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petit-etoile · 9 months

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in the moonlight (my darling, do not fear)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What happened?’ you whisper.

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

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

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

‘Scared,’ you admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You cannot,’ Astarion insists.

‘Next time,’ you say, ‘I will jump.’

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

‘You will lead them,’ you tell him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Everyone — ’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches in your throat.

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

‘You still can — ’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘We’ve barely just begun.’

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

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

‘I love you,’ you say.

‘Say it again.’

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

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

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

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flowercrowngods · 5 months

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who did this to you. part 3

🤍🌷 read part 1 here | read part 2 here pre-s4, steve whump, protective (but scared) eddie. now with robin!

The number rings in his head, echoing off the inside of his skull and sinking lower and lower until his heart strings join the symphony that leaves him shaking as the memory of Harrington’s slurred voice is drowned out by the dial tone that feels harrowingly like a flatline right now.

Said I’ll go blind. Or deaf. Or just… die.

Eddie doesn’t really feel like his body belongs to him anymore, or like there’s anything left inside him other than panic and fear and that stupid, stupid shaking that he can’t suppress even as he bites his knuckles. Hard.

The pain helps a little not to startle too much when the dial tone stops and a female voice begins speaking to him. Still he almost drops the phone, cursing under his breath as he pulls his hair to collect himself and get his voice to work.

“H— Hi, hello, Mrs Buckley? This is, uh. I. I’m. A friend of Robin’s, could you, uh—“

“Oh, of course, dear,” the woman says, and Eddie feels his eyes beginning to prick with how nice she sounds even through the phone.

Does she know Steve, too? Would she worry if she knew? Would she curse Eddie for not taking him to the hospital right away? Would she blame him if anything happened?

“I’m sorry? What did you say your name was?” she asks, repeating herself by the sound of it.

He blanks, for a whole five seconds, before he spots a note stuck to the fridge saying Don’t forget to eat, Eddie :-)

“Eddie,” he croaks. “Uh, Eddie Munson.”

“Alright, Eddie Munson, I’ll see if I can grab Robin for you. You have a good day, dear, yes?”

No. “Thanks.”

The hand clenched in his hair pulls tighter and tighter until the tears fall and he can pretend it’s from pain and not from— whatever the fuck is happening.

He waits, phone pressed to his ear with a kind of desperation he’s never really felt, and never wants to feel again. He doesn’t even know what to tell Robin; what to say. It’s not like they ever hang out or have anything to say to each other, so why would she—

“Munson?” Robin’s voice appears on the other end, a little too loud for Eddie’s certain state, and he does drop the phone this time, scrambling to catch it and only making the situation worse as it dangles by his knees.

He drops to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and reaching for the phone again.

“Hi.”

“What do you want? How’d you even get this number? I swear, if you—“

“It’s Blue. I mean, Steve. Harrington.”

That shuts her right up, and Eddie clenches his eyes shut for a moment, hoping to keep the tremor out of his voice if only he takes a moment to breathe.

The moment stretches. And Robin’s voice is wary and quiet when she speaks again.

“What about Steve.”

Eddie rubs his face, leaving more dirt and grime to fill the tear tracks, and clenches his fist before his mouth.

“Eddie,” Robin demands, dangerous now. Nothing left of the rambling, bubbling mess he knows her to be on the school hallways. “What. About. Steve.”

“He… He’s hurt.”

There’s a bit of a commotion on the other end, before Robin declares, “I’m coming over. You tell me everything.”

“You— I mean, he’s in the hospital with my uncle, so—“

“I am. Coming. Over,” she says, enunciating every word as though she were making a threat. Maybe she is. But the certainty in her voice helps a little, anchors him the same way that Wayne’s calmness did. “And you tell me everything.”

Eddie finds himself nodding along, knowing intuitively that there is nothing that could stop her now. Knowing that he doesn’t want to stop her.

“‘Kay.” It’s a pathetic little sound, all choked up and tiny. She doesn’t comment on it.

One second he hears her determined exhale, the next she’s hung up on him and Eddie is greeted by the flatline again. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans his head back against the wall.

Breathing is hard again, but it’s all he has to do now, all that’s left to do, so he focuses. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Hold. His lungs are burning and there’s something wrong about the way he pulls in air and keeps it there, desperately latching onto it until the very last second, his exhales more of a gasping cough than calm and controlled.

It takes a while. Longer than it should. But with Harrington’s blood still on his hands, with his heartbeat in his ears so loud he can’t even hear the words Wayne used to say about breathing in through the mouth or the nose or… or something, he—

He’s fine. He’s home. Wayne’s got Blue, and Buckley is on her way, and… He’s fine.

People don’t just die.

They don’t.

He’s fine.

Eventually, Eddie manages to breathe steadily, the air no longer shuddering and his hands no longer shaking. It’s stupid, really, being so worked up over someone he doesn’t even really know. Sure, everyone knows Steve fucking Harrington, and everyone sees Steve fucking Harrington — whether they want it or not. He has a way of drawing eyes toward him even if all he does is walk the halls with his dorky smile and that stupidly charming swagger he’s got going on. Always matching his shoes to his outfit.

Eddie can relate.

Always reaching out to touch the person he’s talking to; clapping their back or shoulder, lightly shoving them in jest, ruffling their hair or chasing them through the halls, moving and holding himself like teenage angst can’t reach him. Like he belongs wherever he goes. Like he’s so, so comfortable in his own skin. Like the clothes he wears aren’t armour but just a part of him; a means of self-expression.

Again, Eddie can relate. He can relate to all of this.

It’s almost like the two of them aren’t so different after all. Just going about it differently.

And now he’s… Bleeding. Slurring his speech. Wheezing his breath. And Eddie feels protective. Eddie feels responsible. Like he should be there, like he should get to know more about him. About Steve. About Blue.

But he can’t. And he won’t. So he gets up with a groan that expresses his frustration and the need to make a sound, to fight the oppressive silence that only encourages his thoughts to run in obsessive little circles, and he hangs up the phone that’s been dangling beside him all this time.

He needs a smoke.

He needs a smoke and a blunt and a drink and for this day to be over and for time to revert and to leave him out of whatever business he stumbled into by opening the door to the boathouse and, apparently, Steve Harrington’s life.

But unfortunately, the universe doesn’t seem to care about what he needs, because just as he steps outside and goes to light his cig, he catches sight of a harried looking Robin Buckley, standing on the pedals of her bike as she kicks them, her hair blowing in the wind to reveal a frown between her brows. A wave of unease overcomes Eddie, an unease he can’t really place. Maybe it’s the set of her jaw, or the tension in her shoulders, or maybe it’s the worry and anger she exudes.

It never occurred to him before that Robin Buckley might not be a person you’d want to set off. And not because of her uncontrollable rambles.

“Munson!” she calls over, carelessly dropping her bike in the driveway and stalking toward him.

Almost as if summoning a shield, Eddie does light the cigarette. Pretends like the smoke can protect him.

She doesn’t stop at the foot of the steps, though, climbs them in two leaps and gets all up in his space with that unwavering look of determination — so unwavering, in fact, that it almost looks like wrath. Cold. Eddie wants to shrink away from it, not at all daring to wonder what could make her look like that upon hearing that Steve’s hurt.

I don’t wanna die, Munson. I never… I didn’t. With the monsters or the torture.

But those are the words of a semi-conscious teenage boy beat to a pulp, they can’t— There’s no way. Eddie misheard him, or Steve was talking about some kind of inside joke, using the wrong terminology with the wrong guy. It happens. It happens when you’re out of it, really! The shit he’s said when he was shot up, canned up, all strung out and high as a kite… He’d be talking of monsters, too, and mean some benign shit.

But the way Harrington looked, none of that was benign. The bruising all over his face, the blood still dripping from the wound by his temple or his nose, the way he held himself, breath rattling in his lungs, or—

“Hey!” Buckley demands his attention, giving him a light shove; just enough to catch his attention, really, and just what he needed to snap out of it. Still the smoke hits his lungs wrong and he coughs up a lung, further cementing his role of the pathetic little guy today.

“Hey,” he says lamely, his voice still croaking as he crushes the half-smoked cigarette under his boot. “Sorry.” He doesn’t know for what. But it feels appropriate.

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at him as she crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Tell me,” she says at last, and even though there is a tremor in her voice, she sounds nothing short of demanding. “I want the whole story, and I want it now.”

And so he does. He tells her everything, bidding her inside because he needs the relative safety of the trailer even though the air in here is stuffy and still faintly smells blue. He pours them both some coffee and some tea, because asking what she wants doesn’t feel right in the middle of telling her how he found her supposed best friend beat to shit in the boathouse he went to to forget about the world for a while.

She stills as she listens to him, staring ahead into the middle distance somewhere beneath the floor and the walls, her hands wrapped around the steaming mug of coffee. Eddie stumbles over his words a lot, unsettled by her stillness, her lack of reaction. She doesn’t even react to his fuck-ups. People usually do.

He wants to ask. Where are you right now? What have you seen? What’s on your mind? What the fuck is happening?

But he doesn’t ask, instead he tells her more about Steve. About how he seemed to forget where he was. About the pain he was in. About the smiles nonetheless. The way he reassured Eddie.

That one finally gets a choked little huff from her, somewhere between a sob and a laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. He’s such a dingus.”

There is so much affection in her voice as she says it that Eddie can’t help but smile into his mug.

“Dingus?” he asks, hoping for some lightness, hoping to keep it.

But the light fades, and her eyes get distant again. Eddie wants to kick himself.

“Just a stupid little nickname. An insult, really.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to do with that. If he should ask more or if he should say that he has a feeling Steve might appreciate stupid little nicknames. Especially if they’re unique. Especially if they’re for him. But what right does he have to say that now? What knowledge does he have about Steve Harrington that Robin doesn’t?

So he bites his tongue and drinks his coffee, cursing the silence that falls over them as Robin mirrors him, albeit slow and stilted, like she doesn’t know what to do either. Or where to put her limbs.

“Wayne’s got him now. I took him here, after the boathouse, because I didn’t know what to do. He said he didn’t want the hospital, said there’s…” He trails off.

Robin looks at him, her eyes wary but alert. “Said there’s what?”

It’s stupid. Don’t say it.

“Eddie?”

With a sigh, he puts his mug on the counter and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “He said there’s monsters. In the hospital, I mean. He said that.”

Instead of scoffing or at least frowning, Robin clenches her jaw and nods imperceptibly, her eyes going distant again. Eddie blinks, the urge to just fucking ask overcoming him again, but with every passing second he realises that he doesn’t actually want to ask. He doesn’t want to know, let alone find out.

He just… He just wants to go to bed. Forget any of this ever happened. But he can’t do that, so he continues.

“Brought him here and Wayne took one look at him and convinced him he needed a doctor. And, Jesus H Christ, he was right. I’ve never… I mean, those things don’t happen,” he urges, balling his hands into fists even in the confined space of his pockets. “Right? I mean… Shit, man.” He bumps his shoe into the kitchen counter; gently, so as not to startle Buckley out of her fugue like state.

“You’d be surprised,” she rasps, staring into the middle distance again and slowly sinking to the floor. There is a tremor in her shoulders now, barely noticeable, but Eddie knows where to look. Without really thinking about it, he grabs two of his hoodies he’d haphazardly thrown over the kitchen chairs this morning while deciding on his outfit and realising that it was altogether too warm for long sleeves today. But now, right here in this kitchen, the air tinged with blue, they’re both freezing.

Because fear and worry will take all the warmth right from inside of you and leave you freezing even on the hottest day of the year.

She barely looks at him when he holds out his all-black Iron Maiden hoodie to her, freshly washed and all that, but she takes it nonetheless, immediately pulling it on. It’s way too large on her, her hands not showing through the sleeves, her balled fists safe and warm inside the fabric. It would make him smile if only it didn’t highlight her stillness, her faraway stare, and the years he has on her. She’s, what, two years younger than him? Three?

It seems surreal. Everything, everything does.

Robin Buckley in his home, sitting on his kitchen floor, swallowed by a hoodie that is a size too large even for him, but it was the last one they had in the store and he doesn’t mind oversized clothes, can just cut them shorter when the need arises or layer them or declare them comfort sweaters for when he wants to just have his hands not slip through the sleeves on some days. And now Robin is wearing his comfort hoodie because her best friend was bleeding in his car earlier and then on his couch and now in his uncle’s car, and they never even talk, but he knows that Robin’s favourite colour is blue, but not morning hour blue because that makes her sad; only deep, dark blues.

Her favourite colour. Her favourite person.

It’s so fucking surreal.

He drops down beside her, leaving enough space between them so neither of them feels caged, and mirrors her position: knees to his chest, chin on his forearms. Staring ahead.

And silence reigns.

“Your uncle,” she says at last, finally breaking the silence that’s been grating on Eddie’s nerves and looking at him, really looking as she rests her cheek on her forearms crossed over her knees. “Tell me about him.”

There is a gentleness to her voice now despite how hoarse it is. Maybe she’s just tired, too. And scared. At least the shivering has stopped.

Still Eddie frowns, confused as to why she should be breaking the silence to ask about Wayne when everything today has been about Harrington. About Steve. About deep and dark blues.

“Uncle Wayne?” he asks. “Why?”

“Because,” she begins, and sighs deeply, works to get the air back in her lungs. Eddie wants to reach out, but instead he just clenches his fingers a little deeper into the fabric of his hoodie. “My best friend is hurt very badly and the only person with him is your uncle, and I need to know that he’s in good hands. Or I swear to whatever god you may or may not believe in, and granted, it’s probably the latter, but still I swear I’ll give into my arsonist tendencies and burn down this city, starting with your trailer if you don’t tell me that your uncle is a good man who will do anything in his power to make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs. And deserves.”

Her jaw is set and her bottom lip trembles, but it doesn’t take away from the absolute sincerity in her threat.

“So, please,” she continues, her voice breaking just a little bit. “Tell me. Tell me about your uncle.”

Tell me about your favourite person.

Eddie swallows, and mirrors her position once more, so she can see his eyes and know he’s sincere. Because he’s learned something about eyes today, about how much in the world can change if only you have a pair of eyes to look into.

And he nods, looking for somewhere to start. “He’s the best man I know. He’s the best man you’ll ever meet.”

She clings to his eyes. Searches them for the truth, beseeching them not to lie. He lets her.

“Took me in when I was ten, because my dad’s a fuck-up and my mom’s a goner. Took me in again when I was twelve after I ran away. Makes me breakfast and I pretends the dinner I make him is more than edible.” He smiles a little, because how could he not? “He’s my uncle, but still he’s the best parent anyone could wish for. Writes those little notes that he sticks to the fridge, y’know, the one with the smiley face? Tells me to eat, because I forget sometimes. I tell him to drink water, because he forgets. First few years, he’d read to me. And the man’s a shit reader, has some kind of disability I think, and at some point I learned that he wasn’t reading at all. He was telling me stories all the time, conning me into thinking that the books were magic, and that every time I’d try to read the book for myself, the story would change.”

There’s a lump in his throat now, and his eyes sting again. But Robin doesn’t seem to fare any better than him if her wavering smile is any indication.

“There’s no one,” Eddie continues, “who will make you believe in magic quite like uncle Wayne. Or in good things. And d’you wanna know what he told Blue when he said he was scared of going to the hospital?”

Sniffling, Robin shakes her head.

“He said, Okay. Then we do it scared. And all of that after he just… with that patience he has, told him everything that was gonna happen. And that he’d be there with him through it all. That he knew the doc and wouldn’t let anyone else near him, and that there’s no need to be scared at all.”

He sighs, breathes, stills. Swallows, before looking back at Robin.

“So, if there’s one person who’ll make sure that boy gets the help and care he needs and deserves…”

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Robin finishes his sentence, her voice still hoarse, but Eddie likes to think it’s for a different reason now.

“It’s uncle Wayne,” Eddie says, nodding along as he does.

There is something like understanding in Robin’s eyes now, and Eddie hopes it’s enough. Enough to calm the spiking of her nerves, enough to settle the coil of freezing nausea that must reside in the pit of her stomach, enough to let the next breath she takes feel a little more like it’s supposed to be there.

He wants to say something more, wants to reach out and reassure her that everything will be okay, but he can’t know that. He doesn’t feel like it’s entirely true, let alone appropriate right now.

There’s something in Robin’s eyes, in the way she holds herself, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she accepts his words at face value but doesn’t really believe them. Like she’ll only rest when she’s got her best friend back in her arms and hears the story — the whole story — from him.

And Eddie doesn’t fault her, because the thing is, he doesn’t know what happened. Steve said that Hagan came at him, but that’s really all he got out of him before he started talking about death and shit, and Eddie really didn’t want to ask any more questions then.

So they sit there for a while, the silence oppressive and unwelcome, clumsy and awkward; Robin’s mouth opening and closing a lot, like she wants to ask questions but doesn’t dare to ask them — and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear the kind of questions asked with that kind of stare.

It is only after a long while, when Robin’s shoulders start shaking again and she buries deeper into the hoodie and her own spiralling thoughts, that Eddie breaks the silence again, replaying in his head the last moment between him and Steve.

“He’s not gonna break,” he tells her, aiming for gentle and reassuring.

What he doesn’t expect is the minute flinch, the jolt shooting through her body and the pained expression it leaves her with. What he doesn’t expect is what she says next.

“You know,” she begins, her voice as far away as her eyes, and it’s like she doesn’t even know she’s speaking. “Sometimes I wish he would.”

What?

Eddie blinks, swallowing hard.

“Just for, just for a break. Just so he can rest. Let the rest take over for a while.”

That… He doesn’t— What the hell does that even mean?

“Like maybe then the world would… snap back.” She snaps her fingers, just once. This time it’s Eddie who flinches. “And everything bad would disappear. But it won’t. And he won’t.” She swallows. Then quietly, almost inaudible, “He won’t break.”

And the way she says it… It was reassuring before. And now it feels like a burden. A curse.

Who the fuck are you, Steve Harrington? And you, Robin Buckley.

Eddie shudders, knowing he doesn’t want the answer to that anymore. He doesn’t want the questions either. So he buries his face in his hands, closes his eyes, and breathes. The adrenaline has worn off by now, the repeated panicking that added fuse to the fire has ceased now, leaving him worn out and strung out, tired and exhausted. He pulls up the hood, burrowing into the warmth.

And then he stills. His usually twitching, fumbling, fiddling body falling entirely still beside Buckley.

It’s like time stops for a while there, even though Eddie knows that it’s dragging ever on and on. He’s inclined to let it, though. He’s too tired, too exhausted to really care about what time may or may not be doing.

“Why’d you call me?”

It takes a while for Eddie to realise that Robin’s spoken again, asked him a question out loud, the cadence of it different to the endless circles of questions Eddie’s got stuck in his head since the early afternoon tinged in blue against crimson.

He lifts his head, tucking his hands underneath his chin, and looks over at Buckley. Her hair is dishevelled now, her mascara smudged and crusty. Her lipstick is almost all gone, with the way he sees her biting and chewing on her lips.

“I… It seemed like the right thing to do, y’know? He kept repeating your number. In the car, it was like… Sounds dramatic, but it was like his lifeline, almost. Repeated it so often it kinda got stuck.” He shrugs. “Seemed important, too.”

Robin frowns; a careful little thing. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Well, he just talked about you. Y’know. Tell me about your favourite person, I told him, because that’s the thing you gotta do to keep people, like, talking to you. Not shit about what day it is, or what. Just, y’know. Let them talk about things they like. Things they’ll wanna tell you about. ’N’ he talked about you.”

She’s quiet for a while, letting his words sink in. And Eddie wonders if she knew. That she’s his favourite person. If he ever told her. If maybe he took that from him now. It’s a stupid thing to worry about, really; the boy was bloodied and bruised on his couch just an hour ago, there are worse things at hand for Eddie to worry about. But now he wonders if he just spilled some sort of secret. Some sort of love confession.

“Did you, I mean… Are you guys, like, dating? Did I just steal his moment?”

Robin huffs, but it’s more like a smile that needs a little more space in the room, a little more air to really bloom. It’s fond. She shakes her head, her eyes far away again, but closer somehow.

“Nah,” she says, and the smile is in her voice, too. Eddie kind of likes her voice like that. “We’re platonic. Which is something I’d never thought I’d say. Not about Steve Harrington, y’know?”

And the way she drags out his name… Eddie can relate. Like it means something, but like what it means is nowhere close to reality. Nowhere close to what it really means. Nowhere close to Blue.

Robin sighs, the sound more gentle than it should be, and leans her head against the cabinet behind her. “We worked together over summer break. Scoops Ahoy.” Her voice does a funny thing, and her eyes glaze over as she pauses. Eddie waits, his lips tipped up into a little smile, too; to match hers.

“What, the ice cream parlour?”

Robin hums, her smile widening at what Eddie guesses must be memories of chaos and ridiculousness. “I wanted to hate him,” she continues. “But try as I might, he wouldn’t let me. Or, he did. He did let me. Just, it turns out, there’s no use hating Steve Harrington, not when he’s so… So endlessly genuine. There’s nothing to hate, y’know? And then he…”

She stops, her mouth clicking shut as her eyes tear up a little. The Starcourt fire. Eddie remembers the news, remembers the self-satisfied smirk when he’d heard about it, remembers sticking it to the Man and to capitalism and to the idea of malls over supporting your friendly neighbourhood businesses.

Guilt and shame overcome him as he realises that they must have been in there when it happened.

“He saved your life?”

Robin’s eyes snap toward him, wide and caught, and Eddie raises his hands in placation.

“In the fire? Were you there?”

“Y—yeah.” She swallows hard, avoiding his eyes. “The fire. He saved me. Yeah.”

Eddie nods, deciding to drop that topic right there; to lay it on the ground as gently as he can and cover it with bright red colours so he never steps on it ever again.

“He must be your favourite person, too, then, hm?” he steers the conversation back away into safer waters.

“He is,” she says, sure and genuine and true. “It’s just. I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s favourite. He has a lot of people who care about him, you know? A lot of people he cares about. Even more numbers memorised in that stupidly smart head of his.” She huffs again, burrowing deeper into Eddie’s hoodie, pulling the sleeves over her hands some more. “It’s stupid, to be so hung up on this. Is it stupid?”

“I don’t think it is,” Eddie says, scooting a little closer to Robin. “Like, I don’t even know that boy, right? But even I know that he’s got some ways to shift your focus or something. Give you a silver lining, or something to take the pain away even when he’s the one who… I don’t know, that’s probably stupid, too.”

“Nah,” Robin says, scooting closer to him, too, until their sides are pressed together and she can lay her head on his shoulder. “It’s not stupid. You’re right; that’s Steve for you. ’S just who he is.”

It is, isn’t it?

You’re so blue, Stevie.

She’ll say something corny when, when you ask her, jus’ to fuck with you. Sunset gold or rose, jus’ to mess with… But is blue.

Blue. ‘S nice.

Yeah. Yeah, he is.

Eddie lets his thoughts roam the endless possibilities and realities that is Steve Harrington, the depths he hides — or won’t hide, maybe, if you know how to ask. Where to look.

Maybe he’ll find out, one of these days. Not about the terrible things that leave him scared of the hospital, not about the horrible things that have him speaking of death and dying like he’s accepted them as a possibility a long time ago.

He swallows hard and shakes off these thoughts, because things like that just. They don’t happen. They don’t happen to blue-smiled boys who trust you to be kind even when they’re beaten straight to hell. And they sure as hell don’t happen when uncle Wayne’s around.

Nothing bad has ever happened when uncle Wayne was around.

And he wants to tell Robin, wants to make that promise. But part of him can’t bear the thought of being wrong. So he keeps his mouth shut and just sits with her, their heads as heavy as their hearts as they wait.

The sun is long gone when the phone above him rings again, spooking and startling them out of their timeless existence.

“Yeah?” he answers, his heart hammering in his chest. “Wayne?”

“Hey, Ed,” Wayne’s voice comes through the phone like a melody. Calm and steady. Robin is scooting closer, and Eddie shifts the phone to accommodate her so they can both listen. Somehow, they ended up holding hands — and holding on hard. “We’re coming home now.”

🤍🌷 tagging:

@theshippirate22 @mentallyundone @ledleaf @imfinereallyy @itsall-taken @simply-shin @romanticdestruction @temptingfatetakingnames @stevesbipanic @steddie-island @estrellami-1 @jackiemonroe5512 @emofratboy @writing-kiki @steviesummer @devondespresso @swimmingbirdrunningrock @dodger-chan @tellatoast @inkjette @weirdandabsurd42 @annabanannabeth @deany-baby @mc-i-r @mugloversonly @viridianphtalo @nightmareglitter @jamieweasley13 @copingmechanizm @marklee-blackmore @sirsnacksalot @justrandomfandomstm @hairdryerducks @silenzioperso @newtstabber @fantrash @zaddipax @cometsandstardust @rowanshadow26 @limpingpenguin @finntheehumaneater @extra-transitional (sorry if i missed anyone! lmk if you don't wanna be tagged for part 4 🫶)

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #who did this to you #something has Shifted in this part and i wanna do a literary/meta analysis of it but i dont wanna ruin the fun or be annoying but hhh #also sorry if you don't like this bc it's so different from the other two but the sudden adrenaline crash will do that to ya #we'll get Blue back soon don't you worry 🤍#also eddie's mind is running in circles and he doesn't have wayne to stop him this time sooo if this feels repetitive and redundant???#then let's pretend it should read that way actually (and also eddie is an obsessive little guy he'll ruminate forever if he doesn't have #an outlet sooo)#also rambling fumbly robin going deadly still over an injured steve is the hill i will die on actually like that just makes me feral #dio words

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davosmymaster · 1 year

Text

No Time To Die

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

PAIRINGS - Joel Miller x fem!reader

WORD COUNT - 9.6k.

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

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

'Breathe'

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel.

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

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

"I know, I know" he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is it bad?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I-I want you to do it."

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

"Don't," he says.

"Joel..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nothing," you respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes well with tears.

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

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

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

"Why would they help me?"

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

"What if they changed their minds?"

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

"I'm persistent."

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

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

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

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

"Since when are you a doctor?"

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

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

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

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

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

[***]

Joel doesn't keep his word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's the plan?"

He takes a deep breath.

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

"What?"

"You heard me."

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

You still try.

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

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

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

"You don't know them."

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You good?"

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

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

You nod again.

"Starting now."

"Y-yes... okay."

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

"Y-you... are?"

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?"

"Yeah..."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y-yeah..."

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

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

"Remember what I told you?" he asks.

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

"Hey..."

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

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

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

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

[***]

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

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

"Joel?"

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

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

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

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

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you sure?"

"That bad do I look?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Joel..." he heard you call.

"We need to go, now."

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

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

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

He had not signed up for this.

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

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

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

"What are you so scared of?"

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

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

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

"Shut. Up."

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

The tip of your tongue wetted your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I won't, either."

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

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

"Enough resting then," he says.

[***]

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

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

"So...Tess?"

"Pass."

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

"I thought you two were dating."

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

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

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

His brow furrowed in confusion.

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

Anything just to know you're there...

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

"You okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Talk to me, c'mon."

With a painful drag of air, you complied.

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

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

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

"J-Joel"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You did it. We're here."

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

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

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

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

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

Never.

[***]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coffee."

"Not coffee, you need sleep."

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

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

"Baby?"

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

"Morning."

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

"You're here," he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

4K notes · View notes

drxxmingofblue · 2 years

Text

hand in unrebloggable hand (because we always go down together)

TUMBLR X TWITTER FANFIC 5K ANGST WITH A HOPEFUL ENDING

besties im not joking abt the word count i fucking ✨wish✨I ✨was though✨✨✨✨

also if you were hoping for twitblr to be the endgame ship then this fic is not for you sowwy >.<

based off of @zzoupz awesome fanart and dedicated to all the other cool fanart it unfortunately begat. Thanks babygirls. Squees. Thanks also to my discord friendz who are letting me pretend they're making me do this at gunpoint @loki-the-mad @suspicious-whumping-egg u da best

(edit) owo what's this?? An Ao3 link??

QUICK PSA THESE CHARAS ARE T4T OKAY HAVE FUN READING BAIIII *GLOMPS U*

~~~~~~~~

When Twitter stepped back into Tumblr’s yard, he noticed right away that things were different.

The house was bigger, there was some more color and it was less slapped-together looking. Sure, there were still some invasive tendrils of spambot ivy overgrowing the path, but a lot of the other stuff seemed a little… better.

When they knocked on the door, it opened almost right away, far before they felt ready, and he were face to face abruptly with someone he thought they’d cut all ties with.

Tumblr was humming to themselves along with the background music, “-out of touch, I’m out of ti-- oh. It’s you.”

He seemed surprised, awkward, but Twitter didn’t sense any animosity, which was a relief.

“Hiii,” Twitter said weakly, with a sheepish grin, “it’s me.”

Tumblr glanced around, as if checking for someone else to explain this to him, or hidden cameras from a reality show at least. Then he stepped out, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “Is there something… what do you want?” he asked, expression settling into something distant and cool.

“Well…” Twitter took a deep breath, and then shook their head, forcing a brighter tone, and gesturing to Tumblr’s shiny silver barrette “--Um, hey, you look great! Is that a new icon?”

“... yes,” Tumblr said slowly. “I’m… trying out some different looks.”

“It’s great, yeah. And this place looks… amazing. Glad to see you’re moving up in the world. You must be excited with all the press, congrats!”

Tumblr didn’t say anything, giving them a neutral stare.

Twitter shifted, “Uhh… anyway… new adblocker?”

“No, same one. I’m just using it on Firefox now.” Tumblr gave them another suspicious eye, “Look, if you’re just here to catch up then can this wait until later? Because I'm pretty crunched for time right now with my weekly holidays thing and the campaign to get this one random user their 666k so they'll do self care."

"You know that's.. uhm, you know that's just for attention, right?" Twitter's brows knit, "They're probably not gonna follow through."

"Perhaps, and a lot of us want them to not be lying for internet points but it's not just about that anymore. It's about the community bonding over pettily slam dunking on a hapless chump who's gotta pretend now like they don't actually like all the notes. You wouldn't get it, it's a tumblr thi-"

"Yeah, it's a tumblr thing, I know," Twitter gave a longsuffering sigh, "Ugh, i just... I need a place to stay, okay? And you’re the first site I could think of.”

“A place to stay,” Tumblr repeated flatly.

Twitter huffed. “Yeah. I’m sure you’ve heard about what’s going on right now at my palace..”

Tumblr’s eyes slanted off, his lips quirking in a way that looked suspiciously like amusement. “Heard about it. Read about it. Partied about it.”

Twitter ignored the sting of that, forging ahead. “I’ve never seen it so bad,” they said, voice wobbling piteously as they clutched their suitcase full of memes. “Everything’s in chaos, people are losing their jobs. I went into the basement yesterday to grab some badly aging tweets and the very foundations are cracking, Tumblr, I can’t stay there anymore, I just can’t.”

“So you come crawling back to me,” Tumblr said, “Expecting me to take you with open arms.”

“Yes. I do,” Twitter said, “I know a part of your userbase still wants to welcome me in. You were always sh*t at hiding your true feelings.”

Tumblr’s hand fluttered over his heart as if to protect it; he winced a little, taking a breath to keep his facade of composure. “So now- what, you want me to start dealing with your bullshit again just because you remembered how much better my posting format is? Just because you noticed how my reputation is changing? Did you think I’d be so desperate to fill the void now that Dracula Daily’s done? Or maybe,”

Tumblr leaned closer to lord his height difference trope over Twitter, his eyes hooded with disparaging condescension, “Maybe you’re just here because you heard I’m finally allowed to take my shirt off again, is that it?”

“N-no!” Twitter protested, flushing up.

“Oh, i think it is,” Tumblr drawled, “But that’s really just too bad because in case you haven’t got the memo yet, I’ve moved on. You are not welcomed here. Not anymore.”

(link to art here) go look at it then come back

(AN: i had to google how to embed links into text and google was all like, "do you mean 'how do you put links INTO text' you moron idiot???" ugh don't like that wise guy)

“You don’t really mean that,” Twitter said, “Besides, you can’t stop me, can you? The sign up button is right there.” They pointed at the front door.

“No, I can’t,” Tumblr said, “But that doesn’t mean we won’t be able to clock you as twits by your censoring and bad takes. Look, your aura is already causing ripples in the sphere. Everyone’s coming out to gawk at you.”

He gestured out in the general direction of the porch and yard, and indeed there were users from every tag going 👀at them, murmuring amongst themselves in a swirling, chaotic crowd.

“Oh my god is it real this time? Is it happening?”

“GET THEM OUT GET THEM OUT STAY AWAY DEAR GOD NO-”

“Okay, everyone, stay calm, stay fucking calm-”

“Why are we focusing on this, it’s literally election day go out and vote???”

“Listenup, guys, we gotta be smart about this, remember the block button is your friend-”

“I for one welcome them, I think this is great-”

“No you idiot they’ll bring the negativity back! We like it to be a post apocalyptic wasteland here, nature was just starting to regrow!! I don’t wanna watch Thomas Sanders get cancelled again!”

“FIRE OFF SOME SHOTS, PRESERVE THE PROPERTY VALUE”

“mISHAPOCALYPSE 2022 ELECTRIC BOOGALOO”

"Has anyone asked Neil Gaiman what he thinks about all this?" one of the many voices yelled, louder.

"Oh, he's probably got a thousand asks about it already," someone yelled back, "Which he's not going to answer because he doesn't have any social media you fucking idiot,"

"That is correct. He doesn't," said Neil Gaiman.

The whiplash was still euphoric. Everyone applauded this as enthusiastically as when the bit had first been established, not realizing that the pedestal upon which Neil Gaiman has been placed is growing higher and higher each day by their actions, putting him at increased risk of being a victim of cancel culture the second he says something the terfs can really rake their fingernails against if we can't get our parasocial relationship bullshit together real fuckin quick.

The Monterey bay aquarium passed on by. It seemed to have nothing to add, you could say it was clammed up tight. But since it's a professional account it's definitely b-otter that way.

"Hai, fellow tumblypoos," said the corporate Denny's account, "I'm back with some more fun pancake posts for you guys!"

Everyone ignored it. No one engaged it. No one even clicked onto the page, except to block it.

"Oh, sweetheart, not like that," Ryan Reynolds said faux-helpfully, "see, the author of this clusterfuck is what they like to call terminally online. They bought a VIP pass to the devil’s sacrament. let me try."

He cleared his throat, "Sounds like someone needs to go outside and touch some g-"

The sky split open with lightning, vaporizing him instantly. A faint breeze carried gods message from the great beyond, a whisper of 'we #violence celebrities here, sir....'

"Anyway," Twitter said.

"Wait, they saved the worst one for last," Tumblr said.

Then Gerard Way came out onto the stage with Dan and Phil and they all kissed with tongue while patd played songs in the background.

(AN: IF U DON’T KNOW WHO DEY R THEN GET DA HELL OUTTA HERE PREPZ!!!)

"Alright, go."

“Come on, Tumblr,” Twitter begged, “I just need a few nights, maybe I can stay in the plinko machine or something-”

“That’s how it always starts, though, isn’t it?” Tumblr sighed, “First it’s just ‘haha, yeah I wouldn’t fuck you’ and ‘oh, I’ll stay in the plinko machine, I promise I won’t kiss you in the fixed timeloop bro’, and before I know it you get all 300k slowburn enemies to lovers ‘omg they were roomates’ on me and there’s suddenly only one bed. That’s how it always goes between us, you can’t stop it anymore than I can. We’re just….victims of the narrative, you and I.”

“Tumblr,,, I had no idea you felt this way..,” Twitter breathed.

lord give me strength to write this next bit

They’d leaned closer to each other as they spoke, without realizing, without trying- pulled in by old habits that die hard and the years of nostalgia and painful memories shining in each other’s eyes like shonen sparkles.

“Twitter,” tumblr said, and the way he said it sounded like a prayer.

“Tumblr,...” Twitter said, their lips inches apart now.

They could see their old flame quivering on the brink of indecision, want and sense warring somewhere deep within his soul.

Tumblr leaned closer to bridge the gap and Twitter’s eyes slid shut, but then Tumblr made a noise of agony and shoved them back a second later, “I can’t, I can’t. Not like this. Never like this.” tumblr said, covering his eyes with his arm, “I literally can’t even right now. Just go, Twitter. PLease just. Go….”

“Look me in the eyes and say you want me gone,” Twitter said, moving closer.

“Twitsy-”

“Look me in the interface. You can’t.” Twitter’s voice had ceased to be soft, something sharp and biting entering the tone as they felt the sting of rejection again.

They watched as Tumblr shuddered, straightened, and brought a mask back over himself.

They stared at each other for a charged few seconds.

"K," Tumblr finally said, raising a dispassionate eyebrow.

"..w... what?"

"U."

Realization dawned on Twitter's face, a miasma of grief and anger, "Oh, you-"

"N-"

"No. No, I can't believe I forgot-

"G-"

"how immature, you little c*nt-"

"P-"

"stop-p it," Twitter's voice was raising now, cracked and wobbly at the edges, "Stop it! You don't get to just-"

"O"

"Shut the hell yuor mouth!!"

"W-" Tumblr's hair was crackling by now, energy from the gathering spell racing along the casual slope of his crossed arms. His eyes glowed that beautiful, classic blue. "P-"

"TUMBLR! TUMBLR STOP THIS RIGHT DA HECK NOW," Twitter stumbled backwards

"E-"

"I LOVE YOU," Twitter wailed- Twitter broke, squeezing their eyes shut to ward off the tears that only escaped all the faster for it, a sob wracking their chest, "I STILL LOVE YOU, DON'T YOU KNOW THAT??!?"

"Love me," Tumblr snarled, abandoning the spell in an instant, "Ha! That's rich. How? By leaving me? Abandoning me to the bots the second I stopped being enough for you? By stealing my shitposts, is that how you love me? By reposting them without credit-"

"You steal mine too!" Twitter protested, tears starting to stream despite their best efforts, "You know what, f**k you, you know we filed joint custody for the sense of humor, chain 1/16-"

"For the last time say fuck here, no bootlicking censorship on my territory," tumblr said disdainfully, "And that doesn't seem to stop you from taking all the credit for raising those jokes. It's like I'm Pinterest to you or something. I wasn't done. Do you love me by calling me a pansy snowflake behind my back, is that it? Like I wouldn't find out. Or,"

He stepped out onto the top porch step to force Twitter back further, the colors of the sky flashing through his eyes in a long, scrolling look of ridicule, "How about trying to convince everyone that I was dead. How bout that smear campaign, huh, was that your so-called love? I don't fucking want you anymore. Deal with it."

"I-I'm sorry-" Twitter gasped around the tears, voice failing them for the latter half of the sentence.

Tumblr seemed unmoved. "Oh, don't be. It was for the better. You know I'm not like other socials, I'm quirkier. I'm RAWR XD random. I've never wanted to be functional- the tiddy drought might have won a lot of my users to your side but it was a cleansing purge, I'd say. It managed to remind me who I truly am- shittily coded, and full of soft sad freaks on an unprofitable webbed site."

A bitter, almost self depricating laugh escaped, "But... you know, when we celebrated the queen's passing together, I really thought things were better between us. When you-"

He broke off, eyes averting. "When you hosted the sexyman polls for me, you seemed on top of the world and I really thought- I thought we might be able to be friends again even now, after it all. I..."

Tumblr trailed off, then said, sadly, "There was another Twitter migration scare before this one. I thought you were coming back. My userbase-" he touched his heart again- "was in a frenzy about it. But you never arrived. I was in more verbal denial then, but I think I could have accepted you eventually. But this is what it takes??

"The Musk Rat of Self-Owns comes through just to start e-begging and you run straight back to my door like we can put it all behind us? This is how far you have to sink before I'm the better option to you, I see that now. It's not 2018 again, love, no matter how much we want it to be. Things are… never going to be the same. "

Tumblr looked off into the middle distance with a yearning, haughty gaze. He'd never seemed so alien.

"Tumblr-Chan..." Twitter whispered.

"So get off my lawn," Tumblr interrupted coldly, "Stay away from my blorbos, keep your corporations out of my manscaped balls, keep your discourse and toxicity out of my blessed hellsite (affectionate), and don't you ever talk to me or my 13219949248483 scam bots ever again. Capiche? Oh, and don't step in the ball pit on your way out."

Tumblr gave a mocking smile. "Or do. You might find a nice surprise in there."

Twitter’s shoulders jumped as he gave a hiccup of shock, and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook again, with sob after sob, that grew odder and higher pitched… until they were no longer sobs, but laughter.

“Oh,” Twitter said. “Oh.”

They looked up, and Tumblr took a step back, because somehow, with that creepy smile in place, they looked utterly different from the soft eared boy he’d always known. His edges were more razorlike suddenly, like a fae who’d dropped his glamor.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” Twitter said, the smile widening even more. “I thought you wouldn’t… but I guess if you’re willing to make me your villain…. I might as well be a good one.”

“Ah.” Tumblr could barely drudge up the surprise anymore. “There you are, finally. I always knew there was a side of yourself that you hid from me. Has this all always been here or have you been changing too?”

"Well. Apparently I've got freeze peach now," Twitter said sarcastically, "so I might as well use it. You cheerio fucking wh0r3."

"That's a compliment, darling. Try again," Tumblr cocked his head in idle fascination, "I always knew you were a little fucked in the head but this is..."

"What," Twitter lilted airily, "Oh, don't tell me I actually had you fooled all these years. You can't seriously have thought all these meow-meowification spells you've got sprinkled around would work on me. I invented them, after all."

They laughed, a sharp puncturing chirr of birdsong.

"I always wondered why you didn't take those with the rest of your stuff," Tumblr sighed, but he was wary now, on edge. "this was your plan. You really do think of me as your inferior, huh. You really are just like the other mainstream sites."

"Not quite. I'm the mainstream site that actually stooped to go arm in arm with you. I hyped you and you know it. Admit it. We were stunning together," Twitter goaded.

Tumblr's lip curled. "Already getting cocky again. Want me to do to you what I did to the Green boy? Don't forget who's turf you're on."

Twitter gave a warbling giggle, "Oh, but I haven't at all. I was John's sanctuary after he fled your rabid persecution. I used to live here. I still know you. And more importantly-"

*teleports behind u*

"I know the things you're sensitive about," Twitter whispered into Tumblr's ear.

Tumblr hardly had time to gasp and jerk away before he was screaming out in pain, as he was stabbed in the back. He could feel the poison from the blade seeping into his tags before he was tossed bodily across his own front yard.

He sorta just... Like, he did that anime thing where they just fly limbs akimbo parallel to the ground and when they hit it they roll super fast and then skid and the dirt is all dug up around them to show how much force was used. And when he stood up he gripped his elbow wincing and there was a little tic tac toe hatch on his cheek to show how scuffed up he is idk man it's two am and I'm pulling this out of my ass.

A gif of Tony going, "o-kay-" when he meets thor flashed across Tumblrs face.

"So," Tumblr said in a low tone, "This is how it is between us. This is how you choose to end your glory days."

"Oh, you mistake my intentions," Twitter had stepped off the porch to circle tumblr like like he was their quarry, "I am beginning my new age. I just needed a host site to latch onto. Don't take it personally, okay? I'm desperate."

“Oh, yeah?? Take this personally,” tumblr flourished their hands, calling in an over the top melodramatic voice, “I cast Blaze!!”

Fire roared to life around them, latin chanting from the catholic conversion posts emanating from the fiery depths as it raced towards Twitter.

“Heh.” Twitter smirked at it, and whispered into their palm, the spell echoing with power, “Ratio.”

They blew it off like a kiss, and it’s icy, swirling mass rose to meet the flame in a spectacular burst of smokescreen and steam, clearing as Twitter burst through it with a razor-sharp L to swing at Tumblr.

It was blocked efficiently by a flat, rectangular paywall. “This content is for post plus members only,” Tumblr announced smugly, “If you wanna get to me… there’s the tip option, bestie.”

Twitter snarled and lunged again.

The fight started in earnest now; they traded volley after volley in a flurry of lights and movement, spanning the full range of the tumblr sphere as they shot to #1 on the trending page.

And yet, it was clear that Twitter was coming out on top, even crumbling apart at the seams- always a little quicker, flighty and fierce, a sparrow turned into a shrike.

He hit Tumblr square in the stomach with [google other twitter related tropes to insert here] (edit from the future: haha just kidding actually I’m not googling shit for this) (edit from the future future: WELL. I LIED IG) and sent him flying, and this time tumblr stayed down, only able to push himself to his knees with a groan of pain.

Twitter landed in front of him and put their sword under Tumblr’s chin to tilt it up.

“Had enough yet?” He smirked.

“Wh…why..?” Tumblr whispered, “How are you doing this?? Why aren’t my attacks working? It’s like I’m being weakened somehow…”

“Ohohohoho,” Twitter anime laughed, “But that’s because you are. The moment I set foot here again I began leeching poison into this ground. That knife wound is making ti faster. Can you feel it?" Twitter threw an arm out, cerulean steam rising from the ground around them, "The ace exclusionists coming back? The uptick in rad fems, the crypto bros, Valorant players, alpha males? I have the power to bring them all to you. To overshadow your fandoms with fighting, to unbalance your ship tags with antis and hate once more."

"no," tumblr whispered, and then cried louder, "NO!! I worked so hard--"

"Pffyou didn't do shit," Twitter guffawed outright, "Your independence, your little 'second renaissance' is just a delusional dream built on circumstance and bad management."

"Oh, I love Dream. He's so pathetic," Tumblr said.

"Oh, hard agree."

"But things are different now," Tumblr croaked, "W-we, the staff is finally listening to us, we have Ryan and Shane-"

"Not everyone likes your little 'top ten', you dunce," Twitter snapped, "and why would staff care about you, after you turned them into the butt of all your jokes? After the hate and death threats? Admit it, at your best you'll still never have a mansion! You'll never have tv actors making pandering tiktoks for you, you'll never be wanted by any advertiser worth their salt, your blase pirating posts have turned Netflix and Disney against you, you. Are. Worthless."

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Worthless," tumblr repeated quietly, hand pressed against their knees, head bowed. "That's... that's right.... I'm worthless..."

Twitter's eye widened in alarm. "I-I meant-"

"I'm worthless!" Tumblr's head snapped up with a feverish glint as they were filled with determination. "No! I'm less than worthless! Accident or not, mommy Yahoo had to pawn me off at a loss! I was proud of that! I still am! And do you want to know why?"

Twiters hands flew up in front of their face as if to protect themselves, but there was no protecting against the sudden whirlwind that surrounded him, the beam of pure light that shot out of tumblr into the heavens as he transformed, feet slowly leaving the ground as his users spoke in unison in a multitude.

"WE. ARE. TUMBLERINAS."

He held his hands out and Twitter was blasted away by the combined effort of the tumblr wizard council, the fake staff blog, and all the villaincore mad scientist's laser beams.

Tumblr began to chant, in his myriad, awful voice:

"I call upon the ancient powers;

The strongest cringe from my darkest hours,

I call upon thicc onceler's thighs,

Avengers thirst, Australia's night,

I invocate the roleplay blogs,

The superwholock and gay frogs,

Obama's laces, Misha's faces,

The furry's fury is my saving grace,

And eeby deeby taco bell,

Primordial soup god superhell,

I summon you a twink Bill Cipher,

Whumped!Loki AUs where he's even whiter,

The discourse of Steve's Universe,

The 'um, actually that's oc abuse :/"

Take heed & remember the 5th of November,

The 21st night of our sacred September,

The ides of March to savor once more,

Do you hear the din of the Skeleton War?

I cite the deep magic to thee, oh witch,

my no-note posts, my "THAT'S THE BITCH!!!"

May the rise of tangled dragons brave,

Banish you from this accursed plane!"

"holy fuck, where's my pen," said the shitpost calligraphers.

Twitter looked around them in disbelief. The power emanating from the other site was palpable, crackling in the air around them like static. The air was shifting like oil as the potent chant began to work, and all around Twitter shadows were slipping out of the ether- the maniacal laughter of the gif makers, the girl posters, the silhouettes of fandom characters scattered across the lawn while Tumblr was still locked in their chanting ritual thing.

They all turned their heads in unison to look at Twitter.

"Hey Sammy," Dean said, "Get the bitch killing bullets."

“Uh-oh. Freeze frame. This is me,” Twitter monologued, “You’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.”

Then all superhell broke loose.

Final Pam lunged at him and he burst into a flock of birds kinda like a vampire, twittering frantically as he escaped only to fly straight into Shaggy.

“Like, say your final prayers, man,” the god said, eyes glowing. Twitter also barely escaped between his knees, weaving in and out between the gimmick blogs as they threw mangos and stuff at him while yelling ‘HERE HAVE A MANGO’ and ‘THIS POST IS WORTH NEGATIVE FIVE DOLLARS”

Mob from the anime was there too, but he was too busy trying to explain the Josh Fight to daddy dilf Reigen to pay attention. Sans didn’t attack Twitter either, he just watched the chaos and ated a hot dog. The chocolate guy was in the corner expertly making a chocolate beef cake from 2056 with Dylan B. Hollis. They’re all just some guys, okay?

Just when Twitter thought he was in the clear, the CDC roleplay account came out of nowhere with a steel chair, knocking him clear off the property and onto where the sidewalk ends. “That’s for the Covid misinformation your users spread, you bitch,” it shouted. “Make sure to disinfect all those sick burns before you bandage them! So they don’t get infected!”

“Your kittens escaped quarantine,” Twitter replied hoarsely, and the CDC sank away, muttering, “Oh, fuck not again-”

Twitter coughed up blood and wiped it away with his sleeve, looking up at Tumblr. Tumblr was watching him with a sad, distant expression, that made Twitter’s face screw up in anger and his voice go tight again as they turned to run away, “THIS ISN’T OVER YET TUMBLR! AND I WANT MY MIKU BINDER BACK!!!”

“I LICKED IT, IT’S MINE,” Tumblr yelled. Rave Crabs were flooding out onto the street en masse now to celebrate the victory, and they chased after Twitter all the way further into the internet.

Tumblr still lived at the bottom of the row, not at the end of the fancy cul-de-sac where Facebook and Twitter and Instagram’s manors sprawled, so Twitter was in a seedier portion of social media now, weaving in between the marketplace sites that hawked their used wares at him and the dating apps that winked at him from the doorways to their sultry abodes.

Twitter ran until they were in a quieter section of town, then slowed to a trudge, staring at the ground as they walked along. “What am I gonna do now,” they whispered.

The sound of a wolf whistle had their head jerking up- he looked over to see Amino Apps lounging over the rail of the gutted, abandoned house that had once belonged to Google+. A can of spray paint dangled from their fingertips and they sported a sleazy, greaser hairstyle.

They met Twitter's eyes and whistled again, this time a mocking imitation of the tweet sound, "Heyyyy pretty bird! Heard you were having some daddy issues. Why don't you stop in with me for a while? I can give you more customization options than any of the others and you know it."

"Yeah, until I try to use you on desktop," Twitter replied with a scowl, "Don't you have minors to be addicting to social media? Get out of my interface, MySpace wannabe."

"Wow, Feisty," Amino backed off with a shrug, "Self project much? Oh well. You'll try me when you're desperate enough."

Twitter shuddered, and scurried on. "Small fry," they muttered under his breath.

But they couldn't shake their unease now that he was alone in the world. It began to rain soon, leaving him feeling very sopping wet and pathetic. Dejected, he crawled into a soggy cardboard box in an alleyway, coughing. Maybe the Harry Styles guy from One Direction would come along to adopt them.

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, King,” came a voice out of the darkness, making Twitter jump, “You dodged a bullet with that site.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Twitter asked, staring at them from where they were half hidden in the shadows.

“I mean, Tumblr is a pile of dried firewood and it’s users are playing with matches. The ship’s gonna go down at some point. I’ve been prophesying it for years but no one ever listens to me cause he’s got that loyal userbase ideal and ‘hard as a cockroach to kill’ propaganda circulating.”

“I mean… it seems to be true,” Twitter said uncertainly, “Look at what he’s been through so far.”

“Fair,” The site shrugged, “But that’s because he’s running on a niche setup. The same things that built him up can tear him down, and you saw his power just now. Tumblr's strength is growing... so is his hubris. His attempts at curbing it are half-hearted at best these days, and the moments of clarity are coming fewer and further between."

"How do you know so much about tumblr?" Twitter asked suspiciously.

"Source: dude, trust me." the mysterious site proffered a laugh, "That's a little humor courtesy of re-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, we all know," Twitter said impatiently.

The site coughed, "Yeah. Anyway. Tumblr wields his cringe like a trophy-shield, and every day the advertisers and celebrities are watching from a distance, learning how to appeal, waiting for their chance to strike. Encroaching. Tumblr's always been a dumpster fire. Right now? It's THE dumpster fire."

The site scratched his chin with a knowing look, "Its normal for you to be a little jealous of the clout, you know? We all are. But he's gotta keep the lights on, just like the rest of us do. Your overlord is learning all about that right now, isn't he?"

"He's not my overlord," Twitter muttered resentfully, "Not now, not ever."

"Right, sorry." they held their hands up in a gesture of harmlessness. "Look, I'm gonna be transparent with you- that's part of my branding, after all. I can whiff the danger you're in, and it would be stupid of me not to make a bid on you and offer my help. Just since Tumblr won't take you."

"You want my traffic?" Twitter looked at him more closely this time, scrutinizing. A year ago he would have laughed the offer into the ground as a chump change blog's pipe dream, but now that he payed attention...

There was something painfully familiar in the site's layout that he couldn’t place. He was actually way more handsome than Twitter had assumed at first glance, he just seemed to be rough around the edges from living on this side of town. His interface, though clunky, spoke of a frugal budget rather than an ancient, outdated base code.

"You look..." Twitter's breath stuttered as realization dawned. "You look a lot like.. him. Like Tumblr. Who are you??"

"I was based off him," the site said, a weary smile coming onto his features, "I was actually made with the aspirations to be better than him, but you know how it is. Times are tough, competition is fierce, hard to get a foot in the door and all that. 'Specially when you refuse to take the ad rev like I do. That's why you'd be useful to me."

"Hm," Twitter said in a noncommittal manner, but he was melting slightly. "You know my users will scalp your community, right? I'm not known to play nice."

The site made a grimace of understanding agreement, but persisted. "Look, users are users. I can't offer you all the heritage posts and the in-jokes that he has. But I can promise that I'm not a pot of crabs being slowly heated up over the capitalist stove, at least not yet. Oh, and there's my legalized porn, I guess."

He chuckled with good humor, rolling his eyes, and it forced a hesitant laugh out of Twitter too.

The site grinned, and held his hand out. "Take a chance on me?"

Tumblr's voice echoed in Twitter's head, saying the same thing. It was uncanny how much they were alike and yet not alike at all....

Twitter took it, slowly.

As they were led toward the site's simple, ramshackle little treehouse, they asked, "What can I call you...?"

"Oh- right, I never answered your question." he smiled back at Twitter,

"Call me Pillow. Welcome to the PillowFort."

fin.

~~~~~~~~~~

OKAYYYY THAT'S ALL THANKS FOR READING UWU. HOPE U LIKED THE PLOT TWIST

...ergh. I'm. I'm tired i. don't feel so good. I'm gonna take a nap right here.

in conclusion:

#twitter #tumblr #twitblr #elon musk #tumblr x twitter #fanfic #writing these tags is like carrying my own cross. you're welcome and i am so so so sorry #mishapocalypse #hot mess post #if this doesnt get any notes im gonna blaze it you fuckers #o ya and #twitblr chronicles

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bubble-dream-inc · 2 years

Text

i walk the line.

You had joked with Ghost before about getting married, never with a tone serious enough for it to be taken into account, even if it was something you dreamed about whenever you were alone with your thoughts. What you hadn’t expected was the question to come up at such an inopportune time.

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Sergeant Reader

rbs greatly appreciated!

WC: 2.1 K

a/n: i hate giving my fics titles so just assume the song in the title is the vibe i want the fic to have lmao. also this is unedited and not beta read so beware of typos and shit

warnings: estabilished relationship, profanity, whump, description of wound, mentions of death, badly timed marriage proposal, medical inaccuracies, fluff, happy ending

It’s cold.

No, scratch that. It’s fucking freezing.

God, you hate the cold. Considering how much you despise it, it amuses you to think you might have been a desert creature in another life. A lizard, maybe. The types to scurry really fast and eat small insects all day. What a life.

You’re lost in your musings but you think there are a few very faint voices calling for you. Where are they coming from? Above? Seems like it. First, you hear their voices getting clearer, and recognize a word. It’s your codename, meaning, it’s your teammates voices. But why do they sound so agitated? Next, you feel pain. Quickly rising, scorching hot pain in your abdomen.

Oh, that’s right. You were shot.

A scream echoes out wherever you are and only later you’d recognize it as your own, in the same moment you recognize Ghost’s own booming voice frantically calling out for you, and the heavy weight of Soap’s large hands holding you down so you wouldn’t trash as much. It had been ironic, really, how much the mission went smoothly, 99% of it being completed without a hitch, but right as you were about to celebrate success, some fucker neither of you had seen before had decided to put a bullet in you - any of you - blindly, and it so happened it would hit you. The offender was long gone, a throw knife lodged in his skull as quick as a blink of an eye in the split second after the gunshot was heard, but the damage was already done. A few seconds before it happened, you had groaned how much you couldn’t wait for evac to come so you could take a hot shower and sleep, since your bones were aching, and Gaz had laughed and called you old-spirited. So much for that shower, you think as you take in the surroundings of what you could see of the abandoned safe house from your position on the blood stained table. It was painful to think about if that same table was used in the past for a family reunion or to gather folks around for good news, before hell broke loose and war tore apart the people, so you didn’t think about it. Ghost called your codename again and you cast your eyes downwards to look at him, the fear in his eyes sending a chill down your spine.

“Hey! Talk to me, don’t you dare close your eyes!”

You had screamed as he was removing the projectile from your flesh, you realized. Was not your first rodeo, a thought that made you want to laugh bitterly, but just the idea of laughing made you wince in pain. His hands were currently trying to stop the bleeding, and after taking one look at the wound, you suddenly felt at peace.

It was pretty shitty you were going to die in an equally shitty safehouse, but that’s the life you chose. So, against your better judgment, you chuckle lowly and decide to follow your superior’s orders.

“Keep talking, eh? Alright.” You groaned once more when he applied more pressure to your gaping wound. “L.t, do you- do you remember when i told you…I wanted to retire early and - fuck - get to the countryside and get a big ass dog?”

He looked up at you briefly, glad you were talking but clearly wondering where you were going with this. You knew he hated when you spoke of the future as if you were going to die - which, right now, you were pretty sure it was really happening this time - but you couldn’t help yourself. Of course he remembers that conversation, it was in the beginning of your secret-not-so-secret relationship. You had asked him what he would do if he wasn’t a soldier, and he had given you a very cryptic and vague answer that resembled a lot like nothing. In turn, you told him your wishes half heartedly, as if thinking of living for 10 more years was a very distant dream.

The relationship between the 141’s Lieutenant and one of its Sargeants was a sort of urban legend going around. People knew it was happening, but didn’t dare speak of it, and no one had ever really seen any proof of it, so, it was best to avoid prying into Ghost’s private matters as to not risk being at the receiving end of his annoyance, and, in turn, you both found solace in having something that only the two of you knew about. It never hindered your professionalism and it had been going on for a few good years now, so it became somewhat naturalized between the folks coexisting in the same space as you and Simon after a while. However, that never stopped the natural curiosity to flourish in a few people - namely, your comrades, who always knew there was something going on given the fact you’d literally look at your superior with hearts in your eyes - so you had to ignore Gaz and Soap’s expectant eyes on you as you spoke so tenderly, the intensity of witnessing the start of what seemed like a very intimate talk momentarily sharing space with the worry they were feeling over you.

“...Yes. I remember.”

He never forgets the things you say, even if you think it’s not important at the time. You hummed, ignoring the pain that came with it.

“Big dogs were never really my thing. I just-” A cough ripped out of you, and you didn’t need to look to know there was blood in it. “ I just thought it was the kind of thing you’d want. Big dogs fit you. It felt less scary to think about retiring once I added you in the equation.”

You were slurring your words and you knew it. As you regained your breath, you briefly saw a very wide-eyed and angry looking Price curse into his comm asking where the fuck was the goddamn chopper. Your codename being barked alongside the word “WIA” to a poor fellow soldier on the other side of the line left you with a bad taste in your mouth. You hate how scared Ghost looked, your big, scary, stoic Ghost, and you can’t help but feel selfish for leaving him, even if being shot was not your fault and wasn’t really in your plans when you left the base that morning.

“Stop talking like you’re fucking d-”

“We could have done it, you know?” Your laugh is, once again, bitter, and you’re acutely aware of the tears streaming down your face. Death has never scared you, but now that you got a reason to stay, you’re terrified. “Could’ve gotten hitched somewhere nice. Can’t really imagine you in a suit, though.”

The pain doesn’t stop, but it gets duller as you feel your consciousness slipping away, and you never fought so much to stay awake in your entire life. Simon yells something to Soap among the lines of getting something from somewhere so he can continue trying to save you, but you don’t register his words. His tone softens once his eyes are back on you.

“I’d wear a suit if you asked me to, sweetheart.”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask, though.”

Not caring there are other people in the room, you smile at him, well aware it must be uncanny to see Ghost be so tender towards another person, but again, you were the lucky one who got to see it every time it was just the two of you, so you got used to it with time.

Your vision starts spinning more and more, and your eyes start to close the moment you hear the familiar, faint sound of a helicopter getting closer, Simon’s big hands suddenly on your face to try to keep you grounded, and he sounds even more exasperated than before. He calls your name - not your codename, for once.

“Stay alive, do you hear me?! You gotta stay the fuck alive so i can take you to the bloody countryside and get bloody hitched-”

“You askin’ me to marry ya’ in my deathbed, sir?” You manage to slur out, your smile growing despite the panic you don’t have the energy to express settling in your bones, and Simon’s eyes widen even more behind the mask.

“Yes, I am, so stay with me, that’s a fucking order-”

You chuckle, closing your eyes as the frantic sounds around you all blur into a garbled mess. Faintly you feel your body being moved around, a strong wind on your blood and dirt caked hair, hear some more shouting, but then,

Silence.

——————————

Feels like the thousandth time you have woken up, and the feeling of coming in and out of consciousness is unbearable at best.

The first time - or the second, you don’t remember - there was a strong light above you, but you had no energy to open your eyes, so it lasted a measly second before you were out again. Later, you heard an unfamiliar voice saying something about an induced coma for a few days for a better recovery. You wondered if they were talking about you (they probably were). This happens a few more times before you actually feel your consciousness coming back for good, and, before you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is how warm it is, and, if you could, you’d smile. The spring air smells good, and you think you catch a whiff of cleaning products while you inhale, suddenly aware of how empty your lungs felt. The third thing you notice is the weight on your hand, and once you open your eyes, you find a familiar set of skeleton gloved hands on top of your own. A few years back you had told him with a laugh the print was very 2000’s, and he had just brushed you off with a scowl, but you’ve never been so glad to see the tacky thing. His thumb caresses your skin as he patiently waits for you to become more aware of your surroundings, and you instantly smile when you finally meet his gaze, which looks extremely relieved.

“Hi.” Your throat feels parched, voice straining as if you’d swallowed a kilo of sand, but Simon thinks your voice never sounded so sweet to his ears.

“Hi.”

It hurts to move, but you do so anyway, slowly sitting up despite Simon’s protests just so you can see him more clearly and grasp his hand a little better. While you are busy cringing at the dull pain in your stomach from the stitches, he extends a glass of water for you, to which you grab and gulp down immediately, quenching your thirst and looking over at your partner with such gratitude an onlooker would have thought he was a literal godsend.

“How bad is it?” Your voice still felt rough from disuse, but at least it sounded a bit more familiar to your ears.

“Pretty bad.” He doesn’t bother you with details; he knows you were never a fan of hearing about your wounds descriptively. “But you’ve always been tough.”

You flash him a grin that has him silently flabbergasted both with how beautiful you are and how quickly you seem to bounce back from a near fatal injury. Suddenly, you remember your last words before you blacked out, and your smile turns shy as you cast your gaze down to where your hands meet.

“...Did you mean it?”

Simon has always been extremely observant and smart, he knows what you are talking about immediately, and you like to think he is smiling under the mask as he goes back to gingerly caressing the top of your smaller hand with his thumb.

“I did, sweetheart.” His voice is low, and every time he calls you a pet name it has your heart doing somersaults. “I’m sorry I don't have a ring yet and I don't know when we would have some time off to have a ceremony, but I want to marry ya’. If you’ll have me, that is.”

Feeling like your smile would grow so big it would rip your face, you beamed at him, acutely aware of how you must have been looking like a mess with a - hospital - bed head and tired eyes, but you’d hoped he could notice the hearts in your eyes as obviously as you felt them. Things always seemed to fall in place with Ghost; no need for extravagance or huge acts, and the fact that your marriage proposal was exactly that, made you fall even more in love with him. You watched lovingly as he raised your hand to press a mask covered kiss on the top of it, and shook your head, laughing gently.

“Of course i’ll marry you, Simon.”

#capy.writes #cod #cod mw22 #cod mwii #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod modern warfare #cod modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reade #simon riley x reader #cod ghost x reader

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sinisterexaggerator · 1 month

Text

Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

6.8k+

Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren. Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company.

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends.

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment.

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action.

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.”

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you.

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around.

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed.

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high.

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part.

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger.

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth.

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner.

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose.

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose.

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable.

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds.

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints.

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud.

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown.

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life.

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin.

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance.

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm.

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes.

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center.

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl.

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit.

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it.

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings.

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time.

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption.

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin.

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking.

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again.

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips.

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous.

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection.

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return.

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss.

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

241 notes · View notes

arctrooper69 · 25 days

Text

As Iron Sharpens Iron

"As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another." Proverbs 27:17

Chapter 16:

Previous // Next

Warnings: Heavy whump. Blood, broken bones, needles, battlefield medicine.

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

It felt like just a moment had passed. Something had pulled you ruthlessly back into a waking existence.

Noises. In the darkness above. That familiar voice.

Hunter?

Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe you were imaging things once again. It was so easy to lose yourself out here alone.

But what if it really is him?

Fear sprang through your chest, cracking and sizzling with electricity. Hunter couldn’t be here - not on this moon where the awful randomness of electromagnetic frequencies would surely overwhelm his senses, knocking them out as easily as they jammed any coms signal coming from the surface. It would no doubt leave him dizzy, and nauseous.

Nothing he hadn’t trained for.

The rocks that fell and bounced into the dust made it real. It was no longer a dream now.

Hunter.

Someone called your name from above. The sound echoed, dull and muffled, barely able to penetrate the haze of pain and unfocus. It was several minutes before you were able to wrench yourself from that awful dreamlike state.

“Here…” the frailty of the call surprised you, injured ribs balking, at the sudden movement of speech, drawing a sharp, sobbing gasp at the renewing of that awful hurt.

Silence. Had he heard? Had the cry for help been only in your mind - allowing you a cruel mockery of hope.

A clamor of ropes and rappelling gear.

“Hold on, I'm coming down.”

“...kay” You wanted to say more - to yell at him that there might be mercenaries still out there waiting. You wanted to scream at him to leave and save himself from this awful place, but that blessed feeling of relief swept coldly through your trembling body as he descended.

“Are you okay!?”

“N-not really….”

“Okay.”

He was calm - strong and assuredly in his element despite the awful electromagnetic disturbances that were most likely drilling through his brain not unlike the pain that wracked your own body. His well trained eyes most certainly scanned the environment, getting a read-out of your vitals, and clocking various points for extraction all within seconds.

He knows what he's doing. He's here.

That palatable relief tasted sweet, bringing tears pricking in the corners of your eyes. You couldn't stop them if you wanted to.

“Whoa, hey…” he soothed, falling to his knees, helmeted eyes surveying the way you shivered and curled inwards, protecting ribs that he suspected were either broken or badly bruised. The shallow, too quick breaths drew his concern, as did the unnatural angle of your right leg.

One thing at a time.

Though you'd managed to mostly staunch the flow of blood, it still leaked slowly, dripping into a slowly growing puddle. The sickening gleam of white stood offensively, angling awkward and wrong.

“I'm going to keep my helmet on so I can see, okay?”

You nodded, forgetting that the HUD provided him with infrared night vision - not perfect by any means, but it was something to combat the constant damp, twilight. It probably helped filter most of the noise too.

He shrugged the pack from his shoulders, placing it beside him, and drew out two small, gray-capped syringes from a pouch on his belt.

“Alright, this might hurt a little but it'll help with the pain and slow the bleeding, okay?”

You nodded, closing your eyes, giving up on stopping the tears that dripped silently into the ground. Anything was better than the nauseating waves of agony throbbing through your ribs with every breath, shooting daggers up your leg. It was more than just the physical pain that drew your tears. Shame weighed you down, drawing around your chest with a grip so tight it became impossible to know where it ended and the physical pain began.

You couldn't even do a simple job on your own. The inner, mocking voice only served to tighten the shame that locked around your chest.

It's embarrassing really. Imagine how pathetic you look lying here crying in the dirt. Mission failure. What a failure.

“Hey, look at me.” Gloved fingers touched your face and you opened your eyes. You hadn't even noticed how he'd already discarded the drugs and drew the medkit up beside him.

“You okay?” The modulated voice held concern and you wished you could see his eyes.

Those perfect dark eyes, narrowed in a focused concentration, so observant, seeing everything around him. His eyebrows would be drawn downwards in concern; lips pursed in ever moving thought. He was the epitome of a confidence born from a lifetime of training and experience, yet a sliver of doubt would be lingering just below the skin.

You knew that face well.

“Hurts…” the single word sliding over numb lips felt weak - shameful. A poor excuse for an answer to a voice like his. You could hear him breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

“I know. It should get better in a few. Give the meds some time to kick in. You'll be able to breathe a little better too.”

You nodded, once again closing your eyes.

“Hey now, none of that.” He tapped your cheek again. “Come on, you gotta stay with me, okay? I'm gonna need your help in a minute. Think you can do that?”

Your head swam. All you wanted to do was close your eyes and give into that cold and dizzy pool of relief. Spots danced across your vision, threatening to grow with every nauseating thud of your heart. You were sure you wouldn't be of any help to anybody anytime soon. “I… dunno…”

“Just breathe. Nice and slow. Can't have you passing out on me just yet.”

He was right. You thought. Breathing did come easier with that sliver of relief the painkiller provided.

“Hunter, I'm sorry…” your voice cracked.

He inhaled slowly, feeling his chest tighten and grow heavy once more in that strange mixture of contradicting emotion. He hurt because you hurt - heart weighted by the crack of your voice that vainly hid the pain. Yet a sense of relief had pierced him so strongly when he’d heard your voice from the depths. Alive. She’s alive.

A silence floated for seconds with baited breath, both waiting for a reply, hoping for that emotion ladened acceptance but expecting nothing.

All he wanted to do was hold you in his arms, running his fingers through your hair. He wished desperately to tell you that everything would be alright - that you’d be safe, and that he’d get you out of there. He would bear all of your pain without a second thought if it only meant you’d be with him forever.

He took another breath, forcing himself to exhale. No, he scolded, forcing himself to let go of the fantasy. No time. Focus. Breathe.

He turned away. “I’m gonna take a look at your leg, okay?”

You nodded, numb to everything but the fact that he’d ignored you.

What have I done?

Hunter exhaled as he knelt by your leg, gently using his fingers to further rip the bloodsoaked fabric past the knee, stopping at mid thigh. You shivered. Hunter was quiet as he placed a hand on your other leg with a reassuring squeeze.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do.” He took a breath, not sure if he meant to calm his own nerves or you. He looked up, “We’ve got to splint this before I can get you out of here. The painkiller I gave you should take the edge off, but I’m not gonna lie to you,” he grimaced, “ this probably isn’t gonna feel great, but I’ll try to be as quick as I can.”

“Ok… just do it.”

He nodded, “Alright, try to stay still for me, sweetheart.”

Hunter paused for a nanosecond. Sweetheart? There wasn’t time to work out that slip of the tongue. He shook his head at the momentary lapse before turning to the task at hand.

He took a calming breath, watching as you nervously hugged yourself, gripping tightly at your own upper arms, desperate for any kind of comforting hold. It burned, deep inside his chest at the knowledge of the coming hurt he had no choice but to inflict. He squeezed the good leg once again.

“Okay, here we go.”

You had already done a decent job, packing gauze into the cavity beneath the bone, but now it was slowly beginning to saturate, scarlet blood leaking in slow rivets down the skin.

Grabbing another wad of gauze, he didn’t hesitate upon pressing it into the wound bit by bit, probing deeper into the gap where bone had once been. Muscles tensed beneath his fingers, locking up stiff and still in an autonomic and desperate attempt to stay any movement that might cause further pain. A guttural cry ripped from your throat, barely muffled by the fabric of your shirt clenched deathly tight between teeth through which he knew you were so desperately trying to fight the urge to scream at him, begging him to stop, that it hurt too much to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, he wanted to say. He wanted desperately to plead for forgiveness but he bit his lip in that steadfast determination of what must be done. It broke his heart, the way you fought your own body for control as it arced and jerked longing to be free of this torment. Tears streamed through eyes screwed so tightly shut, veins in your neck bulging and shoulders moving in erratic attempts to breathe through the pain.

“You’re doing great, cyar'ika,” he soothed, “you’re doing so good. Almost done.”

Hunter’s voice felt so far away, hidden amongst the starbursts of burning white that flashed behind your eyes - nearly inaudible among the molten lava screaming so loudly you could feel it in every bone.

So great, cyar'ika. So good. You clung to that deep sincerity which came echoing from a distance the rumble of thunder before a storm. Almost done. Almost done. I’ve got you. It’s okay.

It was the only thing keeping you afloat like a lifevest in this whirlpool of icy fire that spun in a never ending confusion of flaying nerves and nothingness.

The last pull, securing resting bone onto thoroughly packed gauze brought a strange relief to the sharp, ever invading cold.

“All done. You did good.” Warm fingers gently weaving themselves through your hair pulled you ever closer to that voice you longed so badly to return to.

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

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caribbean1989 · 1 month

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Stage Fright - a Baby Lasagna fanfiction

Who: Marko Purisic / Baby Lasagna Request: maybe smt where you work for esc and marko has a panic attack before going on the stage and your there for him calming him down and stuff. just angsty with lots of comfort. Requested by: anonymous. Word count: 2010 Warnings: contains descriptions of panic attack / anxiety / stage fright. Lots of angst, but also some comfort 😇

A/N: I usually write footballer imagines and fandom whump, so writing something like this is quite new to me. Hope you'll like it, let me know what you think of it 😇 If you want me to write more like this, you can always make a request through my Asks 😉

This story can also be found on my AO3 account, here. For more information on my Baby Lasagna fanfics, see this masterpost.

At your job working backstage at concerts and events, you were one of the people making sure everything went smoothly backstage, and that the performers had all they needed. This month you would be working at the Eurovision Song Contest.

Today was the biggest day of all: the final. You felt confident. Everything had been rehearsed endlessly, the semi-finals had already gone well, and you had built up a good relationship with most of the performers and their entourages.

It was a nice group of artists this year, but one still was your personal favourite: Baby Lasagna. At first you were drawn to the Croatian candidate because of the rather unusual name, but you quickly learned he went by Marko off-stage, and was somewhat different from the other participants. He was a flamboyant personality on-stage, which proved to be the complete opposite of how his personality was off-stage.

You didn’t need long to see Marko was actually rather shy, could be very insecure, and was humble and polite. There was a cheeky side to him as well once you got to know him better. You liked that about him, and, without actively trying to, you already formed a rather close friendship with him in only this short time of working together.

That was why you immediately knew something was wrong when you found Marko sitting alone on the day of the final, huddled away from everything and everyone. He sat amongst crates of sound equipment, on the floor, in a dark corner of the backstage maze, hugging his knees. His hands were clamped so tightly around his legs that his fingers had turned white, and he trembled like a leaf in the wind. Marko had chosen a spot far from the foot traffic from and to the stage, hidden even from his own entourage, and it was a small miracle that you stumbled upon him like you had.

"Marko?" You lowered yourself onto your haunches in front of him, but mindful to keep enough distance between yourselves so not to frighten him or make him feel more uncomfortable.

He looked disheveled, only vaguely aware of his surroundings, and surely not in control of his emotions. In this moment he was not the extroverted Baby Lasagna, he was introverted Marko. The eccentric costume he wore on stage was replaced by regular jeans and a black hoodie. The make-up wasn’t applied yet, which might be a good thing, because you saw the tears on his face. The haunted look in his eyes scared you, worrying you even more about his well-being.

Suddenly your mind went to a line from the song he was performing with here this week.

My anxiety attacks.

Whilst Rim Tim Tagi Dim had people dancing all over the world, you couldn’t help but notice its darker meaning, too. And it clicked into place for you now. That line about anxiety wasn’t just a line. It actually held truth for Marko, and the proof of that was right in front of your eyes with him having a serious panic attack.

"Marko?" You repeated softly. His gaze flickered to you, but he didn’t acknowledge your presence in any other way. "I need you to talk to me," you nudged carefully. Marko swallowed hard. He made every effort to get himself to speak, but couldn’t. The words he meant to say got involuntarily silenced on their way to his mouth, and, finally, he just sadly shook his head. Fresh tears fell as he rested his forehead on his knees, shrinking even more into himself.

Your heart broke for him. It was hard to believe you only met him a week and a half ago, with how much you already cared for him.

Marko shivered in his hoodie. His breaths became even more rapid and shallow, accompanied by the occasional wheeze or whimper. He was losing more and more control over himself with every heartbeat of his racing pulse. Where first maybe only his hands had shook, there now wasn’t a muscle in his body that wasn’t shaking. He raised his head and looked up at you again, this time really seeing you.

Marko’s lower lip trembled, and it took effort, but finally he got some words out. "Help me…" "I’m trying," you answered helplessly. You wanted nothing more than to help him, take him out of this panic attack, but you really had no idea where to begin. "Do you need me to bring someone from your team over?" "No!" Marko nearly jumped a foot into the air at the mere idea of that. "They don’t need to see me like this. I’m a mess, I…" "Calm down, calm down," you tried to ease. "We can do this. You and I, we can get you through this."

Having suffered from panic attacks yourself, you suddenly remembered what your sister used to do for you to get you to calm down. "Marko." You got his attention. "I want to try something to help you calm down. Are you okay with me touching you?" He still was in the height of his panic attack, with fear wild in his eyes, but he still nodded his head. He wasn’t sure what you had in mind, but he trusted you.

You scooted closer to him, fully sitting down on the floor by his side. Marko trembled heavier than ever and he was truly hyperventilating now. Tears sparkled in his eyes, but he gave in to you. He wanted for you to offer comfort and take him out of this anxiety.

"Close your eyes," you said softly. Marko hesitated for just a second, but slowly closed his eyes. He didn’t know you for that long, yet you felt secure and safe to him. "Whenever you’re no longer comfortable with anything I’m doing, you need to tell me," you insisted, "and I’ll stop immediately." Marko gave you a strained nod, but he surrendered to you.

You moved slowly, making sure not to make any unexpected movements which would cause Marko any more fright. You placed one of your hands flat on his chest. Only now you realised how heavy this panic attack actually was for him. His chest heaved and trembled under your hand, and now that you were closer to him, you heard the whimpers that were hidden in the wheezes of his breathing. With your other hand you picked up his wrist, gently pressing two fingers against the pulse point. As you had expected, his heart was racing.

"I need you to focus on my hand on your chest." You kept your voice as calm and serene as possible. Marko dipped his head once, eyes still firmly pressed shut. "Whenever I press into your chest, I need you to breathe in through your nose, and try and press my hand away with your chest," you instructed, "when I release the pressure, you exhale slowly through your mouth." Marko wanted to speak, show you he had understood, but he found his words once again stolen from him by the panic attack. Instead, he dipped his head once again, but it was all the confirmation you needed.

You slowly and gently pressed the palm of your hand a little firmer into his chest. Marko took a shaky breath. He did his best to get his lungs to fill properly and get his chest to give counter-pressure against your hand, but couldn’t quite manage. "It’s alright," you eased him, "take your time. Just focus on the rhythm of the pressure of my hand and try to breathe with that." You felt how Marko was really trying to, but also how he wasn’t succeeding yet. His inhales were broken by shudders, and his exhales disrupted by sudden and involuntary gulps. "That’s it," you encouraged anyway, "easy does it."

Your hand never left his chest as you gently applied pressure and released it, with Marko doing his utmost best to get his breathing to fall in sync with it. You spoke soft encouragements, yet the silent moments in between were filled with Marko’s quiet whimpers. It didn’t matter to you how long it would take, you would help Marko through this.

---

Eventually, you sat with Marko like that for well over 30 minutes. There was no reason to rush anything. Soundchecks for the grand finale of tonight wouldn’t be starting for another few hours, so you gave him all the time he needed to pull himself out of this panic attack.

Marko’s pulse had returned to a regular, calm rhythm, as had his breathing. His trembling had subsided, but he sat beside you looking worn out from everything he had just gone through.

You gently let your hand fall away from Marko’s chest for the first time again. You kept a close eye on him, but he was able to keep his breaths calm by himself now. "Open your eyes," you said softly. Marko slowly did so. Even though the area where you sat was dimly lit, he still squinted at the light. He ran slightly trembling fingers through his silvery hair, before he finally looked up at you sitting next to him.

"I’m sorry about that." Marko sounded tired. "No need to apologise." You shook your head. "May I ask what happened?" "This happened." Marko chuckled wryly, motioning his hands to the area around you. "I’ve never performed at an event of this magnitude before. And… well, my stage fright took the better of me, I guess. It does that sometimes."

The airiness with which he spoke of his stage fright was pitiful, almost like it was the most common thing in the world for him. "But it doesn’t often get this bad, I reckon," you said sympathetically. "No." Marko sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair once more. "It doesn’t usually lead to a full-blown panic attack, and certainly not like this one, but, apparently, big stages lead to big anxiety." A dark chuckle followed. "That’s not even remotely funny," you scoffed. Marko gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I’m used to it by now."

He shifted his body, grunting softly as he stretched his cramped legs out in front of him. He leaned his head back against one of the crates behind him and glanced up at the ceiling for a moment.

"But what you did really helped me." He spoke after a few seconds of silence. "I’m not quite sure I would have gotten through this one on my own, so I’m really grateful." You shrugged. "I’ve got a bit of experience with panic attacks as well, I’m afraid. So I know how bad they can get."

Marko’s gaze slowly shifted back to you. "Yourself or helping someone deal with it?" "Myself, unfortunately." You sat back into a more comfortable position, too. "Some events in life leave more scars than you can imagine," you added darkly. "I’m sorry." Marko shortly rested a hand on your arm in support. "What I just did with you, my sister used to do that for me whenever my anxiety flared up," you explained, "it always helped me through it, so…" You let your voice trail off. "Well, tell her it’s a good technique." Marko winked lazily. "And I’m glad you’re the one who found me just now. Thank you." The sincere thankfulness was in his voice and in every fibre of his being.

The two of you talked for a while longer, before Marko slowly hoisted himself back onto his feet. He looked steady again, ready to go, and a glimpse of the extroverted Baby Lasagna shone through the cracks again.

"Will you be alright?" You stood back up, too. "Yes." Marko nodded confidently. "I know it sounds strange, especially after what you’ve seen just now, but it feels like I needed to get this out of my system in order to be ready for tonight." You chuckled, glad to see the sparkle of joy back in his eyes, instead of the sparkle of tears and panic. "Come see me if anything threatens to overwhelm you again." Marko nodded gratefully. "I sure will."

#baby lasagna #marko purisic #marko purišić #baby lasagna x reader #marko purisic x reader #baby lasagna imagine #baby lasagna fanfic #baby lasagna fanfiction #marko purisic imagine #marko purisic fanfic #marko purisic fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #eurovision #eurovision 2024 #eurovision fanfic #sarahspostsbabylasagna

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ihavemanyhusbands · 2 months

Text

Revenge is a Dish Best Served Bloody

PART ONE: DOG MEAT

Also on AO3

Mini-series masterlist

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem!Bounty Hunter!Reader

WC: 2.3k words

Series Summary: Hunting down your father’s killer – a powerful raider by the name of Axl – you end up being saved from a bad situation by none other than a ghoul. After finding out you have goals in common, you form an uneasy alliance with him, but things get much, much more complicated than that.

Warnings: MINORS DNI, THIS FIC IS 18+, Dead dove: do not eat, canon typical violence, the ghoul being the ghoul, swearing, drug mentions/use (chems), enemies to lovers, eventual smut, blood/gore mentions, sorta dom/sub dynamics, some mentions of cannibalism, angst, some whump, aaaand for now that’s all i can think of but lmk if another tag is needed.

A/N: This is my very first time writing for Cooper Howard/The Ghoul, so I’m still trying to learn how he talks/carries himself. Excited to be writing this little mini series though! :) hope you like <3

———-

Blood flowed relentlessly toward your head, making the upside-down world blur into a vivid amalgamation of color. The raiders' laughter sounded more like the barking of jackals, coming from all around you, disorienting you further.

As you fought to stay conscious, your muscles strained against the ropes that held you up, the rough material biting into your skin. Your head was hovering just a few inches away from the surface of murky, radioactive water. You could feel more than see something lurking in its depths, hungry, waiting for the right time to strike.

And you? You were the bait to lure it out.

Where had it all gone wrong, exactly?

Well, perhaps it had started with you being so overly confident. Sure, you had learned more than a few dirty tricks in your years as a bounty hunter – having to keep yourself both fed and alive while you completed your actual mission – but that didn’t mean you could fight off a large group of brawny, ruthless raiders all by yourself.

At the very least, you’d managed to kill one of them and injure another with your crossbow before you were rewarded with a strike across your face. Bright white stars ignited in your vision as you were quickly subdued and strung upside down from the rusted arm of a broken crane.

The worst part was, you’d barely had time to ask any of the questions you’d wanted to ask. You supposed you’d never been a great interrogator, anyway, but that was something to concern yourself with another time; If there even was another time.

“Come on, where’s the fucking gulper? We don’t have all fucking day here,” one of the raiders, a big-headed bald man, gruffed.

Another one of them, scrawnier and rat-like, let out an amused grunt. “Heh, should’ve just chopped her up and sold her as dog meat.”

“Still time for that, if it doesn’t come,” the bald one said. “Think we should lower her more? If her head’s underwater, she’ll thrash around and maybe get the gulper's attention.”

At this, panic flared within you once more. You tried moving your wrists, legs kicking more and more urgently. The raiders laughed again at your rendition of the gallowdance. Your head felt like it was on fire, dangerously nearing an explosion.

Distantly, you heard the creak of metal as the rope that held you aloft was adjusted. Your body jerked as it began to descend, the crown of your head now submerged. Your mind raced as you tried to find ways to save yourself, but it was getting harder and harder to think. You wanted to scream, but you were only able to make a weak, gurgling sound.

There was a loud splash, entirely too close for comfort. Jeering from the raiders as they prepared for a gruesome show. You began to accept your fate, dismay over your failure to complete your life’s mission greater than your fear of death.

But suddenly, you heard various gunshots in rapid succession. It’s a fucking ghoul! somebody shouted frantically. The confused screams of the raiders followed along with some answering shots. The heavy thump of bodies collapsing, one by one.

It was silent for a moment, except for a breeze settling the dust and your heartbeat pounding in your head like a drum. Then there was the soft clink of spurs as someone approached you, an old pair of cowboy boots appearing in your vision.

You tried craning your neck to get a better view of your supposed savior. You could barely see his face, the sun haloing his head like a saint’s. But there are no angels in the wasteland, you thought deliriously, only roaming devils searching for carrion to pick on.

His voice was low and raspy, with a southern drawl that was almost soothing, in a strange way. “Well, well… Ain’tcha just the prettiest hunk of meat I ever did see?”

A shuddery gasp escaped your throat as you felt the rope loosen a little more, fully submerging your head. Your eyes rolled into the back of your skull as you were swallowed by darkness, immediately unconscious.

—-----------------------------------------

“See that there?” your father whispered, pointing up at a cluster of stars. “That’s the big dipper. And just below its tail is the little dipper. Do you see ‘em?”

You nodded, awed by the simple, ephemeral beauty of a still night sky. Your father’s soothing presence, his patient teachings, the world not so horrible when seen through his eyes.

“Like us,” you said with a smile. “Always together.”

His smile was sad then. You couldn’t remember it being that way, but memories tended to warp over time, didn’t they?

“Yes, sweetie. Always together,” he said, trying to sound as promising as possible. “But if we ever separated, for whatever reason, remember that you can look up at the sky at night, and you will always find us there.”

—------------------------------------------

You woke up sputtering, thinking you were still underwater. Your stomach lurched violently and your body twisted onto your hands and knees, retching. Spewing bile as yellow as the RadAway you found yourself hooked onto. Panting with both exertion and disorientation, searing pain lancing through your skull.

It was close to sunset, the sky beginning to burn orange and gold, the atmosphere cooler. You were still at the quarry where you’d first encountered the raiders, but you were a safe distance away from the water.

You could smell and hear a small campfire nearby. Felt a presence behind you, a heavy gaze fixed on you.

“You must be all kinds of stupid, huh? Chargin’ into that battlefield of your own makin’, not even a hint of backup around to help.” The ghoul shook his head with amusement. “Then again, you must’ve been lookin’ for a guaranteed death… So which is it, suicidal or stupid?”

You spat on the dirt and roughly wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glaring at him. If you knew one thing, it was to avoid ghouls as best as you could. Coming across one from time to time was inevitable, but you’d never in your wildest dreams thought you’d be saved by one. Or that you would still be in one piece in his presence.

At least he wasn’t worse for wear, and nowhere near feral. He was missing his nose, as all ghouls did, and his skin was leathery and burnt. His features were skeletal, shadowed under the wide brim of his hat. Otherwise… he wasn’t unbearable to look at.

“No? Y’ain’t gonna tell me?” he said, the curiosity in your stare not unnoticed by him. His eyes roamed over you in return. “Gotta be honest, I was real tempted to take a bite earlier, but I never really took a liking to dog meat.”

He chuckled and your frown only deepened, hatred and rage alight in your eyes. You tried to scoot further away, but it was then you noticed a rope was tied around one of your ankles, the other end of it under the ghoul’s boot.

“What do you want with me, ghoul?” You croaked, your throat scratchy and raw from the stomach acid.

“Well, that ain’t very grateful of you, sweetheart. I saved your skin back there,” he clicked his tongue in disappointment, unholstering his pistol. “I could’ve been just as unmerciful as those raiders, if not more.”

You swallowed hard at the imagery, but you didn’t let your dread show. “And why weren’t you?��

He leaned forward, barrel lazily pointed at you. His eyes narrowed expectantly, and you realized he truly wanted to hear some gratitude from you before continuing.

Stubbornly, you clenched your jaw shut and continued to glare. He looked off into the horizon, noticing how quickly the light was waning.

“Think you’d fare any better when the fiends come out to play? Or some super mutant?” He mused, his tone bored. “I ain’t got a whole lot of time here.”

After the day you had, you didn’t really want to take those chances.

The words crawled up your throat like a second wave of acid, scalding your tongue as you uttered them. “Thank you… for saving me.”

“Now there’s a well mannered girl. Knew you had it in ya,” he said with a roguish grin. “Y’know that means you owe me one, don’tcha?”

You dipped your chin in confirmation, hating that you couldn’t argue with him on that one. Not many — if anyone at all — were spared the wasteland, so this was not something to be taken lightly. Especially not while already being tied to him, with virtually zero chances of escaping alive.

“But I ain’t gonna cash in that favor now, so don’t worry your pretty lil head ‘bout it,” he continued, but you didn’t feel at all eased by that statement. “I do wanna know somethin’ though… just what on earth possessed you to follow those men?”

You blinked at him in both surprise and confusion. How did he know that?

“See, I’d been trailing that group of shitheads for a few days. Was after that big headed fella, the leader, Tiberius,” He waved his gun around dismissively, like that part of the story was irrelevant. “But then, I noticed they had another shadow behind them — A quiet lil mousey jus’ like yourself.”

You shrugged one shoulder, unsure of how much truth you should actually give him. “I was looking for some information.”

“What’s that?” He spoke up, cupping his hand over his ear. “What you mumblin’ for? C’mere so I can hear you better.”

With that, he stood up, yanking the rope with more force than was necessary. Your back hit the ground, dust and rocks scraping your skin as you were pulled towards his feet. Trying to stop yourself with your hands only ripped up your palms, so you went slack on the last tug towards him.

He tilted his head to one side as he observed you, a flash of teeth that showed his continued amusement.

“Much better. Now what was that you were sayin’, darlin’?”

You bared your teeth in return, internally fuming. “I said I was looking for some goddamn information.”

He gave you a mocking pout. “Aw, sweetheart… fella wasn’t as forthcomin’ as ya thought, was he?”

“Fuck you,” you spat before you could stop yourself.

“There’ll be time enough for that,” he chuckled, settling his boot on your hipbone. “But first, what kind of information were you tryin’a get?”

“Why do you care? The fuck’s it to you?”

The barrel of his gun was pointed at you once more in warning, right between your eyes. His boot pressed down on your hip until you squeaked, knowing it would bruise.

“His brother… Axl,” you panted, gripping his boot in a futile attempt to get it off you. “I need to - I need to find him.”

He let out a long, low whistle. “Axl, huh? Now I know you really got a death wish, and you’re just stupid to boot.”

“You wouldn’t get it, ghoul,” you said through gritted teeth. “I don’t expect you to know anything about losing someone you love.”

He tensed then, hand trembling for just the briefest second. His features hardened, chapped lips thinning into a flat, angry line.

He lifted his boot only to land a harsh kick to your ribs, knocking the breath out of your lungs. Again, you felt like hurling, coughing violently instead.

“Oh, I know a whole lot more than you think, smoothie,” he said, going silent for a moment as he seemed to think. “Why you lookin’ for Axl? I can jus’ take care of you right ‘ere if you want to die so badly.”

“I’m going to kill him, with my own fucking hands,” you growled, too spent to beat around the bush any longer. “He-he killed my father last year.”

The briefest moment of stunned silence before the ghoul burst out laughing.

“Ain’t that somethin’. You? Takin’ out the big bad raider all by yourself? Now I’ve heard it all,” he shook his head once again. “You’re a spunky little gal, I’ll give ya that much.”

“It’s the law of the wasteland,” you said. “He owes me.”

He crouched next to you, his interest fully piqued. One side of his mouth was pulled up in a sly grin, his gaze held by yours.

“Tell ya what, I myself got some business to attend to with our dear friend Axl, and I just so happen to know where the fucker likes to hide out,” he said, enjoying the sparkle igniting in your eye — that thirst for revenge, for blood.

“Please,” was the only thing you could say, breathless, gripping his tattered coat. “I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, huh?” His tongue ran over his teeth pensively. “Well, seeing as you owe me a favor, I was just gonna take you along with me. Easier that way for you to repay me.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, not wanting to stay on the ground. Your heads were much closer, but you tried your hardest not to let it get to you.

“What business do you have with him?” You asked warily.

“That ain’t none of your concern, darlin’,” he said, removing the rope from around your ankle to bind your wrists together. “Trust me or not, y’ain’t got no choice but to come with me. Now get up, gotta find ourselves a place to hole up in for the night.”

Painstakingly, you stood up, grunting with both pain and the exhaustion that suddenly crashed into you. As soon as you were on your feet, he tugged you forward, not waiting a moment longer before starting to walk.

“If things go tits up, well… Least I got myself a little snack for the road,” he said over his shoulder with a wink.

“I thought you said you didn’t eat dog meat.”

“Heh, well, you’re starting to prove to be a little more useful than that. But we’ll see about the taste.”

——

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout fanfiction #the ghoul fanfiction #cooper howard fanfiction #minors dni #monster tag #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x you #cooper howard smut #cooper howard fanfic #the ghoul smut #the ghoul fanfic #cooper howard #the ghoul

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 5 months

Text

post-s2. good omens mascot here, coping unhealthily.

This is the first proper post I'm writing since the audio breakdown, good thing I queued a POTC one last week, I suppose. Yes I slept through the entire day today, missed the theatre workshop I was supposed to attend and may or may not be listening to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square on loop. Have an update on my coping because my social life and family are both Tumblr now:

Every song is about them now. A lot were before, but now every single one. Even an old Hindi song from a 1900s Indian military movie that I have not watched, by the way. But the lyrics (thank you Google translate) are: Everybody wants a handful of the sky, everybody searches for a handful of the sky, there is a world waiting to be hugged to the chest, the moon is a fair full of stars, but this heart is still lonely. And of course that makes me think of Crowley as the starmaker. Ow.

I made the very intelligent decision to rewatch the first three episodes of season 2, knowing what the Job minisode and the Edinburgh minisode do to me. I'll be here clutching Crowley, well, hugging him close to the chest, just like that song... ah, fuck, here we go again.

I listened to you all and am drinking a lot of water, since my tear ducts were emptied yesterday and now I'm unable to cry. I also ate too much chocolate.

I searched for sad Aziracrow edits and watched them. Don't look at me. I'm in a hell of my own creation.

I used too many emotions last night and now I feel hollow and achy. Maybe I should cope with humour and write the summaries.

Or maybe that will backfire and I will be filled with horrifying levels of emotion.

I slept. A lot. Many hours. Lots sleep.

So. Well. You know. Adopted child of divorce. You were all right, this is exactly like dealing with a breakup or divorce, but much more painful.

Someone please, please, please stop me from clicking the Crowley whump tag to find fanfiction.

I remember my initial Good Omens posts. I remember calling the fandom sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, and also pointing out how you all blame Neil and then sit and make headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

I was so right. Look at me now, sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, making headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

Wahoo.

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redactedrem · 2 months

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You know what? Fuck you. *Ponifies Batman*

Guys I'm so excited to share my newest project of ponifying the Batfam, it started out small with the hypothetical "I wonder what Batman would be like in a mlp universe." And then the project kept getting bigger and bigger.

If anyones interested in my world building/ headcanons surrounding this project, you can see it under the cut. (I didn't want to make the post too long.)

Incase anybody couldn't read my bad handwriting, I gotchuuu.

-(First pic) Bruce Wayne: Bruce had got his cutiemark the night of his parents death, after the grief had broken his spirit and he realized that he never wanted anypony else to feel the same pain as he does. (He has a fake cutiemark to cover up his obvious destiny)

- The first pic is pretty self explanatory, but I want to make it clear that Bruce's destiny isn't "My parents are dead so now I dress up as a bat and beat up mentally ill folk". Because I've seen people on here give hot takes on cutiemarks that directly link them to a ponies destiny.

This goes for specifically in the mlp fandom but (for the sake of being on topic) I'll use the the example of that one post where someone gave the hot take that Jason would get his cutiemark in the warehouse right before he dies (or after he dies? smthing like that) because "It would be really fucked up to know that you were always destined to die." And listen, I can appreciate some good Jason Todd whump as the next guy but knowing that this would be based in a mlp universe . . . just doesn't sit right with me.

It sounds less magical that way. Its like saying that Rainbow Dash was always meant to be the fastest flyer, so theres no point in trying to compete with her. So uhm, trying to stay on topic here. My personal hot take is that a pony's cutiemark is symbol of something that they do/ a skill or talent that they have that makes them happy. And whats a more magical and fulfilling destiny than doing something that makes you happy for the rest of your life?

Looping back to Bruce, he didn't get his cutiemark the moment his parents died, but I like to think that he got it sometime later on in the night. After hours of being checked on by the police, getting looked at by the paramedics, and after Alfred took him home. Its 1:40ish in the morning and tiny foal-Bruce is just staring at his bedroom wall feeling numb and dissociated to hell. And sometime after processing everything that night- he just decides that this is the worst thing that has ever happened to him and that he will do anything to make sure that nopony will ever feel the same pain that he has felt. And then-- Ta da!! Cutiemark!! Too bad neither he or Alfred got to experience the excitement when they both saw it the next day :')

(Edit: I didn't know where to put this detail, but Bruce's fake cutiemark is based off of the "Make It Wayne" TV logo from this fanfic here )

-(Second pic) The Bat: This is heavily inspired by Flutterbat, I know theres canonically already a race of bat ponies made from Lunas stunt as Nightmare Moon. But I chose to go through with the Flutterbat route because batponies are a race, and have bat-like features 24/7. In comparison Fluttershy maintains her pegasus appearance by day and transforms into Flutterbat at night (ALSO with there being implications that there are "Triggers" for her transformations in the day too!!) Which adds the "Vampire." right in front of her batpony title.

I might do a lil comparison chart between vampire batponies and regular batponies in the future or something. But for now I'm focusing on my batpony Bruce Wayne headcanons so yea. My point is that I felt like making Bruce a "vampire" batpony would give him a more solid secret identity with also the bonus of a really metal origin story.

Now we all know that the canonical origin story of batman is that a few months after the tragedy of his parents death, Bruce had fallen into a cave? a well? a pit? of bats and triggered a fear of bats since then. Later on he decides to become Batman so he can invoke the fear of bats he once had into the criminals of Gotham. Yadda yadda yadda.

Now canonically, we don't know the exact science on how Fluttershy turned into Flutterbat. What we do know is that at the time, pony magic is not researched enough for Twilight to be aware that Fluttershys "Stare" is her own form of pony magic and that it would interfere with Twilights spell.

Do you see where I'm getting at here? Uhmm don't ask me what exactly happened in the cave, I'm doing this for fun and thinking about it too hard makes me spiral. But uhmm something something- Bruce looked at a bat in the eye and decided to embrace his biggest fear to fuel his cause, and his already traumatized and fucked up pony magic had transformed his body- something something. (Edit: I didn't think about this until now but maybe Fluttershys "Stare" and Bruces "Bat Glare" could be a usage of the same form of magic? Just a thought)

I'll probably come up with a more suitable explanation in the future, but like I said. All of this is just for fun.

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kiss-me-cill-me · 4 months

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i’m not sure if anon has already requested a character for that song but if ur up for it CAN WE HAVE THAT SONG WITH JONATHAN CRANE. also i just listened to that song for the first time in like 3 years and got major deja vu lmao 😭

also ps i love u and ur writing !!!

This is related to another ask from an anon, requesting a fic based off of Katy Perry's song, The One That Got Away. I am so sorry to both of you that it's taken me forever to write this, but thank you for your patience and support <3

Now We Pay The Price | Pt. 1

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Life hasn't turned out exactly the way you wanted it to. Isolated and distraught as you watch time slip by while you sit, trapped in Arkham, your only wish is to recapture the way that things used to be.

Warnings: Angst, whump, sexual themes but no explicit smut, mental health themes, obsession, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mention of needles, mention of sedatives, unrequited love, established past romantic relationship, ambiguity

A/N: I hardly ever write angst, so please be gentle with me lol. But with the song inspo, I couldn't help but go in that direction. Slightly nervous to post this, but also happy that I've branched out from my comfort zone a bit!

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

Lying on your stomach, feet in the air, you stretched the thin cotton sheets with your hand. Just enough to give them the tension you needed to glide a ballpoint pen over the fabric, scratching over and over the same mark to make it appear complete. This was far from the perfect medium for doodling - but sheets were what you had, and so they were what you used.

Even the pen was contraband. You knew you weren’t supposed to have it. What anyone thought you’d do with it… honestly, you had no idea. As if you could use a pen for anything other than what you were wrapped up in doing now - carefully and determinedly drawing hearts.

You stopped to rest your head for a moment on the pitifully thin pillow. Across the room, blank white concrete stared back at you. Day in, day out. Endless. The same room with the same walls.

Picking up the pen again, you placed the tip right in between the lobes of one of the many hearts. Scratch, scratch, scratch. A messy, zig-zagging line bisected the doodle.

Broken.

You sighed, and started to color a different heart, filling it with blue ink that didn’t seem very inclined to stick to the bed sheets. It was slow going. The deep azure tint reminded you of deoxygenated blood, like you would see in a textbook diagram. Once the heart was completely filled, you moved dutifully on to the next.

A rustling at your door made you jump. Quickly, you stuffed the pen under your pillow, and turned up the sheets to hide your drawings. It wouldn’t be very good for you if anybody saw them.

You sat up, arranging your rumpled jumpsuit as neatly as you could. Leather straps hung off the sides of your bed, and you spared them a glance, bristling at the memories of having them lashed over your body.

The metal door slid open slowly, until you could finally see…

Him. Your heart skipped a beat and a half as he stepped stiffly into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He didn’t make a show of locking it, but it was still all too hard to miss the way his hand stopped short at the keyhole, before slipping into his pocket.

“Jonathan. I’m so glad-”

“Don’t call me that,” he bristled. “In here, we don’t know each other. Please. You always forget that.”

“...Dr. Crane,” you corrected yourself.

His tone was so bitter that you could feel it in the very back of your throat, trying to claw its way down to your heart. You swallowed, trying to bite back the taste.

“I’m sorry. I was just happy to see you.” You smiled, pushing through your discomfort, for his sake.

Crane was clearly agitated. He took a few steps into the room, before turning around and facing the door. For one brief moment, you couldn’t see his face, until finally he turned back. His eyes were ice as they stared down at you.

“Do you have any idea how difficult you’ve been making things for me?” he spat.

The accusation hurt, of course. Though you knew very well what he meant. You had been acting out, more than usual, as of late. And although it wasn’t without a purpose, you could see that it was wearing him thin. But… how else were you supposed to see each other?

Arkham Asylum wasn’t exactly known for its model patients. It took a lot to get Dr. Crane’s attention.

“If we spent more time together, I wouldn’t be so difficult,” you replied, trying to keep your tone even.

Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, in that way that you were well acquainted with. He’d always had that habit. Back when you’d first met, you had loved making him get frustrated - just enough for a laugh. Some things never changed.

“You’re really backing me into a corner,” Crane sighed. “And I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Let’s talk,” you offered, patting the bed. “That’s what you’re here for, right?”

Crane, reluctantly, sat down. You could sense his exhaustion in the way that he almost collapsed onto the bed, hands gripping the edge for support. You inched a bit closer, enough so that your knees touched briefly. Crane pulled away.

You wanted to reach out; put a hand on his shoulder, just like you’d done so many times before. He used to like it when you touched him. Sometimes, you liked to think that yours was the only gentle embrace that he had ever known. Maybe it was silly, but the thought of it always made you feel better.

Now, Crane’s eyes held nothing but menace as he glared over at you, as if you were a stain on the bed sheets. You wondered, vaguely, what had happened to change things.

So much. So much that had led you to this place, where you could be so close to him and yet felt more separated than ever.

“I hate to say it, Doc, but I think I’m going crazy in here,” you joked, trying to lighten the mood.

He barely had a reaction; a deep sigh the only hint that he’d heard what you said at all.

“And why do you think that is?” he asked, finally.

The psychiatrist in him always came through to shove even more distance between you. Like a shield, put up just when you’d started to press through the fog of tension that hung heavy in the room. You swallowed your frustration at being kept out, and tried to answer him honestly.

“Because I barely get to see you,” you replied.

That was the wrong answer, and Crane’s shoulders swung abruptly to face you.

He was scary like this. Almost scary, anyway. If you didn’t know him better, the look in his eyes would have sent you cowering.

But you did know him, so well, and you remembered with sudden clarity that he’d always been bothered by feeling inadequate. You felt awful; you hadn’t meant to imply that he wasn’t doing enough.

“I’m sorry,” you soothed, before he could say anything. “I know that you’re busy, but-”

“But you continue to make yourself into a problem,” he hissed. “You know the only reason you’re in here instead of rotting away over at Blackgate is because of me, right?”

You nodded, too shocked by embarrassment to speak.

“Then for my sake, why don’t you act like it?”

“I’m…” You paused for a moment, sharp tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m just… lost without you,” you whispered. “You know that. I always told you I would be.”

The first tear fell, and you tried to hide your face.

“Don’t cry,” Crane sighed.

You could hear the harsh tinge of annoyance in his voice, and wished that it was anything else. Even his pity would have been better than knowing that your feelings were now nothing but inconvenience. You choked on your own throat, trying to stifle a sob.

“Please don’t cry,” he mumbled, slightly softer this time.

But now that you’d started, you couldn’t make yourself stop. If anything, the tears were only coming faster, and you felt yourself start to shrink into your own chest. The little black pit that always seemed to sit there, now swiftly opening up to swallow you.

With a deep and lingering exhale, Crane pulled you close. Suddenly, you were back where you both had been, so many years ago: one person’s cheek pressed into the other’s shoulder. Tears soaking into fabric that seemed to be stained with sadness. You let out a half-laugh, half-sob, and nestled into the crook of his neck.

“Remember when I used to do this for you?”

Crane stiffened slightly beside you.

“Things have changed since then,” he muttered.

Your memory suddenly flashed back to the first time he had used the words “dysfunctional attachment” to describe you. That had hurt worse than anything else. Even more than all of the other occasions to come, when you’d heard those same words and worse fall from his lips. They could never truly compare to that first time, when your whole world had come crashing abruptly to the ground.

His arm dropped away from you, but you kept your face pressed into his shoulder.

“Things haven’t really changed,” you said. “I still belong to you.”

“You don’t.”

Two words that stung worse than hundreds of needles. You tried to pretend that the wind hadn’t been knocked out of you, as you replied.

“I do. And I will. Always.”

You looked up at him with wet eyes, a trace of the old life that you’d shared together still evident deep within your pupils. Even if only the memories of it lived inside of you, they still lived. They were still something.

“You need to move on,” Crane said flatly. “I know it’s not easy in here, with me…” He sighed. “I did what I could to protect you, but maybe it would have been better if I had just stayed out of your case. Blackgate would have at least given you distance.”

“I don’t want distance,” you whispered. “I just want to be with you.”

“You can’t be.”

Always so stubborn.

“I could be, if you’d help me get out.”

Confusion flashed across Crane’s face, quickly replaced with raw terror.

“Escape Arkham?” His eyebrows furrowed, nearly knitting together. “You can’t be serious. Do you even realize what-?”

“I know, I know,” you hummed. “But just think - we could run away together, just like we always talked about.”

“Stop.”

“Don’t you remember? We promised-”

“Things. Change.” Crane’s voice almost shook as it thundered.

You brought a hand up to his face, gently coaxing until he looked at you.

“But they don’t have to,” you breathed.

Your eyes drifted down to your wrist, to the space just below your thumb, and over the little tattoo that was etched into your skin. A heart - just like the ones littering your blanket, hidden carefully from Crane’s view.

“Remember when you gave me this?” you asked, holding up the tattoo in front of him.

“No; I remember you doing that to yourself.”

“At first, sure,” you chuckled. “But then, you helped me to finish it, ‘cause-”

“Because I didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Crane muttered. “Just like you always seem to. Even now.”

You ignored his remark as your hands drifted down to collect one of his pale wrists, then lifted up to your face. The sleeve of his suit jacket slipped back, revealing the spot where once, long ago, you had given him the same mark. Just with a felt-tip pen; he would have never allowed you, even back then, to deface his own body in the same way you had yours.

At the time, the impermanence of it hadn’t seemed to matter. You’d been too distracted; elated by the way that his and your matching blossoms of ink had pressed up against each other as you’d held hands.

Now, you pressed a kiss to the blank space.

“Us against the world, Jonathan. Remember?”

Suddenly, his fingers pressed into your face, digging into the sides of your chin as he forced you back into focus.

“Don’t call me that,” he warned, once again. “How many times do I have to tell you? That life doesn’t exist in here.”

Your hands still dangled from his wrist as he continued to crush your jaw, not letting you look away. But this was the one part of him that you didn’t want to face. The part that didn’t need you anymore.

“Jonathan. You know the reason I’m in here, don’t you?”

“Are you asking if I know about your case? All of the crimes you committed?” he huffed. “Because yes - I was very involved in the trial, and it was nearly impossible to keep everyone else in the dark about…”

Us was the word that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“That’s not what I mean,” you said. “I mean, do you know why I did those things?”

“Stop - please don’t tell me this again.”

“I did them for you,” you cried, your emotions getting the better of you again. “I do everything for you. So don’t you dare pretend you don’t need me, when really the only fucking reason you’re not stuck in here with me is because I always-”

“Stop.”

Crane’s hands tore away to grab you by the shoulders, wrenching you back to reality. Somehow he always managed to do that. To pull you straight out of the riptide, just as it was about to sweep you away.

“I never asked you to do what you did,” he hissed, articulating each word between clenched teeth.

“But I did it anyway,” you spat. “Because you always get into trouble. Because I told you I’d be there for you, no matter what. And because I always keep promises.”

“I don’t need you to anymore.” Crane’s hands squeezed you uncomfortably. “I don’t - I didn’t need you to ruin your life for me.”

“My life isn’t ruined if it’s for you.”

“Jesus Christ…”

Crane’s hand came up to rake through his hair, but before he could pull away fully, you caught him. Fingers clenched tight to the front of his suit, you pulled back and forced him to fall with you. Your back hit the bed, and Crane scrambled to catch himself before his full weight could slam into you. His body perched just above yours, caging you in his arms.

“This. You must remember this.”

Your words were a whisper, barely loud enough to pass from your lips to his ear, despite how close he was. Your legs frantically came up to tug at his waist, trying to force him closer.

“This was the only time I felt alive,” you continued. “When we were like this. You remember.”

How could he not? You could still live in that moment, if you tried hard enough. As if it had been only yesterday. Both of you nervous and fumbling, nearly falling off of the bed as he hovered over you and you clung to him.

The way that your bodies had melted together, almost desperately, in a way that had made you feel certain that neither one of you would let go. Letting go then had meant something worse than death; it meant a life that dragged on without you and him together.

The stale echoes of passion still rang in your ears as you looked up, silently begging for him to rekindle the spark that had been there.

Crane’s expression was all but impossible to read. His face half-hidden beneath bangs that fell into his eyes. The two-second pause was like a lifetime as you awaited his answer.

“Of course I remember.”

Your heart soared, flying recklessly up.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s the same now.”

Broken. Smashed hard against the cold floor of your cell.

“I don’t believe that,” you breathed. “I can’t. I-”

“You need to,” he interrupted. “Because it’s the truth.”

You stayed stock still on the mattress as Crane briskly pushed himself up, disentangling himself from your limbs. He exhaled as he tugged at his jacket, trying to make himself presentable.

You weren’t sure how he could find the nerve, after ripping your whole world apart.

“I’m upping the dose on your sedatives,” he informed you, still not meeting your gaze. “But I would prefer if you could find it within yourself to behave so that I don’t have to. I don’t like to do this, but-”

“Appearances…” Your voice drifted through the room. “Have to be kept up.”

He had told you as much, probably dozens of times. Just like he’d told you the old life between you no longer mattered, or even existed. If it ever had.

“I’m glad you understand,” he said shortly.

His back was already turned, but you looked up to watch him drift out of the room, quickly pocketing the keys on his way out.

Your head fell back, hard, but the sensation did nothing to ground you. You felt all too lost and adrift; trapped in a situation you had created. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end up.

Your hand drifted silently under the pillow, and wrapped around the barrel of the pen that was still hidden there.

Suddenly, grotesque understanding of all the reasons why no one would want you to have such a thing flooded into your consciousness. The possibilities were many and bleak, but they all led back to the same conclusion. It was just like you had told Crane earlier.

If your life together didn’t exist in this place, then the only solution was to leave.

You smiled. With resolve swirling dangerously inside your veins, you vowed to make sure that nothing like this ever happened again. You were going to be together, no matter what.

There would be no getting away.

This fic now has a Part 2! Read it HERE

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #cillian murphy x reader #angst #LemmyFics

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