback would not be useful, and thus it is better not to say anything at all.

This ties into how Clarence views himself as his roles, and the functions he can serve. He understands that he has worth, but he evaluates this worth through his services as the Student Council president, or his contributions as a law intern. When he assists others, he doesn’t think of it as going out of his way to help them; instead, he views it as part of his rightful duty.

As a result, Clarence doesn’t view himself as simply “Clarence.” Rather, he thinks of himself as Clarence, the Student Council president; Clarence, an upperclassman; Clarence, a friend. If he can fulfil someone’s needs through a role that he holds, he will do it, even at the expense of himself.

We see this most prominently in Clarence’s “Break Time” R card story:

When the senior who’s supposed to interpret for an academic speaker falls ill and fails to attend, Clarence steps up to fill their shoes last-minute. William notes that Clarence can be counted on to show up whenever and wherever he’s needed, and MC agrees that he’s “the only one who’s up to the task.”

However, what most people don’t recognise are the sheer lengths Clarence will go to in order to fulfil his duties. On top of his regular responsibilities, filling in for the interpreter caused Clarence to “[burn] the midnight oil” preparing for the speech, and taking care of the sick speaker meant that Clarence could not sleep for two days. He doesn’t recognise that he’s constantly going above and beyond, because to him it’s a given, but he is in fact pushing himself past his limits, and past the line that most people would draw.

It’s interesting to examine MC’s thoughts here, because she interprets Clarence’s willingness to take a nap as a rational understanding that he needs to rest in order to keep functioning. However, this only happens after MC coaxes him into taking a break. If she hadn’t intervened, Clarence would have continued pushing himself until he completed his task – he was already at “the brink of collapse,” and he “only agreed to sleep after [MC] practically begged him to.” Clarence prioritises his responsibilities to the point that he does not recognise his own needs, and thus neglects to take care of himself.

Although modern Clarence doesn’t think of himself as different, or as anything less than a person, it’s evident that he views himself as the roles he fulfils rather than simply as who he is. In turn, this mindset is reflected in his behaviour, which then shapes other people’s perceptions of him. This is how Clarence becomes characterised as the aloof and intimidating Student Council president in the students’ eyes, even though he cares so deeply and helps out so much; most people are unable to look deeper and see Clarence as the person that he is, because he perceives and presents himself through the lens of his roles.

As such, other people often view Clarence as different from themselves – as if he’s operating on a different wavelength, or existing on a separate plane entirely. Modern Clarence’s genius sets him apart from his peers, but more than that, his perspective of himself winds up alienating himself from other people. Clarence views himself as like others, but others view him as unlike them. He blends in well enough, but he doesn’t quite fit in; he has a place in society, but he doesn’t quite belong.

- ☽ -

Clarence, across time and space

Out of all the Clarences thus far, modern Clarence is perhaps the most well-adjusted, and this reflects the importance of having a support system. Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence were isolated from a young age and survived alone throughout most of their lives, whereas modern Clarence had family and friends around him. He may not have had the most conventional childhood, but he grew up with his older sister Jaclyn and his close friend Luca, and he also had his psychiatrist Ford observing and monitoring his development. Subsequently, after he enters St Shelter Academia, he gains a circle of friends he can rely on, such as William, O’Connor, and, of course, MC.

Expanding upon Clarence’s St Shelter Academia bonds, we see that Clarence has people around him who genuinely like him for who he is, and are willing to support him unconditionally. O’Connor affectionately refers to Clarence with a nickname – “Shi-kun” in the Japanese voiceover, or “Little Si Lan” in the Chinese one – and for all his devious teasing, it’s clear he looks out for his Student Council successor. As for William, he may whine about Clarence’s by-the-book discipline, but his clumsiness and complaints do not preclude him from helping out when needed. For all that Clarence often chastises William, he still relies on him to assist with Student Council matters, and he knows William is someone he can trust.

Compared to these two, MC is a relatively newer connection, but her bond with Clarence runs deep. Right off the bat, she’s able to meet him on his level and banter with him, and he lets down his guard enough to subtly tease her for trying to trick him. As their relationship develops, Clarence grows to trust her, sharing his inner thoughts and admitting his vulnerabilities. MC is a safe haven for him, and she understands him on a level deeper than most. While the other students may fear Clarence for his aloof disposition, or hesitate to approach him due to his detached rationality, MC sees the earnest sincerity woven into his actions and the warmth laced through his words. Others may think of him as an unfeeling robot or a terrifying monster, but MC loves him for the human that he is.

There’s a subtle but interesting juxtaposition here, in which Godheim Clarence and Eden Clarence – both possessing monstrous mutations within them – view themselves as monsters while most others do not, whereas modern Clarence – wholly human – views himself as human while most others do not. All three Clarences are keenly aware of what constitutes them, allowing this biological understanding to shape their perception of themselves, but they do not recognise that their actions paint a different picture to others.

Regardless of the world he inhabits, Clarence constantly straddles the line between man and monster. His selfless nature and dutiful diligence often lead him to self-sacrifice and superhuman feats, creating the illusion of a monster – but beneath this facade lies, always, the heart of a human.

- ☽ -

thank you for reading!♡

if you have any thoughts about this post, i'd love to hear them! responses are always welcome, and my ask box is open~

up next: android clarence, and the inevitability of tragedy. where is the line between human and machine? stay tuned for my thoughts on clarence's awakening main story!

#sol's meta analyses #lovebrush chronicles meta #lovebrush chronicles #for all time #lbc #lbc spoilers #clarence clayden #lbc clarence #lovebrush clarence #godheim clarence #eden clarence #modern clarence

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pellucid-constellations · 1 year ago

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Hey!!! I just finished reading song of Achilles and I have been crying for the better part of the last hour while reading, hence in serious need of some Bucky comfort. So how about college or lumberjack Bucky (cuz they’re my favorites) who don’t really understand the whole fuzz over books but still holding his girl while she sobs her chest out out about a book (you can change the book of you want), hot tears down her face, ugly crying yknow?

It’s okay if you don’t want to :)) Have a great day 💕💕💕

Pairing: lumberjack!bucky x reader (can be read separately from undisclosed, but also a little reference to it)

A/n: Okay sooo this was so sweet and I had to write a drabble for it!! All this angst I've been writing needs some comfort! :)

~~~

He hears the crying first.

It’s a terrible sound that constricts his chest each time it meets his ears. Bucky would like to consider himself partially responsible for your tears becoming a rare occurrence, so when he hears them, he experiences an array of emotions—fear, panic, a twisted sort of heartbreak.

At the front door of his home, Bucky strains his ears to confirm what he’s already dreading. Because maybe you weren’t crying. Maybe you were sick? That wasn’t much better, but at least it was a more concrete issue.

When he hears the tissue box and the loud meow from Alpine—the closest thing to concern he’d ever heard from a cat—Bucky doesn’t even take his coat off before he’s barreling into your bedroom.

You startle, puffy eyes darting up to him as he takes up space in the small room.

And he’s devastated. You hadn’t looked like that in a long time, all tear-stained cheeks and frazzled hair. Bucky considers the multitude of reasons you could be so upset, but then decides it doesn't matter. Not when you’re looking at him like that.

“Oh, honey,” he coos. His socks make soft sounds on the carpet as he walks over to you, but the action only sends more tears down your face. Bucky could collapse. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

You don’t say much at first, opting to bury your face into his chest the second he makes contact with the bed. It’s too warm in here for the amount of clothes he’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t really care. You keep crying—Bucky keeps running his fingers through your hair.

Each sob that leaves your lips sounds more broken than the last, breaking Bucky down bit by bit. He wants to fix this, make it better, but Bucky has never been good with words. He’d been trying, for you. He will try now.

“Tell me what happened, sweet girl?” he mumbles into the skin of your temple, lips hesitant to leave your skin. He was always better with physical communication. He was also the best at loving you like this.

Your breathing gets choppy as you try to calm down. Shallow puffs of air meet the stitching of his sweater, and he rocks you as a way to coax a more steady pattern into your lungs. Even though he was wrought with panic, you were okay. Bucky had you, so you were okay.

“He—he died, Buck,” you eventually choke out. “He died and then there was no—there was nothing—” your words cut off again as more tears soak his chest.

“Who?” he stresses, although his tone doesn’t give that away. “Who, honey? Someone you know?”

“No,” you sob. The sound knocks the air from Bucky’s lungs.

Taking inventory in his head, that means all of his friends are safe, all of your friends. It means your awful family is alive as well, and while that doesn't matter much to him, at least he knows it isn’t the source of your strife. But the pain in your voice, the way you were limp against him and fighting for air.

Bucky couldn’t understand.

“Tell me who. What has you so sad, hm?” he tries, voice dropping into an even gentler tone.

You dig your fingers into Bucky’s jacket, pulling away after a moment. Bucky reaches for you, trying to chase your figure because he wasn’t done trying to make this better, he needs to make you better. But then you slap something into his lap and he’s confused again.

“Them,” you all but sob, turning back into the material of his jacket.

Bucky wraps an arm around your shoulders as he inspects the book on his thighs. He’s still lost, but your crying has morphed into sniffles so he asks, “What was that, sweet girl?”

He’s packing it on with the endearments, but seeing you like this is brutal.

“In the book,” you explain. “They were so in love. And then he died. And afterwards—Bucky it was awful.”

Oh.

A book.

This is manageable, to Bucky. You’re not in pain and he can handle this.

He hauls you closer into his chest. You shuffle until your frame is enclosed by his. Bucky’s size had always been something he found inconvenient until you came into his life. Because after that, he found it was good at making you feel safe. A way to protect you from anything.

Even… a book?

Surely a book.

“Hey, it’s alright, I got you,” he hums.

“Never die,” you whisper, and Bucky's mouth twists uncomfortably.

“I won’t.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes drabble #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #lumberjack!bucky #undisclosed #asks

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arabaka · 2 years ago

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˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ miguel o'hara x spidey!fem!reader. CONTENT WARNINGS: oops, all berries (i.e. angst) no smut but minors/ageless blogs go away. depictions of traumatic events. insinuations of anxiety and ptsd. WORD COUNT: 1.4K PSD CREDIT!!! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ love note from the author: this is PART 2 to PURGATORY but you can read this by itself ig... i'm not your mom ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Okay, let’s actually try to get through this, shall we?

My name is – Actually, not important.

I was bitten by a radioactive spider… But something tells me you already knew that. Wait, how many of these have you sat through? Holy shit– that many?!

But can any of those guys say they’ve been through space and time, universe after universe, only to get stranded in a total vacuum void?

You try to bang your head in exasperation but with nothing to cushion you, you end up pulling enough full-body revolutions to make an Olympic acrobat jealous.

Cut to a stretch of groaning that follows you around like a white flag.

Because it sure as hell feels like it’s high time to give up. He always did say you never knew when to quit. You didn’t see it as a bad thing then but now… With a little zero-gravity perspective…

No, no, no– the last thing you want is to give him the satisfaction of being right.

This phase comes and goes. You call it the I-can’t-not-hate-you-you-sent-me-here-in-the-first-place stage.

Grief is fluid, okay?

You despise it all the same. Because when you’re like this, all you can think about is him. Him and the last time you looked into those jaded crimson eyes.

There’s the silver lining you were looking for when it comes to your multiverse communicator finally giving out.

At least you never have to see how heartbroken he looked ever again, perfectly recreated pixel-by-fucking-pixel.

Now if only your actual memory would degrade the same way.

Because you still see it when you close your eyes, you see it all. The strike of terror flashing like lightning in the reflection of his dilated pupils, having come as a harbinger of a terrible, terrible, irreversible decision. The taut coiling of the fists he keeps at his sides, his claws coming in– not because he can’t help it but because he feels he deserves it.

“Miguel !!!! What the fuck?! How could you do this to me!?” You wail, lungs rotted with rage as you punch haplessly against the cocoon swiftly crystalizing around you. Panicked and like a caged animal, your eyes frantically scour the ceiling for an escape but you can only see your wild desperation repeated back to you in the many rubied eyes of the Going-Home-Machine.

I knew that was a stupid fucking name for you.

You never thought you would be on the other end of this wretched thing, be the little fly caught in its web and when you look at Miguel, eyes wrought with a pain too much for even Spider-Woman to bear, you look pitiful like prey too. Your chest spasms with a choked, “I…” Your fists, weak with emotion, unfurl and give way to open palms. Your breath ragged, when you pick your head back up at Miguel you let him have it.

“I loved you.” You say it with canines bared with poisoned malice, rage finally boiling over into heated rivets of tears down your cheeks.

And Miguel, he’s never looked more destroyed.

You swallow a sob, gulping so hard it rocks your chest. Your bottom lip warbles. You’re not good at this tough guy routine.

You never were.

“You can’t let it get to you.” Miguel’s voice, direct and to the point, precedes him in echoes as he makes his way to the high corner you’ve wedged yourself in.

Angling your body away from him, you avoid your superior’s gaze. Superior, because right now he’s not your boyfriend. He’s your commander.

“You’re terrible at comforting, has anyone ever told you that?” You call back, deadpan tone as good a deterrent as any. You sniffle, your throat clenching when you try to stuff the remainder of your cries down. When you finally wad up all your feelings for later, you turn back to face him with a mock look of happiness on your mask. “Who said I’m letting it get to me? I’m not letting it get to me. Sounds like you’re projecting.”

And because he’s your boss right now, not your lover, he sighs in frustration. “Mierda... I’m trying to help you.” He says with two fingers pinching the skin between his knitted brows after his headgear dematerializes. “You’re going to get burnt out at this rate. You know we can’t save them all. We’ve been through this.”

Your body coils into itself, trying to self soothe but it’s not working. Miguel’s voice starts to fade into the background, the cacophony of architecture collapsing and screaming, my god the screaming, overtaking your everything just then.

“You need to get past this–”

“Fucking hell, Miguel– Could you stop acting like my boss for one fucking minute and just be my boyfriend?!” There’s no denying how savagely ragged the last mission made you now that you’ve ripped your mask off. Your eyes are red and puffy, swollen from the tears you thought were safe to shed. Your lips are littered with little slivers of cuts from biting down too hard when you first tried to keep the devastation from bubbling up to the surface.

His body stills, as does yours.

You’d never seen Miguel cry. Not until that day.

It wasn’t bawling. It wasn’t even whimpering. It was a single drop that ran down one cheek, you saw it for a fleeting second before he rushed over to hug you, his hulking body cradling yours in what you thought was love.

But you’ve realized since then that it wasn’t out of love. It was out of grief. Grief because he had to let you go. You weren’t strong enough for this.

And he wasn’t strong enough to watch you go through it again.

Or so he thought. But no, true agony was watching you now, jailed in a prison of his making.

True agony would be spending a lifetime away from you.

“Stop the machine!” Miguel’s order rasps in his throat, a prominent vein down its column bulging and only worsening when Margo doesn’t move as fast as he would like. Frustrated and scared, Miguel rushes to the maze of computer mainframes, his hands a blur as he hopes just one, any one will abort a process already…

94% of the way in.

“Miguel!” Margo’s voice finally comes into focus, “Miguel, you have to stop– the machine–”

“You can either help me or get out of the way.”

Margo stops but that isn’t good enough either.

Big hands, far too roughly, grab at her shoulders and toss her aside in a frenzy. He can fix this. He can.

“Miguel!”

Even the whites in his eyes are splotched red when he turns back to you but finds you weren’t even looking at him.

Your face to face with a machine on the fritz, the massive technological arachnid drawing too many strands from too many places, mixing timelines to override another– corrupting the chrysalis it had nearly finished making.

“I can fix this, Miguel but you have to– Miguel, stop!” Margo’s screams are devastating, shrill and choked as she tries to remedy the situation but her fingers go limp. Limp because she knows.

There’s no fixing this.

The spider’s arms start jerking sporadically, its long limbs with metal claws ripping the timelines it just crossed. The connected strands start to glitch, the bot’s failsafe commands trying to pull through but it can’t fix what it can’t stop.

You watch in horror, too scared to move much less breathe, as the glowing lines stretch and tear, their dimensions ultimately being warped by…

A black hole.

“Miguel, wait–”

Your hand instinctively reaches out, memories of all the times he’s caught you just like this flashing in your mind like a flipbook animation. Only, he can’t save you this time.

No one can.

Thaaaaattt’s enough emo for one day, I think.

You tuck your knees in, slowly folding into yourself as your spin cycle finally comes to an end. Your chest is wound up tight, your heart drumming so loud you feel it in your eardrums. You just want this to end.

A sob creeps up the column of your throat, your eyes already seared red with the tears you refuse to cry. In a rush of emotions, far too many for you to isolate, you rip off the communicator band around your wrist and send it flying to nowhere.

At least, that’s what should have happened.

Instead, your accessory’s open-ended trajectory, well–

Meets an end.

A black hole appears from what looks like a ripped stitch, its growth unstable and its edges weathered. You have to investigate, it’s the first anomaly you’ve seen in this vapid world and possibly your only way back home.

Home.

You imagine Miguel.

So you dive, not knowing where this will take you but…

The bad thing’s already happened. How much worse can it get?

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara #astv x reader #astv miguel #astv fanfic #miguel angst #miguel o'hara angst #.˚₊ ੈ ʚ 🍰 ɞ ₊˚. ꒰ a little treat for miguel. ꒱

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saintmurd0ck · 1 year ago

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our loss

masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x reader

summary: matt doesn't really know what to think, now that you're not his anymore

warnings: breakup, established relationship, sadness and grief, crying, feelings of numbness

a/n: i'm going through something. please bear with me.

Matt doesn't know what to say. How to respond. Or how to communicate his feelings; words, thoughts, desires and damnation all left unspoken.

He replays your voicemail more times than he can be bothered to count, because for the moment, it feels like that's all he has left. He knows it isn't entirely true, because you're still here — living, breathing, in the apartment two blocks down and to the left he's become so familiar with — but you're not his. Not anymore.

He knows your routine intimately, being that it's a Thursday night. Usually, you're out at dinner with one of your hometown friends, ordering the same thing every time, adorned with your favourite red lipstick that you'd leave on the sides of his neck. It scares him that he doesn't quite know what you're doing now. He could always take his cane and meander towards the city, taking a route he's committed to memory, letting his brain wander but his feet carry him subconsciously to his destination. Then, he could simply listen. Drown out the wails of the city, the hopes and dreams that manifest and shatter in the same minute.

He could focus on you, and the salt distilling in the air, your body-wracking sobs, or the kind of silent cry that has your mouth open in an unending, soundless scream. Maybe you've buried your face in the pillow — his pillow — clutching one of his shirts and wishing, begging, somehow, for the pain to stop.

But he won't do that.

It'd be too tempting to make his way up; hell, to scale the side of the building, just so he could hold you and remind you that you're safe, that you're loved, and that you'd have a man who'd raze the whole world at your command, Catholic values be damned.

Matt contemplates all of this for a second, having resigned himself to his sofa, his head propped uncomfortably against the armrest and his plaid blanket draped haphazardly over his torso. He blinks slowly, feeling the tension building in his temples and jaw, letting his hands curl and unfurl not into fists, but muscle memories of tenderness. It's like his hands know what they're missing, instinctively moving into the same positions he'd take up when holding your waist, when caressing your face.

He murmurs a sound, what he thinks is a butchery of your name, laying there unceremoniously as his heart squeezes over and over again, as dread and loss and grief twist in his stomach.

Why does it feel like every time something good happens to him, it just as quickly is taken away? He knows what you'd say — that this is untrue, that it isn't his fault, and he shouldn't beat himself up for things out of his control. But it's hard not to default to his programming in times like these. He tries to move past, to edge his thoughts along, perhaps not for himself yet, but for you.

He shuffles downwards, allowing his head to fall flat on the seat and his feet to hang off the edge of the couch. He thinks that his shivering could be attributed to the cold, or simply the fact that he doesn't really know what to do next. He's bristling, his own body unsure of whether to send blood to his muscles or his brain.

All his relationships, or the meaningful ones, at least, have crashed and burned in the sense that they failed and he moved on. It's always been simple: never hang onto one person for too long, because you're too important, you've got too much at stake to hold onto dead feelings.

You're different.

You're the ray of sunshine in his otherwise bleak life of justice and bloodstained glory, the grounding tether to the tangible world. Goodness was wrought from your warmth and love.

He grits his teeth, shoving down the pangs of nostalgia: of nights spent in his bed, of the softness of your lips on his skin, of the unadulterated joy you'd unearthed.

A breakup won't change the fact that you still make him whole. It won't change much, truth be told. It's the little things, however, that have begun to fall away, like the fact that he might not be privy anymore to your innermost thoughts, that you're beginning to plan your future without him in mind.

He thinks back to an analogy he once heard: one about a well-loved plate, one that's been dropped and pieced together time and time again. The plate is still round, still held together by glue that has stood the test of knives and forks, of microwaves and dishwashers, of constant use.

Except now, there are chips around the rim, sometimes appearing a few at a time, others days or weeks apart. They won't damage the structural integrity of the plate, and they shouldn't be used as an excuse to throw it away, but they mar its surface. Each chip is a loss in its own right, however insignificant or large. They can be repaired over time, but for now, they exist.

As wounding as they are, Matt needs to allow them to exist in order to move on, because dwelling on them, wanting to throw the whole dish away without recognising its beauty or resilience would be a waste. At least he thinks it's the right answer.

He reaches for his phone on the coffee table. As much as Matt finds the notion of seeking help difficult, and often irritating, the hollowness in his chest demands to be shared, to be discussed and picked at until he can't bother to dissect it anymore. He aims to call Karen because he's positive she out of all people would know just what to do, but he hits play on your voicemail again.

You're crying.

"Matt," you start, bursting into sobs at the mere utterance of his name. "I just... I don't even know if I want to leave you this message. I don't know what to say to you, only that I needed to say something to you." There's a shaky pause, a jagged breath, and your voice trickles to a whisper. "I loved you, Matt. I love you. I would've done anything for you. I would've gone anywhere you asked. And I don't know how to look at you without wanting more, without craving what has been and what could've been. Maybe someday it'll be different, and we can start fresh," — you hiccup, and Matt reels inwards, his lip quivering at the sheer agony in your words — "but we need time to figure that out." You sigh, plaintively.

And as he listens to your next sentence, he mouths the words in sync with you. They taste foreign, they're a sore in his mouth, but it's a kernel of light nevertheless. It's a drop of gold swirling in the inky mess of his soul.

"We'll find our way back to each other."

He whispers the next words out loud, doing his best not to talk over the voicemail version of you. "I know we will."

#matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock angst #daredevil angst #daredevil x reader #daredevil #x reader #matt murdock fanfiction #daredevil fanfiction #tw breakup #rhi writes 💻

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milkyplier · 1 year ago

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@selkies-song I wrote this for you when you weren’t feeling well, and I intended it to be longer but ran into some troubles. Regardless I hope it brightens your day 🩷

"Legend, can you get the pitchfork?"

It's a simple ask, but his headache filters it through layers of honey, so that by the time he registers what's been asked of him, Malon is watching him with concern.

"Is everything alright, Veteran?"

Legend swallows, words caught in a dry, gummy throat.

“Yeah.” He rasps. “I’m fine.”

He turns to walk back to the barn, but a dizzy spell freezes him in his tracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Goddesses, was it always this hot out? Where was the cloud cover? Hadn’t it been overcast this morning? The light is making his head hurt even worse.

“Veteran. You’re ill.”

It’s not a question.

“What? No, I said I’m fine.” He scowls at the ground. Farore, it’s hot.

“You’re clearly not, dear. You’ve been sluggish and silent all morning. Look at you, the only thing keeping you on your feet is the Hero’s Spirit.”

“I’m fine. Just tired, nothing I haven’t handled before.” He is tired. He’s also in pain, but Malon doesn’t have to know that, and besides. He’s always in pain, the result of years of adventuring without always being able to take the time to care for himself or heal properly.

“I’m fine.” He repeats again, and with a little more firmness.

Malon reaches out and grabs his wrist before he can. His skin is freezing.

“You’re cold.”

He frowns at her. “What? No, I’m—it’s blazing out here.”

She frowns back. “You don’t feel cold?”

“No!”

Malon places her hand against his forehead.

“Well no wonder, you’ve got a fever. And look at you, all glassy-eyed and pale.”

Legend pulls away, scowl returning, wrought with anger at being cornered.

“I’m fine.” He hisses, insistent.

“You’re sick,” Malon replies, equally unyielding. They stand for a few minutes, glaring each other down, before Malon’s gaze is drawn over Legend’s shoulder. Legend follows it, and winces as he sees Time approaching. Time will side with Malon, he has no doubt.

“…I came to inquire about dinner on the Champion’s behalf, but I see I have stumbled into an argument.”

“Of a sort,” Malon tells him tensly.

“That does not inspire much confidence.” Time takes his place beside his wife. “It’s not too heated, is it?”

“Quite, actually, it’s got a fever.” Malon looks up forlornly at her husband, and then back at Legend again. “Our Veteran is sick.”

“Oh?” Time raises an eyebrow, eye now trained on Legend, who does not meet them. Time doesn’t say anything, but somehow he pulls all the information out of Legend faster than Malon did, and with less effort.

“I’m fine,” Legend snaps defensively, feeling raw under Time’s one-eyed gaze. He’s getting sick of the phrase. “I swear, I’m just a little tired. It rained yesterday, made my joints hurt and stuff, I’m just feeling the aftereffects right now. It’s fine.”

“Legend.”

It’s just his name. Not even his name, his nickname. And yet, the way Time says it, Legend knows immediately that he’s lost the battle.

“You have put up an excellent fight up to this point, however, it is truly bordering on pathetic.”

It hurts. Probably because it’s true. It gets worse when Time steps up next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and lowering his voice.

“I know it is not easy to remember when you’re safe. To stop pushing yourself out of habit, out of that underlying pressure to keep going because that is what you have learned. To keep going, because the fate of Hyrule is in your hands, and you cannot afford to waste so much as a second. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you had to learn that, and I’m sorry that because of it, you don’t know how to recognize and take advantage of situations like this. Situations where such pressure does harm, not good. You’re in a safe place, Link. Hyrule’s fate is not is your hands, not in a way that pushing yourself will help. You are not alone anymore. There are people who will pick up the slack while you recover. There is time to heal, so take it. There is strength in recognizing when you are weak, and stepping back to change it.”

Legend desperately wishes Time were not so wise. Suddenly, his fighting against Malon feels silly and rude. He doesn’t even really know why he was arguing with her, what it would have accomplished. He nods numbly. It was hot a second ago, but the clouds have returned and in their shade, he’s cold.

“M’sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be. It’s a hard lesson, one we heroes are terribly unprepared to learn.” Time squeezes his shoulder gently before releasing him. “Now, go ahead and let Malon walk you to the house. And I say that because if you don’t walk, she will carry you. I had to learn that the hard way.”

Time chuckles and Malon huffs.

“You heroes and your selfless tendencies.” She turns to Legend, expression softening. “Come on, dear. You’ll feel better with a hot cup of tea in hand.”

#plink writes #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu malon #lu time

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weliveinapokemonworld · 10 days ago

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Another SwSh fic.

Title: Judgement

Notes: Leon's napping because he got hurt courtesy of the royal twins. Eternatus's possessing him to help speed up healing and block some of the pain.

The Royal Twins: We are the successors of the Great Kings and meant to rule Galar! Eternatus: *vague memories, but they are behaving like jackasses, and hurt Leon* I'm going to ruin these humans' day.

---

“You are right in one point. Leon was not Chosen by the Sword and the Shield. And he’s not a King.”

Red eyes pinned the twins in place. Eternatus’ presence rumbled out.

“Neither did I choose him.” He floated forward, torso tilting at an angle but otherwise completely still as he loomed above them. It sent them bristling – how dare this creature look down on them – but they knew to hold their tongues. Goodie-two-shoes Leon would never harm anybody - but currently Leon was asleep, and another was steering the body.

“I was scared when I woke again. Scared and confused, body bloated with energy. That man intended to me use me like a lifeless battery.”

They were too focused on the person before them to pay attention that it had sounded like two voices had spoken when they mentioned ‘that man’. “He ran instead of confronting myself. He sent up a pawn to contain me.

“I don’t know who attacked first: Leon or I. It doesn’t matter. It didn’t matter to me at the time. I was hurting. I wouldn’t allow anybody to seal me again, just to use me. So I broke out. The one who finally caught me was my trainer – the only person, be they Pokemon and human, I’d trust for months.”

The red eyes shifted and glowed until they were burning with magenta light.

“You knew that, didn’t you? You knew I was scared of Leon, and that he was scared of me. We had hurt each other on that tower and left with deep scars. If forced in close quarters, you hoped that I will lash out at him again.”

Sordward sniffed disdainfully. That his hands shook was entirely unrelated to the situation. Or how heavy the evidence was stacked against the two of them. "That’s an outrageous claim that you’re making. We did no such thing like siccing you on each other.”

“Besides, why would you care about what happened to him?” Shielbert had just to open his mouth. He jabbed his elbow into this brother's side, who tried to jab back and hissed, "You're no better!"

"What a foolish question, but understandable from the likes of you." He rumbled softly.

He pressed a hand over the glowing spot in his chest. “He didn’t have all the information at the time and acted on the best assessment on the situation he had. And he apologized because he realized he had scared me, had hurt me, and that had been wrong of him.

“Even more- He tried to save me when it hurt him to do so. He was hurt himself, bleeding out, and he offered me energy instead of walking out alone.”

The dragon stared them down.

“I didn’t choose him. He still has chosen me, helped me, when I had wrought as painful scars on his mind as he had accidentally on mine. That is why I've changed my mind after I discovered it was an option, and that I could help heal some of the damage I've wrought on him. We don't have the same bond that I share with my trainer. Each is precious for its own reasons. But that is something you don’t understand, do you?”

Eternatus was simply there, now. The yelped, their legs tangling with each other as they tried to leap back. He easily followed, leaning down until only few inches still separated his face from theirs.

“Leon has not been Chosen by the Sword and Shield. He’s still worthy. You two, on the other hand-”

He scoffed.

“I saw you try to force your way into the Weald. You were rejected. You stole the two artifacts, then threw a tantrum when they didn't work."

"A tantrum! What a dishonorable description for our righteous anger!" Shielbert did not ask how Eternatus had seen them enter the Weald. He did not want to know. "We are entitled to our legacy!"

"Your so called legacy is rubbish. The sword and the shield are parts of the wolves, and will only empower them."

He cocked his head, looking at them as if they were some sort of strange painting.

"And the kings? What do you think they'd say about your 'worthiness' if they knew what you did to their beloved friends?"

#pokemon sword and shield #pokemon swsh fic #pokemon swsh au #pokemon swsh #eternatus #pokemon shielbert #pokemon sordward #unfortunately I couldn't avoid using their names this time #eternatus ! leon

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 2 years ago

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When Lex winds back with an open palm to slap her, Lena sees it coming and refuses to flinch. As a result, she gets to see his utter bewilderment up close and personal when long fingers reach out and grip his wrist before the blow can land.

His confusion only grows as he traces the offending hand up the arm to where it connects not to Lena, but her counterpart. Lena catches her eye, and sees her own smug smirk enjoying the rarity of a befuddled Lex.

His consternation shifts to a sudden shout of pain when the grip on his wrist tightens, snapping bone. Satisfied, Lena's doppelganger releases Lex with a shove, allowing him to shuffle pitifully back to regain his composure.

As his gaze quickly bounces between them, Lena's counterpart comes to stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

"We'll make it easy for you," Lena drawls. "We're both real."

"Impossible," Lex hisses. "The multiverse was extinguished--"

"But not alternate realities." Lena's double tsks. "I would have thought you'd be smart enough to figure that out." She turns to Lena. "Perhaps your Lex has dimmed, somwhat."

"Dimmed!" Lex scoffs. "That isn't what the public says--"

"Come now, brother. We all know how quickly public perception can shift. After all, weren't you the first to call me a monster?"

Lena's counterpart tugs her black coat open to expose the kryptonite in her chest. Lena sees Lex's gaze light up at the sight of it. Disgust fills her.

"It's almost a shame you won't survive the hour," Lena's double continues. The stone in her chest slowly grows brighter as her smile turns predatory. "I think you would have liked what I've become."

Lex scoffs again, though the sound is clearly weaker than he intends. He looks to Lena. "You would kill your own brother?"

Lena looks at him coldly.

"They say the first time's the hardest."

------

Kara is too late to keep Lex alive. She doesn't know if he deserved the rescue, but she also isn't sure he deserved the immolation that has left him a charred and smoking husk.

When she arrives at the warehouse she finds both Lena's standing before their brother's corpse, their features identically indiscernable as they look long and hard at the consequence of their actions.

It's her Lena who turns to look at her first.

"Feel free to judge, as I'm sure you will," she says coldly. "But we both know he never should have been resurrected."

At that, the doppelganger turns as well. "Let's hope this time it sticks." Kara spots a flutter of motion at the edge of her vision, and looks down to see the doppelganger's fingers brush softly against Lena's. "If it doesn't, you'll know where to find me."

In the days that follow, Kara keeps her distance. She wrestles with the feeling in her chest the comes from seeing the Lenas so gentle with each other, yet so cold to everyone else. But still, when she catches wind that Lena has found the way to return the doppelganger to her own reality, Kara swoops into the lab just as the portal springs to life.

To do what, she isn't sure. To stop her from returning? To ensure she goes through?

"Your world has suffered enough," she ends up saying, hands on her hips.

The doppelganger meets her gaze undaunted. "You know nothing of my world, or the structure it requires to recover from the destruction you wrought."

Kara doesn't know how to respond. In the end, she simply doesn't. They stare at each other for long moments until Lena cuts in.

"She can't stay here," she clips out. "If she does, we could both experience entropic cascade failure."

Kara cuts eye contact with the doppelganger to flick her gaze towards Lena. Sensing her confusion, Lena fails to hide the roll of her eyes.

"It would be bad. For both of us."

So the doppelganger can't stay here. Kara is relieved, because she can't stomach the thought of keeping her here, so close to Lena and so full of rage and kryptonite. She can only hope that her friends in that other reality have survived, and can continue to fight against this Lena's tyranny.

When she says nothing, the doppelganger turns towards the portal without so much as a goodbye to her counterpart. But as she nears the event horizon, Lena herself calls out to her.

"Lena!"

The doppelganger pauses.

"Remember what I said." Lena holds her counterpart's gaze. "The future is yet unwritten."

The doppelganger remains silent.

"Your measure isn't taken by the love you receive," Lena continues. "It's measured in the love you give."

The doppelganger says nothing, but Kara can almost swear sees something about the woman soften.

Without a word, the doppelganger turns and disappears into the glimmering portal. When it shuts down behind her, the lab is thick with silence.

"Lena--"

"I gave you everything I have. Everything I am," Lena's gaze remains locked on the portal's control panel, but her jaw is sharp with restraint. "And you gave me nothing in return."

Lena's last words to herself ring in the silence between them.

It's measured by the love you give.

Lena finally meets Kara's gaze.

"So what does that make you?"

#supercorp #metallo!lena #part 2? 3?#idk who knows #just take it lol #let me know what you think #angst #rift

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mt-musings · 4 months ago

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The Last Silverboughs

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Read on AO3

Gods below, what had she gotten herself into?

She was a fool, as usual. Not a fool—an idiot.

The world had narrowed to a single pinpoint, becoming only Astarion, only his hands, his mouth, his teeth, his body pressed against hers as if he meant to consume her. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t form a thought, couldn’t do more than drown in him and the pleasure he wrought from her body.

She trembled as his fingers ghosted over the scars that covered her skin, as they lingered on the more vicious ones, on the lessons her mother had carved into her skin. She’d expected him to recoil at the sight of them, at the feeling of their raised surface that covered nearly every inch of her, but he’d hardly paid them any mind, except to figure out which were more sensitive, which made her shiver against him.

There was pain—pain from his fangs piercing her throat and pain, at first, from his initial few thrusts into her, but she relished in in, letting it ground her for the first time since she’d lost herself to his touch.

Pleasure was foreign and overwhelming, but pain—pain helped her to reorient the world, to know up from down and where she was meant to fit in-between. To stop herself from being lost in the wave of affection, in the onslaught of new sensations, of skin on skin and being held—

He’d promised to make her lose herself in him and she’d been too stupid to see the warning in it, too stupid to realize it wasn’t simply the sort of sickly sweet words he liked to throw around between biting complaints and snarled vitriol, and she’d fallen for it, fallen hard, judging by the clenching of her heart in her chest at the way he held her, in the way he absently brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face, eyes lingering on her face with an almost-softness she couldn’t quite place. It made her ache in an entirely different way, made her wonder what it would be like if he really cared, if it wasn’t just because he was bored and they were both dying unless they could find a cure.

“You think too much, darling,” Astarion said, offering her a cheeky smile with a flash of teeth. “You wear it all over your face.”

She opened her mouth to respond but he snaked his hand between the pair of them, circling the little nub at the apex of her thighs, and all she could do was whine as thought escaped her once more. She wasn’t sure how much more of this blissful torture she could stand, felt as though she was a bowstring about to snap. Yes, something was most certainly wrong, the sensations too much, pleasure verging on a new sort of agony that she was sure would break her, would drive her entirely mad—

Something snapped and her vision went white, her body shivering with waves of white-hot pleasure that forced tears to her eyes, tears that she didn’t even register until she came back to herself to notice Astarion chuckling at her as wiped them away with his thumb, breathing hard.

She stared up at him, dazed and a little breathless, her body trembling in unfamiliar way. His perpetually perfect hair was mussed in a way she knew he would hate, but she found endearing, the curls standing on end and falling into his eyes. She reached out without thinking and cupped his jaw, gently trailing her thumb along his cheekbone. His brow pinched for a moment before his face slipped into its usual curled amusement. She dropped her hand to the forest floor, unsure of what to make of the flash of emotion.

“Speechless, darling? I have that effect on people,” he quipped easily. He rolled over so they lay side by side, looking up through the branches at the star-dotted sky, hands cushioning his head. They lay like that for a long time, the only sounds their breathing and the muted rustling of the forest creatures.

All at once her exhaustion hit her like a brick. She knew she should slip away, back to the camp, but she couldn’t force herself to get up, couldn’t force her eyes to remain open.

~~~

Astarion broke his trance just as the sun began to crest over the horizon. Lythra had curled closer during the night, one arm draped over his chest. She shivered, slightly, though enough that he wondered how it didn’t force her from her trance. Then again, if he had to guess, he’d wager she’d actually passed out after all the fighting and sex, not to mention the blood loss. She’d passed out after the first time he’d fed from her too, though he’d nearly lost control of himself that time, draining her so much that she was sickly and unsteady for a day and a half after, though she hadn’t complained.

She rarely complained.

He carefully rolled out of her grasp, refusing to look at her as he pulled on his pants and boots. He stood, basking in the sun’s golden light, trying to ignore his roiling stomach. He should be pleased—his plan had gone just as he planned—better even. He never would have guessed she’d make as easy a mark as she did, that she’d fall for the act so hard. After all, she’d told that wicked priest that he couldn’t make her beg, not with his barbed lash, and yet she’d submitted so readily to him.

She’d stared up at him so sweetly, so trusting that he hardly would have believed it was the same elf who confidently ordered the lot of them around, who decided who was worth wasting their time to save, who deserved it.

Surely, he’d make the list now, remain on it so long as he provided mind-numbing enough sex to keep her hooked. He only needed to keep it up until she helped him kill Cazador, then he could be done with the whole nauseating charade.

“Why do you have Infernal runes carved into your back?” Lythra asked, voice more of a rasp than he was used to hearing in the morning. He whipped around, brows furrowed. He hadn’t heard her wake.

“What do you mean, Infernal? What do they say?”

“I—I’m not sure. I only recognize the script.”

He stared at her for a long moment, fighting back a terse reply. Infernal? What in the literal Hells had Cazador done to him? For all he knew it was some sort of pact carved into his flesh, some sort of additional control over his person. He’d need to find someone to read it, to tell him what it meant, since that was beyond her, along with seemingly all scholarly pursuits, judging by the way she’d simply throw books at him and Gale without even bothering to glance at them.

“We should get back to camp, I don’t want to waste any more time out here,” he spat, sharper than he meant to.

Her face fell, and she stared back at him, uncertainty and hurt glinting in her eyes before the mask slipped back over her features and she smiled, turning to gather up her clothes. He turned back towards the sun, pretending to not notice.

“I’ll—I’ll head back in a bit. I’m going to take a quick bath in the river first.”

He didn’t respond beyond a nod, keeping his face raised reverently toward the morning sun. She didn’t linger like he would have expected, didn’t dawdle and wait for him to say something more, to ease the tension that had settled over the little clearing. She had disappeared by the time he glanced back over his shoulder, any trace of her presence gone from the blanket they’d shared the night before.

He sighed, a little of the disgust unfurling from his chest, though something nauseating and leaden still lay in the pit of his stomach. It felt different from the usual repulsion he felt after bedding some poor fool for Cazador. Perhaps it was because she wouldn’t simply disappear the next day like his other conquests, that she’d remain close, a constant reminder of his base manipulation, of the depths he was willing to stoop to get what he wanted.

Or perhaps it was because fucking her hadn’t felt as detached as the way he’d perfected, that there had been moments when he could have sworn there was something almost like affection that flashed across his cold, dead heart. Maybe it had been something about the rare, fumbling vulnerability, the almost unsure way that she had deferred to him in the act and after, eyes softening to something that hardly resembled the sharp, nearly severe usual set of her face.��

He didn’t know what possessed him to follow after her, why he cared—he’d only slept with her to secure her protection, her allyship, after all. She was just another poor fool to seduce for his ends, too stupid for her own good.

Not stupid. Naive, and terribly so, something he hadn’t expected after weeks of her hardened competence, her detached efficiency in killing.

He froze as he reached the tree line, the river gurgling only a dozen paces before him.

Lythra sat on the edge of the water, her knees pulled into her chest. She hadn’t bothered putting on her clothes properly and he could see all those scars he’d felt the night before for what they truly were—cruel, precise things, ranging from long silvered to still pink. It took him a second to realize she was crying—not just crying, but sobbing, silently, face pressed hard into her knees. She shook, her, knuckles white with how hard she held herself, as if she’d shatter into a million pieces if she let go.

He knew that sort of crying, the sort of desolation that dragged it out. He swallowed hard at the realization that he was most likely been the cause.

He’d never have thought he’d see her as anything remotely fragile—after all, she’d been the same little monster that, when confronted with a blade pressed to her throat hadn’t hesitated to headbutt him in the face, who had snarled at him like a beast about to savage him before the tadpoles had connected them.

It was hard to reconcile the beast of fangs and claws that he knew with this fractured little creature that seemed to be breaking right before his eyes.

He turned away silently, shame and disgust filling him more than they already had. He’d known he was using her—intended to from the onset, but somehow it was worse knowing he was cowering behind some dreadfully fragile thing, that she knew, or at least suspected.

No, he was being a fool. He need only placate her, keep her enthralled enough to prevent her from even considering turning her back on him. Though he would guess now that he’d have some work cut out for him, to counteract this misstep.

He hadn’t thought she’d realize his games fast, or that she’d realize at all. He thought her the sort of person to view sex as a way to blow off steam, as a pleasant diversion—after all, she was one of the most emotionally detached people he’d ever met, to the point that for the first few days of their acquaintance he’d doubted she felt anything more than a beast might, perhaps even less.

And yet here she sat alone, shattering so profoundly he nearly had the urge to step out from the tree line and attempt something akin to comforting her. Instead he turned, silently padding back towards camp.

~~~

He couldn’t help but stare as she returned, hair wet and streaming down her back. She looked the same as she always did—perhaps her eyes were a bit red, but not enough to cause alarm. In fact, he doubted he’d have even noticed if he hadn’t caught her crying at the riverside. She caught him staring and offered the same smile she always did, though he saw it for what it was now—a ruse, a mask, and a good one at that. He watched her cross to the fire and take a bit of what was left over for breakfast before walking over and sitting at the far end of camp, away from everyone else. It wasn’t unusual—she was hardly what anyone would call social. Sure, she checked in with everyone in their motley band, ensured they all had what they needed, but given the opportunity outside of their quest to deal with the tadpoles she seemed to prefer solitude. He watched Scratch dart over and throw himself down at her side. She gave him a small smile, mouth full. There was a hint of that softness he’d seen last night in her eyes, even if they remained guarded.

He bristled slightly as Halsin stood and crossed to her, sitting crosslegged in front of her. She glanced at him, expression blank as she nodded, turning back to her food. He could see Halsin talking at her, though he was too far to hear anything. She hardly seemed to look up and seemed to answer even less, though it didn’t discourage the oaf.

That was all he needed—a genial, brick wall of an elf swooping in and stealing his insurance policy the moment he made a misstep. He stalked over, intent to put the man in his place.

“So there’s either the mountains or the Underdark to get to Moonrise?” She was asking, jaw tight as she stared at the dirt.

“That’s right. Though I wouldn’t recommend spending a second longer in the Shadow Curse than strictly necessary. It’s deadly.”

“More deadly than the Underdark?”

The druid’s face turned stony. “Much.”

Lythra swore. “I suppose that leaves us without much of a choice.”

“Darling, I would have thought you’d be pleased at the chance to return home for a brief respite,” he said, flouncing down and inserting himself into the conversation.

“Overjoyed,” she spat back, nose wrinkling in disgust as she rose sharply to her feet. “We still have to deal with the creche before we leave. Be ready to leave in an hour.”

#slow burn #astarion #bg3 #halsin #named tav #astarion x tav #drow tav #halsins family #smut #manipulation

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acourtofladydeath · 1 year ago

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TTBW Chapter 2

Cassian's healing journey beings, and Emerie tells her story.

New tags include discussions of cycle/period discrimination.

Start reading under the cut or on AO3!

Tensions were high outside Cassian and Nesta’s room at the House of Wind. Emerie, Azriel, and Rhysand had been sitting in the hall over a day as Madja and a team of her best healers worked on their friend’s mangled wings. Nesta refused to leave his side. Madja allowed her to stay in the room only as long as Nesta agreed to follow all instructions and stay out of the way, which she had. There was no time to fill anyone in on his status. While the camp lords had not intended to kill Cassian, the combination of the paralytic, faebane, and the shock to his system from trauma and blood loss had caused his body to shut down quickly.

Rhysand had never seen Madja call for so many extra healers. Typically she brought along an apprentice or two to train. On particularly bad occasions, like after the King of Hybern had shredded Cassian’s wings and Azriel had been stabbed by Jurian, he and Morrigan had lent a hand. Madja called for six additional highly trained hands, and specifically refused the help of any apprentices or the Inner Circle. Such a thing was unheard of.

As they waited, Emerie leaned against the wall, arms folded and one leg kicked back. Rhysand had slid down the wall several hours ago. Now his legs were bent up to his chest, elbows rested on his knees, and his head hung heavy in his hands. Azriel stood rigid by the window, unable to break his stare from Cassian’s door. Emerie watched him flex his hands and knew what ran through his mind. She knew what he must be reliving after what Cassian had endured because she was reliving it too. Their scars ran deep.

Loss, damage, physical, mental, and emotional pain that no amount of training could prepare anyone to live through. This was trauma in its purest form, and Cassian was not the only one injured. Emerie shut her eyes tight as she tried to push away the memories that had threatened to consume her from the moment Nesta had recognized the agony in Cassian’s wings through their bond the night before. The images and phantom pains that Emerie still fought back daily had only gotten stronger after what she’d witnessed in that tent.

Hours later the door to Cassian’s room opened and Madja, exhausted and flecked in more blood than anyone was comfortable acknowledging, entered the hallway. Rhysand was instantly on his feet. Azriel remained still, but Emerie took a step off the wall, arms still crossed and wings held in tightly to stave off the pains. Rhysand quickly approached the healer, expectation written across the wrought lines of his face.

Madja stared down at the floor. This healer, a female whose skills went beyond all others, one of the only people in all of Prythian who could order the High Lord around, could not meet his eyes. Rhysand’s eyes bore down on her. Emerie tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, tried to remember that he was in pain, but she did not like the way he looked upon his master healer.

With a deep breath, Madja raised her head and squared her shoulders to address Rhysand. Her face was schooled in a practiced calm as she began to speak with a steady voice. “We have stopped the blood loss, and managed to prevent amputation. His organs were shutting down and we almost lost him, but I am now sure that physically he will survive this.”

“His wings,” Rhysand cut in, voice hoarse from lack of use and water. As he continued to speak his tone was harsh as he asked the question Emerie already knew the answer to. “Will he fly again?”

“No,” Madja said, voice firm and sure though it sounded like she did not want to be. “His wings were too damaged and there was noth-”

“You have to do something. He can’t not fly,” Rhysand said, voice rushed and angry as he took one step toward the healer. “He has to fly, Madja. You have to do something. His wings have been bad before, and you’ve always fixed him.”

Emerie watched as some small part of the healer permanently broke, and she stepped forward to try and prevent the crack from growing further. “Thank you, Madja, for saving his life. We are so thankful. Is there anything that you need us to do?”

Madja looked gratefully at Emerie for a brief moment before she responded. “No, thank you dear. Nesta has all the instructions and we will visit again soon. He needs rest before we work again.”

Emerie smiled warmly at the female as she kindly nodded her response. Madja ushered the healers, all in various states of dishevelment, out of Nesta and Cassian’s room before they left the House of Wind together as one with Morrigan as their guide. Em watched them leave as she used her body to create a barrier between the healers and the High Lord. Azriel still had not moved from where he stood, eyes locked on the door that was once again shut. When they had gone and she was certain they were out of ear shot, Emerie turned angrily upon the males behind her.

“Are you proud of yourself,” Emerie spat at the High Lord, who was still fuming mad about the now undeniable fact that his friend would no longer be able to fly.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Rhysand retorted as anger rolled off of him in dark waves.

Emerie cocked an eyebrow at the High Lord, her hands on her hips. “Oh yeah? Nothing wrong? You do know that your words have an effect on people, correct? You had no right to guilt her like that.”

“I did no such thing. I simply asked-”

“No,” Emerie said back. She wanted to shout, but she knew that Cassian and Nesta did not need to hear this right now. To try and preserve their peace, Emerie worked to keep her voice low, yet strong. “By bringing up the past times she was successful, you just confirmed to Madja that you believe this was likely her biggest failure to date. And it’s not. There’s no way to recover from the wounds he received. He’s lucky to be alive right now.”

Continue reading on AO3.

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bcbdrums · 1 year ago

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Remember Me

AO3 | FFn

A Soul Eater story. Short missing scene from episode 40.

Inspired by this amazing fanart.

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

Remember Me

"Will you remember me, after I'm gone?"

"What?"

Stein listens to the familiar way the response is voiced. Timbre high, breathy, with the final consonant punctuated just enough to add weight to the question. He can read the weapon's thoughts in that single word.

What does he mean by 'gone'? Why will he be gone? What will be the cause? And the meaning that grounds Stein to the moment the most—don't go.

"I think..." Stein continues, not answering the spoken nor the implied questions, "I would like to be remembered."

"Stein you're... It's... You're stronger than this. I know you are."

"Hmm," is the slightly sighing, slightly scoffing response Stein gives.

He begins to turn his head up from where it's set back against the wall, and the pain the movement causes brings him a greater awareness of the environment.

He is in the very back of his lab-home, in a small room little used except recently by Marie. Someone has drawn back the curtains that keep the world from getting inside, allowing sunlight to break through and illuminate the destruction his madness has wrought. Furniture overturned, objects torn apart, everything scattered across the floor as if a robber had broken in and a fight had ensued. And there is blood staining everything, because there is always blood.

Stein wonders what injuries will be revealed when he finally does try to move.

The skittering creatures and dark hands that threaten to squeeze the life from his throat have gone. So has the rain of blood that was nothing like the real thing now that he can see it before him. He's aware of a slight chill and realizes one shoulder of his coat has fallen down his arm, but he makes no motion to correct it. His glasses are gone too.

He wonders what brought him back this time, can't remember any specific word or action that did it. Only that the pressure, the madness, retreated suddenly. And then he became aware of a familiar, welcome soul at his side.

In his periphery, less than two feet distant on his right, he can see the dark trouser leg of the weapon standing next to him. He's not leaning against the wall but facing it instead, and Stein painfully tilts his head up just enough to see that Spirit has his left arm folded high on said wall and his forehead is rested against it. His eyes are closed and his face is twisted in anxiety.

Stein licks his lips, tastes drying blood. He stares.

If this is to be his last true moment of sanity, he wants to memorize every detail. He wants to recall the way Spirit's brows pinch together as they always do when he's stressed. The way the skin of his cheeks have paled indicating it's not anger that has his mouth twisted into a snarl. The way his hair just brushes his shoulders, and how that one longer strand falls across his face and yet never seems to bother him.

That hair. It's always been better, somehow, than the blood that Stein can feel seeping out of him in undiscovered wounds. Better than the trails of it he can see on the floor, than the dark stains of it on Spirit's cuff. Somehow Spirit's hair has had more life to it than blood ever can. Perhaps because it doesn't control life, the way blood does, so can never herald death. Or perhaps simply because it's so near his expressive eyes.

Stein suddenly blinks out of his study. Blood. On Spirit's cuff. He reaches out unthinkingly and touches it, so lightly that the weapon doesn't notice.

"Did I hurt you?"

Spirit opens his eyes, and Stein forgets where he is as clear teal eyes fix upon his face.

"No," Spirit replies with a slight shake of his head, and Stein believes him.

Spirit is staring down at him. Despite how expressive his eyes are, and despite how Stein spent the better part of five years simply staring at them, learning to the read them and know his weapon's thoughts... He doesn't know what Spirit is thinking.

"Will you...remember? Me?" Stein voices again, the words heavy with their years of memories, and he knows the look that enters the older man's eyes then.

Pain. Fear. Words he wants to say but holds back with his breath.

Spirit's lips part in silence, and when he does glance away he bites his lower lip and gives an uneasy sigh. Stein slowly sets his head back against the wall and lets his gaze drift over the room, to a panel of sunlight on the bloodstained floor.

It occurs to him then... This is the only time since Lord Death brought them back together that they've really been able to be alone, to talk as just themselves. Not as duty-bound meister and weapon, not as teachers at the academy, not as doctor and death scythe... But just them. He wonders if Spirit knows it too.

Of course, he thinks ironically, he has to barely have a hold on sanity for the conversation.

"If...if I say yes..." Spirit begins hesitantly, and Stein can't help the slight warmth that curls through him. Spirit could never deny him anything. "Will you promise me, Stein..."

Stein shifts slightly, focuses his gaze on Spirit's bright, unblinking eyes.

"Will you promise me you won't give up?"

For a moment all is still. And then the corners of Stein's mouth make an almost imperceptible turn upward.

As much as he has learned to read the weapon, likewise the older man knows exactly how to read him and follow the trail of his thoughts to every possible conclusion. And Spirit isn't wrong in what he is thinking.

A bitter ache settles over Stein's chest, because he knows now that that path is closed to him.

"I promise."

The choking darkness begins to lift, and the resolve in his own voice surprises him. But it shouldn't, really. After all, Stein could never deny Spirit anything.

Spirit doesn't turn, but he does reach down to where Stein is seated, his fingers lightly curled and hovering near the meister's shoulder. When Stein reaches up he's surprised to see blood on his knuckles, but then a vague memory of striking out at the creatures and the groping hands reminds him of the source of the small wounds. He wonders how the other more serious ones he can feel occurred while he was lost to the madness.

The touch, slight though it is, is like electricity. Warm and life-giving and making him believe he can at least try to follow through on the promise. He allows Spirit to help him to his feet, takes a moment to let the dizziness pass as he presses his hand to a wound at his hip, the act of standing causing it to re-open. He takes a slow breath through his nostrils and doesn't say anything.

"Let's ah...let's go back to the lab," Spirit says a little uncertainly, starting slowly for the corridor. He makes no move to release Stein's fingers, and the meister follows obediently. "Where's Marie?"

"She's..." Stein trails off as his brow furrows. Where is his other weapon?

In the doorway Spirit pauses, turns to look at him as he puzzles over the question. Stein listens to his sigh and doesn't need to look up to know disappointment will have joined the other emotions in the teal eyes.

"Have a seat," Spirit says, finally releasing the slight hold on Stein's fingers to gesture to the eyesore of a couch that Marie had placed in the great room of his office.

Stein swallows and slowly steps past Spirit, releasing the pressure on the wound in his side. He straightens his coat before sitting, hoping the weapon won't notice the more serious wound, and then tips his head to rest on the back of the couch and closes his eyes against the spinning of the room.

A multi-colored, multi-legged creature flickers through the blackness in his vision, and Stein opens his eyes again.

"I'm supposed to be reporting to Lord Death. I'll...see if I can find someone to clean up that room for you. All right?" Spirit says and starts to turn for the door.

"Spirit."

The meister is relieved to see his weapon stop immediately, turn on his heel and the muddle of emotions in his eyes melt away into nothing but concern. But the words Stein had been about to say have left him, his mind falling blank under the kind gaze from clear, teal eyes.

Apparently words aren't necessary as Spirit approaches the couch and kneels in front of him. A hand settles on his shoulder and Stein again feels the electricity, the warmth. Not a true resonance, because he doesn't dare expose Spirit to his mind the way it is, but just enough of a connection that he feels he can actually make good on his promise.

"Please." Again, the timbre of the weapon's voice rises. The word comes out on an exhale, and the end of the word is precise.

Stein simply stares, again memorizing as much as he can while his mind is his own. The crystalline intensity of teal that seems to stare straight into his soul. The feathery halo of red that perfectly frames gentle cheekbones and a strong jaw.

It's almost enough to banish the dancing of technicolor creatures that are beginning to swarm the edges of his vision again. Almost. But he ignores them if only for one last moment of clarity. One last look at his weapon.

"I..."

"Please, Stein. Don't give up! Try to fight it!"

Stein's voice is lost again, lost somewhere between the dark forest of hands that waver behind the protective shield that surrounds him with his weapon's presence, and behind the sincere care of a friend.

"I have to go... Just try. I'll come back."

Spirit's hand leaves his shoulder, taking the warmth with it. The creatures skitter closer and the dark hands eagerly surround the weapon as he retreats, moving past him and snaking slowly toward Stein. He draws his elbows up to the back of the couch as if readying to flee, but the rest of his body is as lead. Too weak to fight anymore. Except...

"I'll try," he echoes, and Spirit stops at the door and looks back at him one last time. Stein's gaze pierces beyond the eel-like arms coming closer and the bright things hovering near his feet to look at the grim set of the weapon's jaw. But his eyes rise higher, to a pair of narrowed, giant yellow eyes above the door and a forked tongue that flicks toward him suddenly.

His throat tightens, and he lowers his eyes anxiously to the weapon.

"I'll come back."

It's on that promise that Stein sets his hope as everything closes in. Spirit vanishes through the door, taking his radiance and sound mind with him, and then the whole of the lab wall seems to disappear to be replaced by three massive, ominous eyes arranged like rosebuds, red and twitching and bleeding evil that sings toward Stein with dark purpose.

The strange, dazzling creatures skitter upon the sofa toward his knees. The eyes blink and a static begins filling his ears, getting louder and louder until he can hear nothing but noise and the fearful hammering of blood in his ears. The forked tongue darts out of the swarm of arms to lick his face as the black hands get closer, only inches away now.

Stein closes his eyes to all of it. Pictures teal eyes and red hair, clings to the image. And as he feels the creatures attack and the hands close around his throat, before the madness can steal his breath fully, he parts his lips one last time.

"Remember me."

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fatgumsurpremacy-remastered · 2 years ago

Note

It's been a really long day for me. Whenever you get the time can I request Soldier hugging reader to help them because they are tired and overstimulated from every little thing? Sounds are too loud and people talking is painful to listen to. Sometimes hugs just work.

Of course my friend, today was that day for me too

Tw: descriptions of overstimulation

The world was a hum buzz, men’s voices burned into your ears. The vibrations taking to long to leave before coming back with a vengeance. Your body shook in frustration, and you could feel your palms sweating as you inched your way out of the door and into the hall.

Your head felt like someone had replaced it with a plushies, but even the feeling of your head felt like too much to carry. Each sway of your body wrought itself with discomfort, you swore you could hear your tendons groan under the weight of yourself. Your muscles twitching irked you to no end.

You were an open nerve and everything was grappling at the chance to yank on you.

The fluorescents in the hall nearly drove you to your wits end. Everything sounded like a swarm of flies. Touches, even that of the socks in your shoes had you cringing at the feel.

You tried to breathe but the feeling of air entering your lungs put pressure on your mind that you could use for something else.

You chose to slump against a cool concrete wall at the dead end of the living quarters. Face in your palms you stared through the crack between them, hoping your brain would allow you to space out.

The day has fizzled by and left you with oodles of work expected to be finished. On top of that the rowdy men you worked with were having their bi weekly poker match. A game you’d obligated yourself to the day before, without thinking of the repercussions.

You’d left without saying excuse me, blanched and exhausted from the day.

You felt greasy, and in need of sleep. Every gust of air brought attention tot he discomfort you felt being inside you. You wanted to curl up in a ball and relieve some pressure, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move.

You spaced out completely, not making any move to get up.

You weren’t sure how long you had stayed like that. Enough that now, your initial frustration turned to melancholy, and all you needed was a gentle hand.

You were left with your thoughts.

Hours went by, and eventually something warm came by.

Then another,

Some would stop, then keep going. You wondered if you looked like you were asleep, you wondered what was going by.

It wasn’t until it stayed that you broke your thoughts. You turned bleary eyed towards soldier. He’d sat down, and stared the same as you.

And you weren’t sure how long or why he did.

His hand was closer to yours, and you slid yours under him, taking in the feeling of warmth.

He looked at you with concern, as if attempting to ask you a question indirectly.

“You’re warm.” He nodded, grunting in response.

Solly understood when to be quiet, even when he wasn’t usually so.

“It’s hard seeing a teammate like this.” He noted, running his thumb over your knuckle. “Cant have you running scared on me private.” He set his helmet down to get a better look at your face.

You looked away, and he did the same, looking in the same direction instead. His goofy face held a somber expression.

“You seem a bit shell shocked son- what’s wrong?”

“Everything soldier.” You stated frankly, pulling yourself back to him. He sat cross legged to keep focused on you.

“Everything was busy today, and I couldn’t keep up. I had no time to decompress before I was thrust back into interacting. Then I left without saying goodbye.”

“That was rude.” He said bluntly, but without a trace of malice. You sent him a confused look before continuing.

“I’m sorry,” you said sincerely, “it’s just- when things get too loud I have to take some time away from the situation. It’s hard to stay put and deal.”

Soldier only nodded, not fully understanding what you meant by what you said.

“Is there anything that might help this issue of yours?” He asked genuinely, urging you to tell him.

You opened your arms after a minute of thinking. He wasted little time taking you into his arms and dragging you to him.

Your head lay comfortably on his shoulder, and you hummed softly to him as he rocked side to side. The warmth from his chest eased the tension inside you. And you appreciated the time he took out to sit with you.

You swore you felt like crying. His hand rubbed small circles at the top of your back, over your uniform.

He pulled back after a long time spent like that and stood up. He picked his hat up off the ground and extended you his hand.

“I’ll match you to your quarters private.”

“Thank you solly, it helped a million.”

“Proud to be of service!”

#soldier + reade #soldier and reader #platonic soldier

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lady-grace-pens · 1 year ago

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FOAD Excerpt [10]

In honor of hitting 90k recently, here’s the first half of the scene I’m on! Might not be a lot, but these last few scenes have been climactic. I believe this much is okay! Though I might catch up on some tag games to make up for it.

Taglist: @wordwizards @flowerprose @serafyyn @isabellebissonrouthier

•••

Notes of lavender and eucalyptus tingle my nose long before my eyes flutter open. Once I do, I’m greeted by the matching candles burning atop a coffee table.

Apollo cups my cheeks through a window across the room. I make attempts to sit up, but, seeing how my body grieves its very existence, I lay back on the couch, splaying my curls over a pillow cushioning my head.

The blanket on my lap is a shaggy red carpet more than anything else. Upon closer inspection, I can’t say I recognize it. Then, I suppose that isn’t saying much; I’m not typically one for decoration and Cal has her own tastes. I snuggle into it and make myself as comfortable as I can with a raging migraine and cramps galore.

A black and white movie, Circe ‘39, plays on the television across from me. I’ve seen it before. At least a dozen in the past year alone. Pierre is quite fond of it. One of those romantic dramedies they were insane about back then. Charming for its age.

A smile crosses my lips. Though the volume is muted, I can recite it by heart. All the jokes Pierre would laugh at, the overzealous acting, the wondrous costumes.

The only sound comes from a kettle hissing in the other room. Straining my ears against it reveals soft humming, though I can’t distinguish the voice.

“Cal? Pierre, is that you?” I call. “Bring me the painkillers, won’t you?”

Arthur responds, prompting me to sit up.

“They’re on the table next to you. But wait wait before you take any!”

I find the bottle of medicine on the coffee table next to the candles. Beside each lies an olive wreath crown. I take it into my hands, running my fingers over its cheap golden leaves. Glitter clings to my fingertips.

Footsteps trail the clinking of silverware and china. I return the crown to its rightful place. Arthur enters the room carrying an antique serving tray. He transports each of the items onto the coffee table. Teacups, each with a stick of vanilla, croissants, and a bowl of mixed berries.

“Long before you woke up, I went and did some shopping. Everything should be fresh from the baker’s and the supermarket just outside of town. Had to get a bloke to drive me there, because… well.” He shrugs in his total lack of driving experience. “Anyway, I know it’s not much of a feast or anything like you deserve, but… I didn’t want to leave you alone here and… Have I told you about the man that drove me? You’ll likely know him, but he’s quite the interesting fellow. Older gent by the name of—”

He chirps on about old man Longhorn, a local vet of the Second World War turned cattle rancher. Excellent at storytelling and terrifying children into behaving without lifting a finger. I’ve no doubt the car ride between them would’ve been lively.

As I reach for the pain killers, I’m caught by the interesting choice of fashion I’m in. A white rib-knit varsity sweater, complete with low v-neck and stripes. While I do own items similar to this, it’s not mine. The sleeves swallow my wrist. It must’ve been rolled up often. Something I rarely do.

I shovel an indiscernible amount of pills in my mouth and wash them down with some tea. Chamomile, my favorite, yet it sits oddly upon my tongue. It’s wrought with copper.

Spiders tap at the back of my neck. My teacup clatters on the tray. I fold into myself, mind flicking between the blanket, the crown, the sweater, and the candles. New details of my surroundings seep through the cracks that have become of me. The wallpaper isn’t familiar. The couch is all too wrong. The wood is far too dark. Trinkets smirk at me from their thrones, shoved in every corner available.

This isn’t my home like I assumed it was. I’m at Arthur’s. Alone. Wearing his sweater and nothing more.

This realization drags along my guts. I draw into myself, teetering off the edge of the couch. His babbling vanishes in the tides of my shallow breath.

There’s something wrong. There’s something severely wrong and I can’t… What happened? How did I get here? Oh God, what did I do?

The copper in my mouth revolts. It leaks through the slits of my teeth and I do little to stop it. It douses the sweater and the blanket and pools on the floor, all while I sit there with a cracked jaw and glassy eyes. More blood than human. Least that’s the ideal.

Perhaps I don’t need to mangle my organs or cheat with theories of the fatal flaw within me. What led to the fingerprint bruises and scratches tracing Arthur’s neck. God only knows the mess hiding beneath his shirt.

Perhaps Matthieu was right.

“Emily.”

My name is a weight upon his lips. China shrieks, luring me to the impression of his feet vanishing from the chair opposite. My blood turns to ice. I skitter to the farthest end of the couch. The wooden arm juts in my pits. It’s not enough to escape him. The only thing I’ve accomplished is ensnaring myself further.

“Can we talk about last night?”

#wip: foad #my writing #writing excerpt #creative writing #wip snippet #writeblr #writing #my wip

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toomanytookas · 11 days ago

Text

Moth, the way you write yearning and feelings of abandonment and loss and forgiveness here has me crying in the streets.

Literally. 😂 I already told you that this snuck up on me on my walk, but I'm not sure I can convey how deeply it's sat on my chest since I read it? Something about the tenderness of the reader's crush and the harsh feeling of not just being left behind but for that to be a very acute form of rejection is just so ugly and real in the most gorgeous way and it pairs so well with the horror and anguish and grief that the outbreak wrought... not to mention the healing that these two end up finding in each other.

I loved how you captured the pain of her yearning, these two lines in particular stole my breath:

✨You pine for Mr. Miller the way only a fourteen year old can. It’s the kind of infatuation that makes you understand how Romeo and Juliet ended in tragedy. All-consuming, unrequited, so in love it hurts. ✨ It’s exhausting to feel such a powerful longing, to want something you know you’ll never have. It’s torture.

And the fact that this is such a fascinating examination of Joel's relationship with Sarah, too, really hit deep. This was... devastating:

You want to tell Sarah that one of the reasons you love her father so much is because of her. Because he’s such a good dad, because he raised such a cool, funny, smart daughter. That Sarah makes him better.

Particularly in the context of thinking about what Joel becomes after he loses her, and what it means for him to see what could have been in the reader when they reunite. This was torture of the highest order: You’re the same age Sarah would have been today. The same age he was when he lost everything.

You have captured his guilt and self-flagellation so well, and it really makes for such a compelling portrait of him and what his relationship with the reader signals in terms of him being able to forgive a part of himself and find new drive/purpose/meaning for his life in the shape of the reader as he continues to not quite be able to find that within himself, for himself.

I do love the moments of reprieve that we see, these in particular:

✨ He’s never expected to be absolved of any of his sins, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven. But those three words make him feel lighter, like he can stop beating himself up. At least for a moment. ✨ He’s taken back to his favorite nights when he’d watch a movie with Sarah and she’d cuddle against him. Somehow the memory doesn’t hurt as much as he anticipates.

I really enjoyed the mix of resolution and unresolution that we get at the end. On the one hand, there is a completeness, a feeling that we are seeing them in their final form together, finding comfort and understanding, and yet on the other, there is this: Whatever this is, you don’t speak its name. There are too many questions and conflicts that it might not withstand. It exists only for you and him. A safe haven in the chaos, a bit of respite at the end of long years.

The way you've navigated that trickiness and leave us feeling satisfied with everything that it is and isn't is really excellent. I think it matches really well with the difficult nature of their relationship's beginnings as well as the hurt that, though lessened, still has left its mark (that "he's finally come back for you" is something else). That they are able to find that space that's just for the two of them outside of everything is perhaps the best ending we could ask for. Thank you! <3

HAHHAHA I LITERALLY ALMOST JUST SIGNED THIS LIKE AN EMAIL AND WROTE 'BEST WISHES, M' I've really been writing too many apartment inquiries. 😂

Unrequited (bfd! pre-outbreak!/Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader)

Moth's Masterlist // follow @mothandpidgeon-updates and turn on notifications to stay updated with my fics!

pairing: bfd! pre-outbreak!/Jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

rating: E 18+MDNI

summary: You arrive in Jackson 22 years after the outbreak only to be reunited with your best friend’s dad, the man that stole your heart and broke it when you were fourteen– Joel Miller.

contents: best friend's dad, age gap, outbreak night (nothing that isnt in ep 1), big angst, abandonment issues, brief suicidal ideation, daddy issues, grief, Joel guilt, unprotected p in v sex, reader doesn't know where Jakarta is, reader is not described physically but Joel picks (adult) reader up, moth never uses y/n.

wc: 9k

a/n: This has been a bitch to finish but I'm quite proud of where it ended up. It's the longest os I've written which makes me nervous nobody will want to read it but I hope you do.

Thank you a million times to @ezrasbirdie for making me finish this and betaing. Also thank you @lowlights for listening to me ramble on this! Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Old man, take a look at your life. I’m a lot like you. Neil Young

You’re waiting for Sarah on the front steps when she gets home. School ended nearly two hours ago and you’ve been sitting here a ball of nerves. The whole world seems to be uneasy this afternoon. You notice sirens, a team of fighter jets scrambling above. It's like your anxiety has spilled out of your chest and it’s taken life all around you.

You finger the corner of your notebook. On the inside are doodles— hearts and bubble letters. Juvenile daydreams put to paper. Your first name and after it his last, testing out the sound of who you would be if only you’d been born in a different decade. Mrs. Miller.

Sarah doesn’t look very happy to see you. It’s been two weeks since you’ve talked to her and you’ve never felt more lonely.

Her words still ring in your ears.

“It’s like you’re in love with my dad.”

“No I'm not!” you said, your whole body tingling with the heat of embarrassment. You’d never felt so exposed in your life.

“Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you’re even friends with me,” she said.

You've been ruminating on that accusation ever since. You pine for Mr. Miller the way only a fourteen year old can. It’s the kind of infatuation that makes you understand how Romeo and Juliet ended in tragedy. All-consuming, unrequited, so in love it hurts.

So maybe Sarah’s right. Your heart flutters every time Mr Miller appears in the kitchen, wearing a dark t-shirt that hugs his biceps. You try not to stare at his aquiline nose when he drives you home from Sarah’s soccer games. Sleep overs at the Miller’s house mean more opportunities to be around him, learn the little details that make him him. And there were plenty of sleep overs because your parents are always so busy fighting, they never bother to keep track of you.

But you’ve been in agony without your friend. It’s a pain sharper and more present than the yearning you’ve felt for Mr. Miller. You’ve talked to her every day since you moved to Austin in fourth grade and since this fight, there’s been an empty space in your heart.

“Hi.” You stand up, hoisting your backpack awkwardly over your shoulder.

“I’m supposed to go next door,” Sarah says.

“Can I just talk to you for a minute?” you ask.

She sighs but opens the front door with her key and lets you follow her into the living room.

“I’m sorry,” you say before you lose your nerve. “You’re right. I like your dad.”

It’s probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever owned up to. You wish you could explain to her that you know how silly it is to be in love with a full grown man, your best friend’s dad. It’s not like he’ll ever see you as anything other than a kid.

You can’t put into words how he makes you feel. It’s not just his broad shoulders or chocolate eyes, though it’s undeniable that he’s gorgeous. He asks about school and comes to see you in the musical. Joel is an adult that actually gives a crap about you.

It’ll take years for you to find words for all of that. So you just do your best right now.

“I can’t help it. I wish I could,” you say.

That’s true. And not just because your crush has made you lose your only friend. It’s exhausting to feel such a powerful longing, to want something you know you’ll never have. It’s torture.

“But you’re my best friend. And that’s not why. I promise,” you say.

Sarah sighs heavily, her pretty hazel eyes full of remorse.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I just get jealous sometimes.”

“I promise I won’t make you feel that way ever again. I could never like him more than you,” you tell her, sitting beside her on the couch and looking her in the eye so she knows you mean it. “He’s…old.”

You both laugh.

“He’s so lame. This morning he said that Jakarta is in the Middle East,” she giggles.

You don’t know where the hell Jakarta is but of course Sarah does. You throw your arms around her. You’ve missed her so damn much. The past two weeks have felt like two decades.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her.

“Me too.” She returns your embrace. “Do you have to go home? You can sleep over if you want. It’s my dad’s birthday but I don’t think he’s going to be home until late.”

Your heart twinges at the offer and not because it means you might see Mr. Miller at breakfast. You won’t even look at him again. Tonight is about your friend.

You end up watching some corny action movies and gorging yourselves on microwave popcorn. Everything feels right again. You don’t think about Mr. Miller. In fact, you’re grateful that his double has gone over into a late night so you don’t have to be in the same room. You’ve sworn to yourself that you’ll act normal around him but you’re not sure that sheer willpower can stop you from getting butterflies when he’s right there.

At some point, you pass out in front of the tv, happier than you’ve been in a long time.

Sarah nudges you awake sometime after midnight, concern all over her face.

“Was I snoring?” you ask, groggy.

She’s looking out the window. Helicopters fly so low overhead, the whole house rattles. It’s a wonder you slept through all of this noise— the choppers are joined by the wail of a car alarm, pops like fireworks. The TV is playing a high-pitched tone and when you peer at it, you see a test pattern on the screen.

Dread settles in the pit of your stomach.

“Something’s going on,” Sarah says almost to herself.

A sudden thud against the back door makes you both jump. You swear, shaken out of your sleepy haze.

“Mercy?” Sarah asks.

You’ve spent enough time with Sarah to become acquainted with their neighbors The Adlers and their border collie Mercy. Mr Adler used to pay you each a dollar to walk him. Mercy’s frantically pawing at the glass.

Sarah goes to the door and steps into the yard. You follow, unsure you want to leave the familiar safety of the house but unwilling to be alone with such an eerie feeling in the air.

“What’re you doing out here, boy?” Sarah says, crouching down to pet the whimpering animal.

“Where’s your dad?” you ask her.

You hope the question doesn’t make Sarah think you’ve already forgotten your promise. Everything’s just so wrong. You’d feel a lot better with an adult around.

“Don’t think he came home yet,” she says. You can hear the concern in her voice. “Let’s take Mercy back. The Alder’s will be home.”

Mercy puts up a fight as Sarah pulls him across the lawn. It’s late and dark save the street lamp and a few porch lights that have been left on. You shiver despite the fact that it’s a warm southern night.

The front door to the Adler’s house stands open and inside is black. No. Bad. You want to run back to the Miller’s house and lock the door behind you but the promise of Mr. And Mrs. Adler inside keeps you moving towards the darkened entrance. Maybe Mrs. Adler will give you some cookies while you wait for Mr. Miller.

Sarah steps in first. The dog bucks and strains against her grip on his collar. Sarah fights to keep hold of him but Mercy’s thrashing makes him hard to pin down. He pulls free from Sarah’s grasp and darts away.

You have half a mind to do the same but Sarah keeps going forward. She’s scared, too, her breaths shallow as she tip toes down the hall.

“Mrs. Adler?” Sarah asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You reach for each other without even realizing it and you enter the kitchen holding hands.

What you see there is beyond your wildest imaginings. There’s blood, a lot of it. Sarah’s shoe slides in the stuff and you grab her before she loses her balance. The room is cast in shadows but a street light streams through the window in the side door. Its beam falls over the form of Mr. Adler, limp on the floor. His back is against the door and a gush of dark blood sparkles in the sodium vapor.

You’ve never seen so much blood, never seen anyone injured so brutally. It looks like he’s been attacked by some wild animal. Mercy was acting strange but the dog couldn’t do that.

“Help me,” he rasps.

He’s speaking to you. You’re actually here. This is happening and you need to do something.

But before you can form a coherent thought, your eyes travel deeper into the kitchen. Beside the island is more blood…and more bodies.

As if seeing Sarah’s neighbor with his neck ripped open wasn’t enough of a horror, you’re now watching Nana hunched over Mrs. Adler’s corpse, her face buried in the younger woman’s neck. The scene before you makes no sense. Most of the time the old woman is barely conscious, hasn’t left her wheelchair in years and yet she’s on all fours before you looking feral.

Sarah squeezes your hand so tight you’re afraid your knuckles will break.

Nana slowly raises her face to you. Her eyes are pitch black and her mouth teems with twitching tendrils. You are staring at a living, breathing monster.

When she leaps at you, you and Sarah bolt for the door. Your heart hammers against your ribs. Sarah makes it out first and races towards the sidewalk.

Once you’ve gotten onto the front step, you slam the storm door shut behind you to trap whatever that thing is inside. SLAM. Nana collides with the door and it rattles violently. You hold it closed with every ounce of strength in you, listening to the creature behind it scratch and wail and willing yourself not to look through the glass to see its horrible face. Terror holds your muscles taught. You’re not sure how long you can stay like this, your sneakers skidding across the ground.

With a roar, Uncle Tommy’s truck pulls up at that very moment and Mr. Miller hops out of the passenger seat before its even come to a full stop. He’s a fearsome sight, broad and rippling with untamed energy, his muscular arms outlined by the headlights of the car. You’ve never been more grateful for his presence.

This nightmare is almost over. Joel’s come to save you.

“Girls get in the car!” he bellows. His voice is raw and ragged.

Just as you’re ready to make a run for it, The door flings out towards you, and you’re thrown aside as if you weigh nothing. You hit the driveway hard, your head connecting with concrete.

For a moment, you can’t hear anything but the gush of blood pumping in your ears. You’re dizzy. Suffocating. There’s a warm trickle at your temple. Sarah calls your name. Your vision is blurred but you can make out the ghoulish form of the creature barreling towards her.

“What’re we doing, Joel?” you hear Tommy ask.

There’s a thud and then quiet.

You gasp again and again but your lungs won’t fill.

Are you dying? Help. You need help. The monster lays lifeless at Joel’s feet and you pray that he’ll scoop you up and take you away from this. Your eyes finally come into focus to see Mr. Miller comforting Sarah, holding her face in his big palms, so fixated on her that he doesn’t notice that Mr. Adler has appeared in the doorway.

Mr. Adler is still covered in so much blood and his gait has become twitchy as if his legs are on backwards. He moves towards them and you want to call out a warning but you’re still choking for air. Luckily he hasn’t noticed you but he soon stands between you and the Millers.

“We’ve got to move,” Tommy says.

“Get in the car,” Mr. Miller says to Sarah, throwing a protective arm in front of her.

“But she’s hurt!”

She steps towards you. You’d cry her name but you’ve still got the wind knocked out of you and you’re too terrified to make a noise. Mr. Adler makes an inhuman sound as he advances, a croaking, growling gurgle.

Mr. Miller pushes Sarah towards the truck.

“Leave her!” he barks. “Get in the car!”

You sputter and choke as you watch Sarah, Joel, and Tommy drive away.

You wait for a long time.

As the truck pulls off of the curb, Mr. Adler is joined by his wife in the street, making chase. You’re finally able to draw breath and rouse your body off of the ground. You scramble back across the lawn to the Miller’s house and lock yourself inside. There’s enough adrenaline coursing through you that you’re able to push the sofa to barricade the front door. You draw all of the curtains and grab the biggest knife you can find in the kitchen. It’s ridiculous, something you’ve seen in scary movies, but you’re living in one right now.

You hide yourself away. Sarah’s bedroom seems like the obvious place to do it. Familiar and safe. You curl yourself into a ball in the corner, clutching your knife and staring at the closed door with wild eyes.

Sirens go through the night. Gunshots. At one point even the roar of a jet engine.

For hours your body quivers as you try to make sense of what you’ve just witnessed. Flesh-eating mutants. Gore. Death. You keep waiting to wake up from a bad dream but you don’t. They left you. They abandoned you in a nightmare.

No. That’s impossible. You can accept that a comatose elderly woman made supper out of her son in law but you refuse to believe that Joel would desert you.

He’ll come back for you. Sarah will convince him. There’s always been room for you in their family.

But as the sun begins to peek through the blinds and the noises outside fade away, you begin to lose hope.

The muscles in your body go slack, exhausted from hours of uncontrollable shaking. Your instinct for survival and your need for sleep war with each other. Exhaustion is winning.

You cautiously open the door to Sarah’s room. The house is still, more quiet than you’ve ever experienced. You creep into the room at the end of the hall. The olive green sheets on Joel’s bed are still messy from when he woke up here the day before. A normal morning. His birthday.

You rest the knife on the night stand amongst the things he emptied from his pockets— coins, receipts, a stray nail. You slip into the bed and wrap yourself up. It smells like him— spicy deodorant and sweat, fresh cut lumber like the hardware store. The scent reminds you of all those times he was close, when your heart leapt.

They’ll come back. Mr. Miller wouldn’t leave you.

He left you to die but you just go on living.

It takes some time before you’re brave enough to leave the Miller’s house and see what’s left of the world. Your parents are nowhere to be found. It’s safe to assume they were infected that first night.

You’re on your own.

A QZ is set up outside of San Antonio. They assign you to housing for separated minors. An orphanage. You never make friends, not really. Trust is too fickle.

At night you lay in your bunk and wonder what life would be like if anybody gave a shit about you. Maybe you would have been with your parents when it all went down. You’d be a snarling monster but at least you wouldn’t be alone.

On the worst nights, when you like yourself the least, Mr. Miller’s words echo around your skull. “Leave her.” She's not worth it. Forget her.

You don’t imagine yourself in his arms anymore. Instead you picture him and Sarah and Uncle Tommy, all happy and safe hiding out somewhere idyllic. A sweet little cabin with a stream nearby, surrounded by peaceful woods. You’ve heard some people live like that.

Some days you wish you were with them. Others you wish they were all dead.

When you turn 18, you age out of your living situation. It couldn’t come soon enough. Things are changing and it seems like all the kids that stay in FEDRA school are being groomed to go straight into uniform. You dodged that bullet but life��s not easy. Now you’re well and truly alone, scraping by to keep food in your mouth and a roof over your head.

It only lasts a few years, though. By the time you’re 21, there’s an emergency evacuation. Outbreaks are happening within the walls and with so many people living on top of each other, it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan. They send swaths of people to Dallas but word is, there’s no room for such numbers and they consider everyone from San Antonio an infection risk.

You’ve heard enough stories to know what that means. There won’t be a warm welcome when you reach the next QZ. So you ditch the convoy and head north.

You bounce around for years, sometimes with others, a lot of time solo. Doing what you have to. It’s not a life, just survival.

By the time you reach the wilds of Wyoming, you’ve had enough. You break off from the group you’re traveling with. You leave them this time, just decide to walk into the forest and let the earth swallow you up. You’re exhausted, sick of hanging on by a thread. Too much of a coward to kill yourself, you wander around waiting for the cold or your hunger or a bear to do it for you.

They find you. Some scouts that look mean and tough take pity on you and offer you a place with them in a commune where things are half normal.

It’s the first time being alone has worked to your advantage.

Jackson is a strange place. It has walls like the QZ but it’s quaint. There’s laughter and evergreen wreaths, happy children that build snowmen in the center of town. Some of these kids have no idea how fucked up the world has become. All they know is this charming little haven.

You spend the first few days in the infirmary, getting patched up, regaining your strength. You feel like an animal compared to the people in your new community. It’s hard to accept that they’re willing to help you, no strings attached.

Eventually you’re well enough to have your own place. They set you up with a little apartment over one of the stores in town. You’re invited to take your meals in the dining hall.

It takes you back to those first days at your new middle school after you came to Austin. Unfortunately, this time Sarah’s not there to offer you a seat at her lunch table.

You keep to yourself, overwhelmed by all of the strange new faces. Head down, you eat your breakfast. It’s the best food you’ve had in years. As your belly fills, you start to relax and try to get used to the idea of this being home.

Then you hear a familiar voice say your name. You wonder if you’re hallucinating when you see him standing in front of you.

He’s gained a few decades but he looks good. His hair is nearly shoulder length and there’s a mustache on his upper lip but that’s him alright.

“Uncle Tommy?” you manage.

“That really you?” he asks.

Tommy puts a gentle hand on your shoulder. His smile wrinkles the corners of his eyes. You nod and you’re smiling too.

You expect to be upset. Tommy was there when you were abandoned after all. But you’re flooded with relief and a small flame of hope.

“Shit. What’re the chances?” he asks, studying your face. “C’mere.”

He pulls you through the lines of tables. Your head spins with questions. How did he end up in Wyoming of all places? How long has he been here? Did you actually die out there only to be sent to this strange afterlife?

“You remember this old son of a bitch?” Tommy asks with a chuckle when he stops at the table in a far corner.

And suddenly you’re face to face with Mr. Miller.

He’s old. Grey hairs run through his stubble and curl from his temple. There are deep lines in his face. He’s still good looking despite how weathered his features have become, still broad, still with that wonderful silhouette.

It’s funny. In your mind’s eye, you’ve never imagined Joel aging. He stayed the same while you grew up.

He looks at you for a long moment and then his thick bottom lip falls agape. His eyes glitter and his dimple appears as he recognizes the woman that you’ve become.

“Kiddo,” he whispers as he stands up.

He pulls you into a hug and his wide palm smooths down your back. He still smells just how you remember and without warning you’re sobbing into the front of his flannel.

You spent hours upon hours imagining what you might say if you ever saw him again. Sometimes it was a speech biting with venom, others a confession, a question. Now, though, your mind is blank, overwhelmed that fate has brought you back together. A testament to your survival.

“It’s alright, babygirl. You’re okay,” he says into your hair. Words you needed to hear all those years ago.

You stay like this for a long time, surrounded by him. He holds you the way you wished he had as you cried into his pillow in that empty house. Eventually you pull yourself together with a shaking breath.

“Where’s Sarah?” you ask, casting your eyes around the crowd in the mess hall.

There’s a girl sitting beside Joel, her curly hair pulled back into a ponytail, watching this scene unfold. Everyone else is polite enough to pretend you’re not bawling in the middle of lunch. Can’t be the first time it’s happened.

At your question, Tommy goes stone faced. The muscle in Joel’s jaw ticks.

You shake your head in disbelief. “Infected?” you squeak out.

“It wasn’t like that,” Joel chokes.

“She didn’t make it through that first night,” Tommy says.

It’s a punch in the gut, the air’s knocked out of your chest all over again. While it had crushed you to be abandoned, part of you understood. Joel had to choose and he picked his daughter. Even if he’d been in love with you the way you used to dream about, he always would have chosen Sarah. You couldn’t hold that against him, no matter how much it hurt. There just wasn’t anyone in the world that would have saved you.

But knowing that he failed her, that he failed you both, makes you sick. All those years of bitterness come flooding back to you and your tears turn hot and furious.

“You let her die?” you demand. “You told her to leave me behind and you didn’t even save her?” You push Joel, your hands against the wet spots you left on his shirt. It’s ineffectual. He barely moves against your pathetic shove but his face crumples. You know he hates himself as much as you do in that moment but that’s not enough. You hit him as hard as you can and he does nothing to defend himself.

“Hey, hey,” Tommy says, trying a hand on your shoulder.

“You should’ve saved her,” you bark.

Heads have turned now as Tommy holds you back.

“I hoped you were dead every day since you left me,” you say.

You can see on his face that Joel’s definitely wished the same thing.

You go on berating him, your tears mixing with spit as you snarl and shout, until Tommy’s able to wrestle you out of the dining hall.

The summer comes. After a long, cold winter, everyone in Jackson welcomes the change of seasons with open arms. Everyone but Joel.

Ellie was a salve for the deep wounds on his heart. They’ll never fully heal but at least they stopped overwhelming him for some time. Since your dramatic reunion, though, those scars have been torn open once more. Especially today.

It’s warm and there’s barely a cloud in the sky. The July weather is mild compared to summers in Texas. Fresh air blows in through the open windows of the house, beckoning Joel outside but he has no desire to be in the sunshine.

“You okay?” Ellie asks.

She’s just come down the stairs. It’s early and Joel’s already at the kitchen table. Didn’t sleep much.

He and Ellie have been together long enough that she understands the wordless shifts in his moods. They’ve gotten worse since you arrived in Jackson. He does his work and patrols, sometimes he nurses a whiskey alone at the bar. The rest of the time he keeps to himself. He’s sliding back towards the man she met back in Boston. Joel’s rebuilt the walls that surrounded him, brick by brick since that afternoon in the dining hall.

“I was going to meet Dina at the mess. Want to come? Or I could stick around?” she offers.

It’s going to be one of those dark days, the kind that makes him question why he’s been hanging on for so long, and Ellie knows it. She’s giving him a lifeline, offering to be with him so he doesn’t have to ask. He should accept it, but he doesn’t want to waste his energy putting on a brave face for her when he feels so broken.

“That’s alright, Ellie. Go on,” he says.

She doesn’t push him. She never does. She just gives a sympathetic smile before she slips out.

Once seems gone, his heart begins to ache.

Sometime later, there’s a knock at the door. The last person he expects to see on the porch is you. You look a little nervous, like if he’d taken longer to come to the door you might’ve bolted.

He hasn’t spoken to you since that day that you came back into his life but the words you said play relentlessly on loop in his mind. He should have made amends by now. You were his daughter’s best friend and of all the places at the end of the world, you’ve ended up in the same town. He passes by the old pharmacy you live above just about every day, thinks about seeing if you’re in so you can have a conversation. He even knows what he’d say, but he can’t work up the courage. There aren’t any words that can make right what he did to you.

The guilt metastasized deep in his gut. His failure compounded.

So he doesn’t blame you for keeping your distance, avoiding him when your paths cross. He lets you be angry with him, as he deserves.

“Want some company?” you ask.

He recognizes the look on your face and it dawns on him that he might not be the only person struggling today. He steps aside to let you in.

Joel sets a cup of tea down in front of you. It’s not the real thing. Dried herbs from the garden Maria keeps. You’ve taken a seat across from him at the table, glancing around the kitchen so you don’t have to look at him.

“Surprised you remember,” he says.

“My best friend’s birthday?”

He shrugs as he pulls up a chair across from you. “Was a long time ago.”

“I think you underestimate the power of female friendships.”

You wear a soft smile that makes Joel’s heart ache a little harder. He takes a good look at you, seeing you up close for the first time. There are hints of the girl he knew back in Austin but she’s buried under years of hard living.

You’re the same age Sarah would have been today. The same age he was when he lost everything.

You sigh and scratch awkwardly at your neck.

“Listen, I’m sorry about…all that shit I said. It’s…” you trail off and he’s sure you’re still mad at him, deep down.

“I reckon I’m the one that owes an apology. I shouldn’t’ve left you back there. Sarah begged me not to,” he admits. “I was trying to keep her safe. But I fucked that up, too.”

“That’s not true. I was just angry,” you tell him.

“I was always so pissed at your parents for not caring enough about you. Turns out I was just as bad,” he says.

He hadn’t given any thought to the choice he made all those years ago. His priority was his family and he had no room for the rest of humanity. Joel didn’t realize until he saw your face again just how selfish that had made him. The past months he’s been haunted by the thought of it, a young thing all alone in the chaos. If Sarah’s watching over him, which sometimes he hopes she is, she’d be ashamed.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think since I got here and…I don’t blame you. I’m not your kid. It just—“ You laugh without humor. “God, it’s so stupid but I had a huge crush on you.”

Joel’s eyebrows shoot up. You fiddle with the chipped handle on your mug.

“I know. I was just a kid but I was head over heels for you,” you say.

Joel can feel himself blushing. It’s a sweet thought. He’s honored in a strange way. He remembers the gravity of Sarah’s crushes– Leonardo DiCaprio, Usher, some guy with a lip ring from one of those punk bands she listened to.

“So when you left me…I was a little heart broken.”

“Shit,” Joel says.

“I didn’t say that to make you feel bad. I just wanted you to know why I was so hurt,” you tell him, leaning forward in your seat. “You didn’t know any of that. And it’s not fair to hang that over your head. It wasn’t your job to rescue me.”

“Course it was,” Joel responds. “You were just a kid. I let you down.”

You look at him gratefully and a tear slips down your cheek. It takes a minute for you to fully take that in and it seems like something you’ve needed to hear.

“Joel. I forgive you,” you tell him.

A thick knot forms in his throat.

There’s a litany of names in his mind, so many people he’s failed. Henry and Sam. Tess. Sarah. He’s never expected to be absolved of any of his sins, he doesn't deserve to be forgiven. But those three words make him feel lighter, like he can stop beating himself up. At least for a moment.

He tucks his chin into his chest trying to keep his own tears from spilling over. Your hand slips over his, a gentle, reassuring touch.

The two of you stay like that for a little while, crying together, then becoming reacquainted. You talk for a long time. There’s a lot of catching up to do but the conversation keeps coming back to Sarah. It’s a gift to share memories of her, to hear stories that he’s never heard. You knew Sarah better than anyone in the world— her favorite store in the mall, what she wanted for her birthday. Her hopes, her dreams, her fears. No fourteen year old goes to her daddy with her problems. You were there for her, though. Right up until the end.

“I, um, you should have this,” you say. “Well, it’s yours.”

You and Joel have migrated to the couch in the living room as the afternoon has crept on. You reach into your back pocket, a little reluctant, and pull something out.

It’s a photograph, dog eared and creased from years of being carried with you. Joel recognizes the picture— you and him and Sarah, all three of you donning life jackets, smiling as you float on a calm river. He and Tommy took Sarah kayaking and she asked if you could tag along. It was a wonderful day. Blue, cloudless sky.

The last time he saw the photo it was hanging under a magnet on the refrigerator in the kitchen.

“How’d…”

“I stayed in your house for a while. After. Just kind of hoping you might come back. I took that when I left. And I ate all your food,” you say with a little chuckle. You wipe some snot from your nose. “I guess…well, you probably don’t have a lot of pictures of her.”

You’re right. There was an outdated school photograph in his wallet when they left that night and it had been too painful to look at for years. It still stings a little but it feels easier to share with someone, someone that knew her so well.

“You sure?” he asks.

You nod. “I know where to find it.”

He props the picture up on the coffee table so you can both look at it and meditate on that day when everything felt so perfect.

“Remember we made you play “Crazy in Love” on on repeat the whole way there?” you ask.

“I still get that goddamn song stuck in my head,” he complains.

You laugh and rest your head on his shoulder. The familiar gesture cracks something open inside of him. He’s taken back to his favorite nights when he’d watch a movie with Sarah and she’d cuddle against him. Somehow the memory doesn’t hurt as much as he anticipates.

You sit like that, looking at the picture, both quiet, your smiles fading as you remember what’s happened since.

“Sometimes I think I see her,” he chokes.

He’s never told anyone that. But it seems like you might understand, He trusts you won’t meet his admission with a pitying smile.

“How’s she look?” you ask.

He can’t help but chuckle. He nods.

You don’t say anything, you just burrow your head a little deeper into him. Joel puts a gentle kiss in your hair.

You’re a fixture in the Miller house once again, part of the family. You babysit for Maria and tell her embarrassing stories about Tommy. You and Ellie tease Joel relentlessly. You sit with him in the evenings, sometimes singing along when he pulls out his guitar, other nights neither of you speak at all.

Slowly, you find yourself falling in love with him all over again. It’s not the same infatuation you harbored when you were young. You’re both different people. And you hardly knew him back then. Not really. What did a fourteen year old know about grown men?

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm. After being alone for such a long time, it’s magical to have a companion. Joel seems grateful for the company, too. He’s there whenever you turn around, like a promise. He’s not leaving you behind even if you’re just going from the stables to the library.

Neither of you acknowledge it, this easy rapport. A light squeeze on your shoulder, holding your hand when you get misty eyed. He probably doesn’t mean anything by it but you’re pretty sure you can’t live without it. You bask in the sweetness of these exchanges, trying not to think too hard about the fact that you used to spend Saturday nights giggling on his daughter’s bedroom floor.

He’s still Mr. Miller, after all.

Autumn comes and you’re inseparable. You realize just how much when you convince him to attend the children’s choir performance in town. You expect him to demure. Watching kids being kids must be painful. But he’s by your side in the dining hall as the little ones sing “Clementine” and “Oh Susanna”.

He puts his arm around your shoulder so you can lean into him. It might just be a paternal gesture, maybe you’re still a little girl in his eyes. That’s ok with you if he keeps absentmindedly massaging your upper arm. You can’t remember the last time you felt so safe, so loved.

Afterwards, he walks you home and you’re in such a good mood, you start singing to yourself.

“Johnny Cash,” he says approvingly.

You laugh to yourself. “You know, I started listening to him ‘cause of you. You had his CD in your truck,” you admit.

You wanted to like all of the things Joel liked. He would think you were so interesting and grown up because you knew all the words to “Riders in the Sky.”

“Least I was a good influence,” Joel says, shaking his head, his cheeks turning pink.

He’s so handsome when he blushes, you feel a little giddy when you come to stop in front of the old pharmacy.

“G’night, darlin’,” he says, giving your hand one last squeeze.

He waits. He’ll stand here and watch you get inside like he always does. He doesn’t need to— it’s not like people even lock their doors in Jackson— but he’s insisted on it so fervently that you stopped arguing.

You shouldn’t do it. It’s so silly. But there’s a softness in his eyes and his gentle touch still tingles on your arm. His salt and pepper hair is caught in the string lights that line the empty street. You can’t help yourself.

You kiss him, smoothing your palms up the front of his flannel until you sink your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck. The tip of his nose is cold from the chill in the evening air but his lips are warm and sweet.

You haven’t had a whole lot of experience kissing. You’d just started doing it when the outbreak happened and things haven’t been very romantic since. This is one of the better ones. Relatively chaste but unbearably tender. Certainly better than you could have imagined all those years ago.

It lasts longer than you expect. Joel kisses you back. He rests his hand on your waist and the way it covers so much of your back makes you swoon. Soon, though, he’s pulling away, cradling your cheek.

“We shouldn’t do that,” he says.

“I know,” you sigh. You’re reluctant to break away, savoring the brush of his nose against yours.

It’s all wrong but you’re not ashamed for trying it.

“Just once. I’ve always wanted to,” you say.

He presses his lips into your forehead. It feels bittersweet. A kiss you longed for for twenty years came and went.

You wave to him from the door before you go in for the night.

That kiss confirms Joel’s fears.

He’s spent months convincing himself that this is completely platonic. He would never have feelings for his daughter’s best friend. Even if he always wants to be around you.

He’s looking after you, comforting you, protecting you. He’s making up for those years that he made you suffer through. You forgave him but he’ll never stop atoning.

And then you kissed him.

Suddenly, he’s buried in an avalanche of thoughts he’s been disavowing.

You’re pretty and soft. You're strong and you ease the pain of his memories. You make him feel a little less alone.

The warmth of your lips, your body pressed to his. He was ready to lose himself in you.

That’s when he heard it.

It was Sarah’s voice chiding him with all the reasons why this is wrong.

She’s been in his head, his inner critic since the day she died, pointing out every failure and weakness in him. He could picture her looking down on him with disgust. She’s the same age as your daughter. She was just a kid when you met her. She deserves better than you.

He’s making the same mistake as before, letting his instinct get the better of him. The responsible part of him takes control. He can’t give you any more reasons to try and kiss him again.

If Joel is good at one thing it’s denying himself.

He backs off and you can sense it, he knows you do. Sometimes he catches you looking at him and there’s a longing in your eye. It fucking kills him but it’s just another reason why he’s no good for you.

Despite whatever it does to you, you haven’t got anybody else in Jackson so you stick around. He can only imagine how much it hurts you.

“Why did I go north?” you complain when Joel opens the front door. You’re holding a scarf tight around your neck, shivering against the cold. The sky is a dismal shade of gray, snowfall on the horizon.

Joel gets you in the house with a chuckle. He starts a fire, a luxury you little apartment doesn’t afford. You shiver in front of the hearth.

“Traded for this,” you say, pulling a thick book out of your coat and tossing it onto the coffee table.

“Oh good. I was looking for some light reading material,” Ellie quips from her spot on the couch.

“It’s a dictionary,” you explain, “so you’ll quit cheating at Boggle.”

“You're in trouble now,” Joel laughs.

“I don’t cheat. I just know more words than you guys,” she says.

“Dentment is not a word,” you reply.

“Neither is thoard,” Joel says.

“Sure it is. I’m about to thoard the two of you in this game,” she says.

This should be enough. A winter day by the fire. The simple joy of a board game. Laughter. This is practically a normal life.

But each time Joel’s eyes fall on you, there’s a pang in his chest. You’re just close enough that he could reach out and touch you but he won’t. He can’t.

When the sun sets, Ellie retreats to her room. Eventually, you fall asleep on the couch, wrapped up in a quilt as the fire dies down. You look even younger, curled up serenely. There’s no worry on your brow. Usually your face is in a perpetual frown even when you’re not in a mood.

The snow is already knee deep with no signs of slowing. There’s no sense in sending you back out there.

Joel scoops you up as gently as he can. He feels his age, back straining, but he doesn’t mind. He enjoys how you nestle your face into his chest as he mounts the stairs, warm and snug in his arms. A smile pulls at his lips.

He sets you down carefully on his bed and you whimper groggily at the loss of his touch. Your eyes crack open.

“Snowing pretty bad. Sleep here. I’ll be on the couch,” he whispers.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He hesitates. Carrying you to bed was already crossing a line. He’s not worried about keeping his hands to himself. He’s been able to control himself for this long. If he lays down next to you, feeling you warming his sheets, smelling the peppermint soap on your skin, he’ll be so far gone for you, there’ll be no coming back.

But denying you this simple request feels cruel. He imagines you waking up here all alone. You’re half asleep but what if you remember asking him to remain only to be abandoned again?

He gets into bed, still fully clothed and careful to stay on his side. His jaw is clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. You give a satisfied hum and sink back into sleep, your body melting into the mattress.

Joel watches you for a moment, fights the urge to put a kiss on your forehead. He crosses his arms and stares at the ceiling, beginning to tangle with the web of emotions that accompany you. Once it gets too confusing, he drifts off as well.

When you reach out for him in your sleep, he can’t deny you. Joel tries his hardest to pretend it doesn’t feel good, that this isn’t something he’s wanted to do. So he imagines the nightmares that come to you. Reminds himself that you wouldn’t have seen any of that shit if he hadn’t left you for dead. Now that you're in his arms, he’ll make sure nothing touches you ever again. The least he can do is hold you and make sure it goes no further.

You both find reasons that you should stay the night. Neither of you acknowledge it. Joel just hands you one of his t-shirts and busies himself as you slip out of your clothes and get under the covers. It’s all rather innocent, Joel does more than rub your back even though you sometimes feel his morning wood through his sweatpants. If he wants you, he doesn’t let himself have you. And he could.

It’s fine with you if cuddling is all this is. You don’t try to do anything more than that, unwilling to upset the unspoken agreement between you. You can be satisfied with a broad, firm chest to rest your back against. Sleep is better beside him, his heart beats guiding your own. The weight of his arm draped across you makes your body feel deliciously heavy.

After a while, though, it happens.

Joel’s having a nightmare. His murmurs and restless movements wake you. His mouth twitches and his brow is creased. You smooth circles into his shoulder until his eyes open. Even in the darkness you can see the despair in them.

He blinks, coming back to reality, remembering he’s not wherever his dreams took him. You brush your fingers through his hair, gazing at one another as his breaths even out. Normally, his age is obvious– the lines in his forehead, the sun spots on his cheek– yet right now he looks young. Like a boy that needs to sleep with a night light.

You’re not sure who initiates but you find each other in the dark. At first he’s not kissing you at all, his lips are just brushing your cheek or your nose. It’s sweet and gentle. You try to hold in a moan, worried that any noise might shatter this moment.

The kisses are timid as if you’re both waiting for someone to stop this. Joel lets out a shuddering breath against you. This is a bad idea, you’re both thinking it. After you kissed him the last time, he held you at arms length. When this blows up, you’ll lose him entirely. But you need to be closer to him.

You open your mouth to him, tangle your legs between his. His hand slides under your shirt, roaming your bare skin. You thought that snuggling under the blanket was enough but now you realize just how hungry you’ve been to be touched. Really touched. He needs it too. Joel leans into your hand on his jaw with a whimper.

You don’t open your eyes. You might be the one dreaming and you don’t want to wake up.

It’s quiet, just the sound of hot breaths and desperate kisses, the swish of the sheets as you shift your hips to meet his. You keep yourself from rocking against him, try to enjoy the feeling of him without crossing yet another line, but you’re aching. His shirt has ridden up so you feel the softness of his middle, the light hairs on his chest. Your fingers intertwine with his as his mouth trails down the column of your neck and. Joel buries his face there.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

You’re not sure what he’s apologizing for. This? Then? The years in between? None of it matters because you want to live in this moment forever.

You shush him, pull him back to your mouth. You’re ready to lose yourself, to forget, to ignore the storm of thoughts constantly plaguing your mind. This is all you want.

You peel off your clothing, helping him slide out of his sweatpants until there’s nothing between you. Joel’s skin is warm and soft against you and you realize you’ve never been this close to another soul.

When Joel settles over you and you feel him throbbing between his legs, you shiver with nervous anticipation. You expect him to say something, to warn you that this is a bad idea, to promise this won’t change anything. But his brown eyes look as confused with need as you feel. There’s no room for thinking or it will crush this fragile moment like glass.

You tilt your hips to allow him in, already slick from being so close to him.

Slowly, he enters you, kissing you all the while. He makes a choked sound, wincing as his body stills. The noise makes you clench around him.

Together you take a moment to get your bearings and you adjust to the fullness of him. Joel’s eyes are pressed shut, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

Before he begins to move, his thumb finds your clit, grazing it lightly. After years of solitude and now months being just out of reach of him, the sensation makes you gasp sharply.

You’ve had sex a handful of times. They had been more about fulfilling a self destructive urge than a desire for pleasure. It’s never been like this.

You start to lose sense of everything but the feelings of your body. Your core tenses and your breaths go short and you start to forget that it’s Joel whose hips are stuttering into you. It’s as if this euphoria can erase some of those awful memories.

Soon you’re shattering beneath him, a crescendo that has you tugging on his hair and gasping for air. Joel grunts into your ear. He follows after you, hissing as he pulls out of you. He pulses into his hand, his release dripping from his fist onto your sweat damp skin. Then he collapses onto you. You run your fingers through his long curls and he kisses your forehead. There might be tears in your eyes– maybe his too. It’s too dark to be sure– but when his breath evens out, it still sounds ragged against you.

Eventually he gets out of bed and leaves the room and, in that moment, you can feel everything hanging over your head again– what you’ve just done, the horrors of the world. Perhaps even more intense than before.

But Joel returns quickly. He flicks on the light on his bed side table and cleans you with a damp rag. His touch is gentle, reverent, and his dark eyes travel over your naked skin to yours. There’s a question in them, guilt, but you have no regrets. You smooth your hand out on the sheets beside you and he lays back on his pillow. He surrounds you with his massive arms and you fall asleep grateful that you don’t feel abandoned anymore.

You worry that it was just a one time thing, try to accept that it might never happen again. But the next time you share Joel’s bed, he’s pulling you into him, pressing kisses into your shoulder, nuzzling at the spot behind your ear. His hard length prods at the small of your back.

It starts like that every time. Intimate, sensual, quiet. It’s never tearing his clothes off or pushing you up against a wall. You just stay close, breath each other in, trail fingertips across skin. Neither of you ever speak above a whisper.

Joel barely talks at all except to ask, “That too much?” and “Feel good?”

You live for the moments when his hand skates over your hip, his dark eyes soft.

“Pretty,” he says almost to himself.

He’s such a beautiful man. Your fingers trace the smooth plane of his chest, dusted lightly with hair and a few stray freckles. Age has only improved him. The greys in his stubble catch the glow from the lamp on the nightstand. You study him with the same attention to detail you used in your youth. The cleft in his bottom lip, the dimples on his lower back, the scar on his temple. You’ve memorized it all.

Joel breaks open for you. He lets you see him vulnerable. He’ll fuck you with thrusts that shake loose deep emotions. Just as quickly, he’ll hold you together when it feels like you’re falling apart.

You lay with him after, sticky with the shared heat of your bodies but reluctant to roll away and break the connection.

Whatever this is, you don’t speak its name. There are too many questions and conflicts that it might not withstand. It exists only for you and him. A safe haven in the chaos, a bit of respite at the end of long years.

In his arms, you’re not his dead daughter’s best friend. He’s not the man that left you when you needed him most. You’re just two people that need to not be alone. Each time, it’s the same. The overwhelming bliss of Joel making love to you is second only to the understanding that he’s finally come back for you.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear from you. Comments and reblogs always appreciated.

#tlou #oneshot #read #author: mothandpidgeon

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