#CW child loss

[ramblers-lets-get-ramblin]

When My Time Comes Around- Post-outbreak!Joel Miller x F!reader

Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

Summary: You’ve spent much of the time since the outbreak began alone and isolated. Until, one day, you come upon a man dying in the snow. You save his life and in return, he saves yours.

This an Alternate Universe that completely diverges from canon.

This fic was inspired by and the title comes from “Work Song” by Hozier. I highly recommend giving it a listen. This fic will be three parts, released once a week on Tuesdays. A big chunk of my heart went into telling this story, I hope you all enjoy it and don’t hate me for making it so sad.

Series Warnings: canon divergence, detailed canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of blood and injuries and wound care, major character death, child loss, grief, suicidal ideation, THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING but it will take a while to get there, ANGST, major angst and this is going to be VERY SAD for a while and I am sorry about making you sad kinda

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Extras: Moodboard made by my wife, @wannab-urs

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel tlou #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #cw child loss #tw child loss #cw sui ideation #tw sui ideation #cw violence #tw violence #Spotify

[gabessquishytum]

Thinking about Hob and children and whether he would have them again after Robyn and the baby and I can't help but think that he would. Even though it hurt so bad. But even if he wants kids, the idea of getting somebody pregnant is still too terrifying. Of putting someone through that kind of danger, no matter the advances in modern medicine. If Hob could carry a child himself he'd do it in a heartbeat but as long as someone else's life is at risk? He simply can't go there.

#hob gadling #the sandman #cw child loss #cw pregnancy

[lilyrizzy]

day 3 of 12 days of the maxiel advent calendar lol. this one is sad in a bittersweet way. content warning for a discussion focused around the loss of a newborn child. Please don't read if that is something too upsetting to you <3 set in the same universe as this.

Underneath the apple tree in their garden, there’s a patch of daffodils.

They bloom every springtime, the vibrant shades of sunshine yellow enough to light up whatever room they are put into. The first bunch, Max always likes to arrange in the vase Grace and Joe gave them as a wedding gift, the second, third and fourth into each of the babies rooms. The air of the ranch becomes sweet with their scent, and at lunchtimes when Livia and Oli are called inside from playing, sticky pollen covers their fingertips.

“Papa,” Livia says to him on one of these September days, and Max knows to brace himself for a question by the curiosity laced in her voice. Like always, she does not disappoint.

“What happened to our big brother?”

The breath catches in Max’s throat.

He and Daniel had always agreed they would never keep their first son’s existence a secret from their children, no matter how hard it might be to help them understand. The idea of Theo becoming something that could only be spoken about in hushed whispers at convenient times was too painful when every day they felt his loss. The absence of a fourth pitch of giggles to hear playing from the next room every day, a second curly head for them to tuck safely into bed each night.

But this is the first time Livia has ever mused the ‘why’, of that out loud.

She is drawing a picture titled my family, her ‘homework’ for nursery. Max can see their flattering stick figure portraits, her and Oli almost as big as he and Daniel are, while Toni resembles an earthworm on the ground beside the four of them. In the top right-hand corner, just underneath the sun, she has drawn her eldest brother, complete with a set of pink angel wings.

“Me and Daddy told you, remember?” Max reminds her, but gently. His patience for his children is endless in a way it never was for racing. “Theo is in heaven.”

Max isn’t sure he believes in heaven, knows for a fact Daniel doesn’t, but he also knows how important it is for children to have good things to have faith in and to hope for, like the tooth fairy or Santa Clause. A source of comfort, the way his mum lighting candles used to be for him.

Livia nods seriously, busy scribbling what Max guesses is supposed to be Daniel’s hair if the twisting lines are anything to go by. Then, seemingly no longer satisfied with this answer she asks, “Why is he not with us?”

Daniel is out with Oli and Toni at the aquarium. The only reason Max and Livia aren’t with them is because in thirty minutes, they have to leave for the under 5’s football training Livia loves so much.

She get’s that from her Papa, Daniel likes to remind him, as though mashing keys on FIFA is comparable to the overexcited way their daughter squeals when she scores a goal.

Alone, Max feels totally unprepared for this. Daniel is so much better at wrapping the world up into words their children can understand and make peace with. For a moment, he almost asks her for a cuddle, the selfish reassurance of her warmth and the rise and fall of her chest as he holds her, but he doesn’t want to clue her into how hard this is for him.

He is her Papa, one of the two people who are meant to stand between her and all the bad in the world. Instead, he reaches to tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear as she continues to draw and thinks back to how Theo’s little tuft had been all brown.

“When he was born, he was very poorly,” Max explains, and though it has been a very long time, it is as easy as anything to remember him in his hospital bed, tubes, wires and needles all protruding from his skin, tinged a sickly grey. “He wasn’t strong, like you, Oli and Toni.”

“Because he didn’t eat his carrots?” Livia asks, looking up at Max with owlish eyes, and Max has to laugh, charmed by her childish logic, her belief in everything he and Daniel tell her. He knows this phase won’t last forever, that they’ll soon be replaced with teachers and google, but for now he lets himself enjoy it.

“No,” he promises, shaking his head. “No, because something went wrong, when he was inside the tummy. Remember like me and Daddy told you that you used to be, also?”

She nods, enthusiastic suddenly to show off her knowledge.

“You had to find a lady to keep us in their belly so we could be borned,” she recites, and Max smiles. It feels like yesterday she was as small as Theo, and now she is big and smart, and her own little person, the way all of his babies got to be except for one.

“Exactly,” he encourages. “Well, when Theo was in the belly, something bad happened, so that when he was born he was sick. It made him very tired, and so he had to go to sleep forever, in heaven.”

Livia chews her lip like that still might not be enough to appease her. Max is just thinking about how to reword it, when-

“Will I ever get to see him?” She asks, like this has been the real reason for her line of questioning all along.

Thinking about the patch of daffodils where he and Daniel scattered the ashes of their first born’s, Max considers telling her that she sees him every spring, when Daniel goes out to collect a bunch to place in vases all around their home. That in a way, Theo has watched over her every year from his spot on their dresser, bringing added sunshine into their bedroom.

She is too little now though to truly understand. In time she will, but for now he wants to hold onto all the ways she is still his baby for just a little while longer. He is in no hurry for her to grow up.

“I don’t think so,” he says honestly, with an apologetic smile. “But I think he see’s you, watches you and your brother and sister play from the sky.”

Livia pauses, like maybe she has more questions and again Max braces himself.

“Okay,” is all she says though, and then she is picking up her crayons again. Max can’t help but lean over to kiss the top of her head, then tickle her side until she giggles, and swats him away telling him seriously, “Papa, you will make my drawing wonky.”

“Sorry, liefje,” he says, matching her tone, and then reaches for his phone.

Livy just asked me about Theo, he texts to Daniel. The last thing in their message thread is a photo of Oli, nose and palms pressed against the shark tank, and beneath it four words, our brave little fucker.

Unsurprisingly it’s only a few seconds before Daniel is typing a response.

its normal for her to have questions, and Max resists the urge to roll his eyes fondly, because of course, Max knows this.

Then, big kiss coming your way in approx 78 minutes, Mr Verstappen-Ricciardo.

Then, I love you.

I love you too, Max texts back, pocketing his phone. There isn’t much to be said over text, or even in person maybe, other than an repeat of what Livia asked, what Max explained to her. Everything else has already been said and these days can the pain can be shared with a simple kiss, and an evening holding each other as they watch their children play.

 Turning his attention back to Livia now, her little hands clenched tightly in fists around a black crayon, he notices the strange circle shapes she is drawing over angel Theo’s eyes.

“What are these?” He asks bemused, pointing to them.

“Glasses Papa,” she says, like she thinks this should be very obvious. “Theo needs them to see us, if he is so high up.”

#sad but like also happy in a weird way? #cw child death #cw child loss #max/daniel #fic

[queenofwolftria]

These drawings are a bit older, they were drawn in late 2023, but I've decided to post them for Mermay since all three are hippocamps! All three of these mares are the Grandmothers, aka monarchs, of their respective kingdoms. Both Orca and Lilypad also rule alongside a co-monarch, but I haven't drawn either of them yet.

(cw for death and child loss)

Piranha is the fierce and ambitious Grandmother of Morrissey. She craved the throne from a young age, but unfortunately with the way that succession works; all of her aunts would have gotten the crown before it passed to her after all of their deaths. So. . . they needed a bit of "help" to meet their ultimate fate. Her sisters also needed "help," Piranha doesn't like sharing. Due to all of this. . . potential murder, she only believes that there should be a specific number of heirs and no more. Hence two of her daughters' deaths after the birth of a few granddaughters.

Orca is the cold and reserved Grandmother of Aerwyna. Though she was quite different in her youth, a major succession crisis and the loss of 16 foals has made Orca into the mare she is today. The crisis is still ongoing, with her only heir being her sister Dolphin who has also suffered numerous foal losses, leaving no one else after her to inherit the throne. While there is still a chance that the two sisters will have an heir one day. . . they are also both getting up there in age and each pregnancy becomes a greater risk than the last.

Lilypad is the kind young Grandmother of Nimue. Unfortunately for her, there has been a murder mystery happening with the mares of Nimue's Mangrove Dynasty. Currently only her and her niece, Seagrass, are the only documented female members left of the dynasty. Although they aren't direct female descendants, there had been so much chaos that when Seagrass was born and Lilypad had come out; they were happily accepted into the line of succession. Though. . . they still never figured out the murderer.

#concept art #mermay #xenofiction #horse art #equine art #hippocamp #fantasy art #animal xenofiction #horse xenofiction #rearing redwoods #queen's art #cw death #cw child loss

[acklum]

I Have Never

I have never lost a child,

but for a while

I dreamed every night

of babies.

Beautiful, tiny, demanding,

perfectly fascinating,

you know...

babies.

I loved each one.

On the bad nights,

I'd wake in the early hours

with the feeling of small fingers

clasped around mine,

confused to find myself

bereft.

On other nights,

as the dream progressed

the child would vanish

and I'd run, frantic

through uncaring crowds,

searching, crying

begging for help.

I'd wake in a panic

of tears

and tangled sheets.

On the worst nights

my search would end

happily

with a reunion.

I'd spend many glorious years

raising a growing infant,

or many hours besotted

with the baby held safe

in my arms.

I’d be blissfully content,

gazing at my childs familiar features,

then wake up.

And my empty arms would shake

in horror,

and the perfect face

I knew so well

mere moments ago

would painfully

slowly

fade.

-acklum

#original poem #spilled ink #cw child loss #babies #I have never

[servantserah]

you only said about him that he is rainbow child!

Ooh that! He’s a rainbow baby. That doesn’t refer to his queerness but that seems like an easy association to make.

A rainbow baby is a baby born after miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy, molar pregnancy, termination for medical reasons, stillbirth or neonatal death. The rainbow symbol has been used by members of the baby loss community for many years. (via Tommys.org)

I did mistakenly write 'child' instead of 'baby', I fixed it in the post you were referring to!

#serahtalks #goodgardenerau #ggau #fellspawns #cw child loss #cw miscarriage

[kanejmademedoit]

this article on PDB and Steve Spott has me very choked up. the more i learn about Pete the more i love him.

#dallas stars #cw child loss

[cyanophore-fiction]

Mr. Landry’s Solution

CW: losing children, apocalyptic imagery and themes

Why was Bill Landry miserable?

There were theories on the matter. Lazy and directionless, riding out the years, not chasing after anything. A wife who gave him the boot up north. Lost his kids, someone said. Failed at something or another and just gave up. Might’ve been sending money to somewhere—sure enough, he ought to have plenty saved. Living wasn’t expensive in Lawson. Where’d his money go? Why was he still living in a two-room apartment while his hair turned grey?

…and on the first day, the color of blood became dull red, nearer to black than scarlet. People forced themselves to move, like wading through tar. Some didn’t have the strength to overcome that horrible inertia. They found the arms of a loved one, a friend, anybody, and became still as stone.

…and on the second day, a great groaning went up—

One neighbor swore he was strung out. Started using when he was young and didn’t have the sense to grow out of it. Maybe lost that sense along the way. It’s a shame. It’s just a shame, y’know?

…and on the third day, the sun did not rise. Something else took its place, a thing which you could feel—squirming, tactile interference which emanated from its direction—but not see. That was the day that all our satellites came raining down.

…and on the fourth day, plantkind wriggled free of its curse. Their teeth and woody voiceboxes and atrophied muscles were returned to them. Their frenzied whistling filled the night.

This kind of talk was the only reason anybody in the world had an eye on poor Bill. They watched him shuffle downstairs, off to work, and back again from the gas station he shopped at with plastic bags in hand. Getting fat, getting quiet, didn’t brush his yellow teeth. But that didn’t matter. He fixed things down at a warehouse and didn’t need to talk to anyone but his boss.

Jayson Davis, his downstairs neighbor, was smoking by the curb, barefoot in a plastic chair. Saw Bill come home with an extra bag in hand, gave him a smile and a wave on the night of March 14th, 1986, at around 5:45. Later, they pumped Jayson for testimony, for every detail, like he was a sinful little amoeba under a microscope. He was the last one to see Bill that evening, and the psychometry guys made damn sure that every word they got out of him was truth. Subjective truth, at least.

…and on the fifth day, ash fell like snow, orange cinders twisting in the still air. Like snow, it soaked up sound and muted the world.

…and on the sixth day, the ocean digested themself and all who lived within their depths. The fever of their sickness rose into the atmosphere, congealing there as mucous storms which poured hot rain across the land, and ash became caustic mud, and plants became fibrous sludge, and the paralyzed people were perfectly preserved and maybe, God willing, weren’t conscious anymore.

There were people still hanging on to life, holding fast to concrete ruins and sealed tunnels. Forcing themselves to keep moving and never let their eyelids droop. People of corrugated will or inexhaustible devotion or hideous fire.

Bill Landry disappeared into his apartment, and he stayed there for thirty-six hours and about twenty-nine minutes, if the investigation had it right. When he came out, dehydrated and starving, nobody even noticed. 

Who cared about Bill Landry? Somewhere in Morocco, on March 15th, at 1:22 AM Central Time, the last child was born. Most of the ones born in the hours before—and all the ones after—were stillborn.

…and on the seventh day, the thing which had replaced the sun gave birth. Its child inclined a lobe of itself toward the Earth, and the projected spirit of Bill Landry thought it caught a glimpse of what came next.

It was the Navy that figured out why. Called up their contacts in the Pacific. Between them and the Ph.Ds on ice down at the magnetic pole, they found the causal lines and followed them back to a self-taught psychic in Lawson, Oklahoma. Sent a team and snatched him up.

Enhanced interrogation. You know the drill. What they found out is that Mr. Landry did his own share of following the lines, all the way back to the Source itself. And when he got there, on March 14th, he force-inputted it with some homebrew anti-Source until the whole thing caved in on itself.

Forecast is this: about four decades from now, there won’t be any coming back. According to Bill, droning in monotone from his solitary cell under the meds that keep his spirit locked down in his body, that’s good enough.

Safe, he says. 

______________________

@flashfictionfridayofficial prompt was “Pure Imagination.” Decided to piggyback off an idea I’ve had kicking around for a bit. Hope it isn’t too depressing. 

#flash fiction #flash fiction friday #apocalyptic fiction #cw child loss #horror

[the-nettle-knight]

We've had a couple of juvenile skeletons in recently, all from the Bronze Age (so between 3000-4000 ish years old) and as I'm the only one who's in my department rn I've had to process them. They've been gone a long time but it's still upsetting at times

#cw #tw #cw child loss #child loss #tw child loss #death #cw death #archaeology #i think my grief over them is still respectful #but the bones are just so little #which is really hard #im making space to grieve outside of work bc i still need to carry out my job #walking the line between respectful and trying not to break down at work is kinda hard too

[piizunn]

CW: Miscarriage/child loss

this woman makes me so fucking mad, the amount of content she makes about “suspiciously large blood clots” is actually vile. i truly don’t think people who make these kinds of jokes understand how deeply traumatizing a miscarriage can be to a person. coming from the perspective of someone whose mom had a miscarriage when i was 9 years old that shit is not fucking funny!!!! i remember finding out my mother was pregnant again, i was going to have a second younger sister and after my mom’s miscarriage i remember my grandma went to a sweat and ceremony for the baby’s traditional name. her name was red earth.

my sister died, miscarriages happen every single day and people’s children die and you turn it into content for your 5.5 million followers to consume.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMFqj4dWX/

i can’t add another video so i’ll link this one. this video is beyond vile honestly, to the people losing their rights to bodily autonomy, the Indigenous people who never fucking had bodily autonomy in the first place, it’s sick. like what possesses you to think this is funny and post it.

#all of her content is so vile tbh like it’s just straight up gross a lot of it #like it truly gives me anxiety i have to block her and delete this video off my phone once i post this #cw miscarriage #cw child loss

[ramblers-lets-get-ramblin]

When My Time Comes Around- post-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

Part Two | Part Three

Summary: After spending the last fifteen years isolated and alone, your solitude is disrupted when you find a man dying in the snow. You save his life and the ice surrounding your heart, and his, begins to thaw.

Word Count: 6.3k

Rating E FOR EXPLICIT MDNI 18+

Warnings: THERE WILL BE A HAPPY ENDING eventually, canon typical violence, detailed descriptions of injuries and wound care, blood, weapons like guns and knives, character death, suicidal ideation, child loss, grief, angst, age gap (joel is 57, reader is 35ish, but its only briefly mentioned once and is not part of the plot), implied sex, i think thats it but please let me know if I’ve missed anything and I will gladly add it

Immersability: reader can have/has had a child but it otherwise not described in any way

Author’s Notes: HUGE thank you to @wannab-urs for listening to me scream about this for several weeks and beta reading for me. This fic would not exist without the love of my life. I hope you all enjoy the sadness knowing that there is a happy ending coming!

Joel lays in the snow, drifting in and out of consciousness. The blood loss has his head spinning and his vision going black at the edges. The snow seeps everywhere. His pants, his boots. He thought he would feel cold, but strangely he’s burning up. He doesn’t have the strength to take his jacket off, though. Maybe a nap will help, he thinks. Just as his eyes shut, he hears her. “Joel, don’t go to sleep.” Ellie says, directly into his ear. He turns his head to look for her, but she isn’t there. “Don’t go to sleep.” He hears again. He can’t find her. Why is he always having to look for her? Why does he keep failing her? He hears her, one last time, as consciousness finally eludes him. “JOEL!” 

You’re driving down the road on the familiar journey back home from the hardware store when you see something laying in the snow on the side of the road. You slow the truck down just enough to see that it is a man, not an animal. He looks dead, or close to it. You decide to keep driving. It’s too dangerous. He could be infected, or even worse. It could be a trap. You know all too well that there are worse things out there than Cordyceps. If it is a trap, he’s already seen you, you think. Him or his friends could follow you. If he’s infected it’s probably safer to just put him down, versus letting him roam around spreading his disease to others. You stop the truck and throw it in reverse. You grab your shotgun from the passenger seat and slide out onto the snow covered road. You walk around the back of the truck to where the man lay. His skin has a sickly gray pallor but there is no indication that he’s infected. You step a little closer, at this range you’d be able to pull the trigger quickly if he’s trying to lure you into a trap. Unfortunately the noise might attract some infected, but you’d be able to get the truck out of here quickly enough. Just then, you notice that the snow beneath him is red. You step closer and see that there’s a pool of blood running down the slope of the ditch. Too much blood. You don’t see any way that he could have survived a wound like that. And you don’t want to get caught out in the open by whoever made it. You turn to get back in the truck and on the road when you hear something move. It comes from the direction of the man and you turn back. His boot twitches lightly, crunching the snow beneath it. “Shit.” He’s alive, somehow. You drop to your knees and set the shotgun down on the ground beside you. You take your leather glove off and push two fingers to his throat, under his sharp jaw, looking for a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there. “Fuck. Now what?” You ask aloud, even though he’s unconscious. You can’t leave him here. What if whoever did this comes back? Could you live with yourself knowing you could have helped him, knowing that leaving him like this is sure death? 

Why didn’t you just keep driving? You ask yourself as you try to carry the man to the truck. It isn’t easy, he’s a big man. Heavy and broad, all you can do is slip your hands under his armpits and drag him, hoping you aren’t doing more damage than help. You wouldn’t normally stop, you still can’t figure out why you did. Something about this man just called to you. Pulled you towards him like a magnet. He’s laying on the seat, his feet at the passenger door. There’s nowhere else for his head to go but your lap. You press your hand to his face and neck, desperately trying to share your body heat with him. You’ll do your hardest to save him, but you fear it will be in vain. You don’t want to get your hopes up, you aren’t sure you can handle the disappointment. You aren’t sure you can bear to dig another grave. It takes another thirty minutes to reach your house. You turn at a barely perceptible break in the trees. The dirt path has a sharp left curve and then it deposits you onto a gravel driveway that takes you an additional mile into the forest. Your father didn’t want anyone to find this place unless he specifically showed them. You and your sister used to make fun of him for his paranoia, but when the word went to shit, you were both grateful for it. He’d built the house, the barn and workshop with his own two hands, twenty years before the apocalypse. He was convinced the government was going to turn on its citizens one day. So he built a place for him and his wife to raise their growing family. By the time you came around it was already a self-sustaining, solar powered homestead. You learned how to field dress a deer before you even finished learning how to read. Even though the homestead runs like a well-oiled machine, it’s been difficult to keep up with on your own. The last big storm damaged the roof, which you’ve yet to fix. Hence the little shopping trip that brought you here, dragging a grown man into your house, trying to make sure he doesn’t die on you. 

“I’m so sorry.” You say once you finally get him into the house and situated on the couch. He still hasn’t woken up, so he probably doesn’t hear your apology. He probably doesn’t feel your hand cup his still freezing cheek. He isn’t as cold as he was before, but his skin is still sickly pale. You run to the bathroom and pull out your med kit. The big one. You’ll have to pull out all the stops if he’s gonna make it. You pull his boots and socks off first. Wet feet are a death sentence. You pull the throw blanket, the one your mom made, off the back of the couch and bundle his lower half up in it. You take the scissors to his shirt, starting at the middle of the neckline, you cut all the way down to the hem. You peel it away from his torso and begin to assess his injuries. He has several stab wounds, pretty deep ones. One that looks dangerously close to his liver. If the organ was sliced, there isn’t anything you can do to help him. You go to the kitchen and wash your hands. You put some latex gloves on and grab the brown bottle of long-expired iodine. You set him up with an IV and a bag of saline. You draw up some pain medication and inject it into the second line. It drips into the small plastic chamber, and then the primary line. You want him to wake up, but not until you’ve finished. You’ve never been more thankful to have had a nurse for a mother. You don’t know his weight so you err on the side of caution and underdose him. If none of his vital organs are injured, an infection is the next biggest concern. You don’t know what made these wounds, how clean it was. An infection will kill him even more slowly, and painfully, than hypothermia or blood loss. You open a fresh pair of hemostatic forceps and a new package of thread. You set to work stitching his wounds, one by one, starting with the biggest ones. By the time you finish bandaging the last one, darkness has started to set in and he still hasn’t so much as twitched. You go to the master bedroom, your parents room, and rifle through the drawers of your father’s dresser. You return to the living room with the clothes stacked in your hands. You begin undressing the man with a detached sort of care. You don’t want to jostle him too much, but you don’t want to let your hands or eyes rest anywhere for too long. You replace each article of clothing as you remove the wet and soiled ones until the bloody rags are all piled at your feet. You grab a heavier blanket from the hall closet and wrap him up in that one as well. 

You start a fire in the fireplace and then walk down the hall to your bedroomm the one that used to be your sister’s. You gather everything you’ll need for the night and place it on your bed before taking the fastest shower you’ve ever taken. You don’t want to leave him alone too long if you can help it. You don’t want him to wake up in a strange place, in pain, with nobody to answer the questions he’s sure to have. You slip back into your room and grab your blanket and pillow and a book that you’ve read about a thousand times in the last twenty years. You set yourself up in the recliner after you move it as close to the couch as it’ll get. Huddled in your blanket, you try to read. Every few sentences you look over at him, looking to see his chest rise, listening for the sound of his breath. The dry clothes and the fire seem to have warmed him up. His skin has more of a golden brown color than it did before. His breathing has evened out, too. After the fifth or sixth time you peer over at him, you give up pretending and just look. His salt and pepper curls have air dried from the snow and are fluffy and messy, going in all directions. His nose is prominent, striking, really. His plush lips are topped with a mustache that’s almost fully gray. His jawline is sharp, and pebbled with a patchy beard to match the mustache. His neck sits atop shoulders that are broad. You couldn’t help but notice the taut muscles under his skin as you undressed and redressed him. He’s quite a bit older than you, probably closer to your father’s age than yours. Well, how old your father would be by now. You suddenly feel your cheeks get way too warm. You’ve been alone out here way too long. You let your eyes wander the length of his body one more time and return to your book. You read the same paragraph four times before you give up and toss the book to the floor. You recline the chair and close your eyes. The sounds of the fire crackling and the man’s breathing lull you to sleep. 

You wake early the next morning, before the sun has risen. You check the man’s pulse, steady but not quite as strong as you’d like it to be. His wounds have bled through the bandages, but not too badly. He seems to be on the mend. You breathe a sigh of relief and exchange his saline bag for a fresh one. You add a small amount of pain medication to this one as well. Some of those wounds were pretty deep, and when he wakes up, he’ll be in a significant amount of pain. If he wakes up, you remind yourself. Your mother taught you everything she knew, but you hadn’t had much practical use for the knowledge, being so isolated way out here in the Wyoming wilderness. The fact that he hasn’t already died assures you that you are doing something right. You pull the blanket up under his chin and go to the kitchen to begin making breakfast. Pork sausage and eggs, harvested from the animals right on the farm. You make some red salsa with tomatoes, peppers and onions from the garden that the kitchen window overlooks. The best part of breakfast, and the item you thank your crazy dad for hoarding the most, is coffee. The man couldn’t begin his day until he had two cups, a habit he passed on to you. He picked up a case of Folger’s every time he went into town before the world ended. Your mother had joked that the real apocalypse would start once he ran out. You make enough of everything in case the man wakes up. If he doesn’t you’ll have it for lunch. The roof repair will have to wait a few more days, until you feel comfortable leaving him alone. Until you’re sure that he won't die on you. 

He stirs on the couch, a few moans fall from his mouth. He kicks the blanket to the floor. He must be having a nightmare. His voice suddenly booms through the quiet house. “Ellie! Ellie, wake up!” He shouts. “No!” Then he stills and seems to fall back into the deep sleep he had been in before. You rush to his side and kneel on the floor beside him. The man doesn't stir when you shake his shoulders. His pulse is rapid and his chest rises and falls so quickly you think he might be hyperventilating.

You place both hands gently on his face and speak softly to him. “It’s okay. Everything is okay. You're safe here.” You try to assure him. You hope your words make it through the fog of pain and narcotics that is preventing him from waking, but not having nightmares. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Anything else , you think. “You just rest. I’ll take care of you.” You promise him. Finally his breathing evens out once more and his pulse slows. You move your hands from his face and go to stand, but his right hand catches your wrist.

“Please don’t go, Ellie.” He quietly pleads. His eyes are still closed, still out of it you assume. You don’t know who Ellie is, but you don’t want him to feel like she’s leaving him. So you settle onto the floor, your back up against the couch, near his chest. You pick his arm up and drape it over your shoulder across your chest. He tightens it briefly before his muscles all finally relax. You curl your hand around the back of his large one and give it a small squeeze. You can’t remember the last time you touched another person this way. Not since the last member of your family died. The warmth from his body goes right through to your bones. His palm feels rough against your fingers, and you wonder how they might feel against your cheek, against your ribs, your hips. You quickly shake the thought from your head and remind yourself that he’s probably still gonna die. And even if he doesn’t, it sounds like he has someone he needs to look for. Ellie. Whoever she is, she’s probably waiting for him, looking for him. He isn’t yours to keep. You sleep there all night, with his arm wrapped around you, clutching his hand in yours. 

After five days, he finally wakes up. Darkness is about to fall. You are coming back in from the cellar, a crate stuffed full of supplies in your hands. You open the front door and almost drop the crate to the floor. The man is sitting up on the couch, the blankets have been tossed to the floor. “Oh! You’re awake.” You exclaim loudly, while trying to balance the heavy supplies in your arms. He whips his head around to face you and tries to stand. He grimaces in pain and grabs his abdomen. “Don’t do that!” You shout. "You'll rip your stitches!" You place the crate on the floor and quickly cross the room. You sit on the couch next to him and try to lift his shirt. He flinches away from your touch. You hold your hands up, hoping to convey you don’t mean him any harm. “I need to check your stitches.” You tell him, somehow sounding calm and measured when your heart is thudding in your chest. He gives you a slight nod and leans back into the couch. You lift the long sleeve shirt and assess the bandages he sports across his torso. One had bright red blood showing through. “Shit, you pulled some stitches. I need to fix this.” You tell him. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow at you. He jaw tics but he doesn’t say anything when you get up and grab the medical bag from where you left it on the side of the couch. “You need to lay down.” You order. His eyes rake your body up and down before he pulls his shirt off and complies, wordlessly. You snap on a pair of fresh gloves before you remove the bandage. The stitches have come loose on the biggest wound, the one you are the most worried about. “Fuck.” You swear quietly, and you swear you can see the hint of a smirk appear on his lips.

“Where am I?” He asks when he finally speaks. You assume the willingness to talk is his way of distracting himself from the pain of you restitching his wound.

“Wyoming.” You reply.

“Where in Wyoming?” He winces when you pull the needle through his skin.

“Cody.” You say, trying to concentrate. “Well, just outside.” You tell him. 

He takes a deep breath and holds it as you finish tying off the last stitch. You apply some antibiotic ointment and a fresh bandage. You stand to get rid of the bloody bandages and he grabs your wrist, just like he did before. “How did I get here?” His eyelashes are so long they brush his cheeks when he blinks.

“I found you on the side of the road, almost dead. I put you into my truck and drove you here and practically dragged you inside. That was five days ago.” You tell him. He closes his eyes but doesn’t drop his grip on your wrist.

“Thank you.” He says.

You nod at him. “You’re welcome.” His hold on your wrists loosens and you walk into the kitchen, as quickly as you can do without being obvious. You need to get away from him right this second. Your skin is hot all over. You can feel the imprint of his fingers on the thin skin of your wrist. As if he reached inside you and curled them around your bones. It’s been fifteen years since you thought of a man this way. And he certainly isn’t the one you want to start with. You dispose of the soiled bandages and splash some water on your face. You pull a glass from the cabinet and turn on the tap to fill it with water. You hand it to him, along with some ibuprofen for the pain.

“Thanks.” He says as he gulps the pills and water down. He finishes it all in one go and sets the empty glass down on the side table. “My name is Joel.” He offers you his hand to shake. You accept it and tell him your name. 

“What is this place?"

You cock your head in confusion. “A house?” You respond. Has he never seen a house before? You think sarcastically.

He shakes his head. “How do you have electricity? Running water?”

You stifle a laugh. “My dad was kind of paranoid.” You explain. “This whole place is self-sufficient. Solar powered. We have a well.” He nods and takes a look around.

“Where’s your dad?” He asks.

“He died.” You say quietly. Your gaze shifts to the floor. You’ve never had anyone to talk about this stuff with. You don’t think you can, even after all these years. It still hurts too much. Every time you go to the field where they are all buried, you sit and weep at the graves of your loved ones for hours. You wonder what any of you could have done to deserve this.

“Is there…anyone else here?” He asks. You shake your head softly.

“Not anymore.” You say, even quieter than before. Joel reaches over and pats your shoulder awkwardly, obviously trying to comfort you. You can’t help but laugh. You look up at him with tears in your eyes and laugh. You haven’t laughed like this in years. His forehead wrinkles and he shakes his head but he begins to laugh too. And you recognize in him what you see in yourself, someone who hasn’t had much to laugh about in a long time. He laughs until he can’t anymore. He holds his hand to his stomach and winces in pain. You stop laughing and place your hand softly on his bicep. He doesn’t flinch away from you this time. Instead he wraps his other hand around yours. “Are you okay?” You ask.

He nods and squeezes your hand. “Yeah, darlin’. I’m just a little sore.”  The pet name sends a zap through your body, starting with where his fingers graze your palm, licking down your spine, and settling between your thighs. You pull back from him abruptly and stand from the couch.

“I’m sure you’re tired of sleeping on the couch.” You say and gesture for him to stand. “There’s plenty of bedrooms here.” You offer. Joel stands.

“You really don’t have to do that. I should be on my way, I suppose. I’ve taken up enough of your time, your supplies.” He says and begins to move towards the front door.

“No!” You shout, a little too loudly, a little too quickly. He raises his eyebrows. “I mean, you can’t travel in your condition. You need to rest, Joel. You need to heal. And as for my supplies, I’ve got enough to last me three lifetimes, so you don’t have to worry about that.” You tell him. “Please, Joel.” You plead, and attempt to make your eyes look as sad as possible. “If you go out there now, you’ll die.” Joel picks up his backpack and rifle from the floor next to the door. Tears prick the corners of your eyes.

“One of those rooms got a real bed?” He asks. You nod and blink away the tears before they could fully form. 

Joel isn’t sure why he agreed to stay. Maybe you’re right, his injuries are pretty severe. Maybe he just couldn’t stand to see the look on your face, the tears in your eyes. He allows you to lead him down the hallway to a bedroom. You open the door but don't step inside. There is a queen size bed, a dresser, and a baby’s crib. He looks from the crib to your face and immediately knows better than to ask. You’ll tell him when you’re ready, if you ever are. “There’s a bathroom down there if you want to shower. With hot water .” You emphasize. “Feel free to take anything from the dresser. The clothes in there should fit you.” Joel notices the sadness in your voice when you make the offer. He wonders who they belonged to. “I’m gonna go make dinner. You need to eat, regain your strength.” You say, somewhat awkwardly, unsure how to exist around another person anymore. “Help yourself to anything. Hope you like chicken.” You turn and head to the kitchen without giving him a chance to respond. While you chop vegetables for dinner, you hear the shower turn on and hear Joel moan audibly. The sound sends a shiver through your whole body. It's probably been a while since he’s had a hot shower. Probably even longer since he had a home cooked meal like this. When he joins you in the kitchen, he’s wearing one of Danny’s band t-shirts and a pair of gray sweatpants. His feet are covered with only socks. His curly brown hair is slicked back and still dripping onto his neck. The sweatpants seem like they may be just a size too small for him, and his biceps bulge the sleeves of the Green Day t-shirt. You are trying not to stare so you busy yourself bringing the plates of food to the table.

“Do you need any help?” He offers. You clear your throat and shake your head.

“Please, you’re my guest.” You say, gesturing with a plate for him to sit. He sits at the head of the table, where your father used to sit. You take the seat directly to his right, where you’ve always sat. Even during all the years since everyone has been gone, you keep to the same routine. It’s the only thing you know to do. Keep going. Trudging on.

“Wow. I haven’t seen food like this in years.” He smiles and digs in. He moans with the first bite. “Mmm. This is so goddamn good, darlin’.” He says and you offer him a tight smile in return. Your body is having the same reaction as it did to his moan in the shower.

At this point, you feel like you’re about to burn up from the inside. At the very least, there’s bound to be a damp spot on the chair when you stand. And then his knee brushes yours under the table. “Glad you like it, Joel.” 

The two of you make conversation while you eat. You talk about easy things, your ages, where you’re originally from, music and movies from before. You both stay clear of topics like your families and outbreak day. After dinner, Joel insists on helping you clean up. You refuse, wanting him to rest as much as you want to give yourself a little space from him. “My mama sure would be disappointed in me if I didn’t at least wash the dishes after someone cooked me a nice meal.” That southern drawl in his voice and the dimple on his cheek when he gives you a smile, has you agreeing against your better judgment. He washes dishes while you clean up the rest of the kitchen, placing the leftovers into the fridge and wiping the counters and stove. Once you’ve finished he walks down the hall with you. “Guess this is me.” He says, huffing out a chuckle, when you arrive at his door.

“Goodnight, Joel. I’ll see you in the morning.” You tell him. You turn to head to your bedroom but his warm palm on your shoulder stops you in your tracks. You turn back around to face him, but he doesn’t drop his hand, just places it gingerly on your opposite shoulder. He seems a little gun-shy, as are you.

“Thank you, for today. For everything, really. Thank you for saving my life. And for giving me the most normal and peaceful day that I’ve had in twenty years.” His eyes glimmer with unshed tears, similar to the ones you feel filling your eyes.

“You’re welcome, Joel. It was nice having some company.” He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze and you finally make your way to your own room. Emotional exhaustion takes over your body and you are asleep the second your head hits the pillow. For the first night in many years, you don’t have nightmares. 

For two weeks, Joel rests and recuperates. He does so by following you around as you do your chores, helping here and there with small stuff. You don’t allow him to do any bending or stretching. No lifting either. Basically, he holds doors open for you and keeps you company. After the first week he finally gets brave enough to ask what you meant before. What ‘not anymore’ means. You tell him the truth but spare him the details. Nobody really needs those anymore. We all have an ugly story with a sad ending to tell. Everyone has lost someone. None of it is pretty. You don’t ask him who he has lost. He’s asking because he wants to know you better, not because he wants to tell his own sad tale. You eat dinner alone in your room that night. When you take your still mostly full plate to the kitchen, you see that Joel has cleaned up and retired to his own room for the night. Your heart swells at his consideration, knowing when to leave well enough alone. After the second week, he works up the nerve to ask you about the crib.

“You don’t have to tell me.” He offered quietly. You knew that. Knew that he would leave it alone and never bring it up again if you didn’t want him to. That’s part of why you wanted to tell him. The other part is that same thing that made you stop for him to begin with. That pull. That force. So you tell him. All about your boyfriend whose parents died on outbreak day. How your parents invited him to live with your family. Y’all had plenty to share, after all. Especially with someone your parents considered family. They would never leave a sixteen year old boy to fend for himself in times such as these. Three years into the end of the world, you became pregnant. Your sister and Danny were thrilled. You and your parents were nervous. What kind of world was this to bring a child into? But your sister pointed out that your farm was as close to the “before” as anything was ever going to be again. You had to admit that she was right. 

After a while, you let the excitement of impending parenthood overshadow your concern. Ever thankful that your mother was a nurse, your labor and delivery went as smoothly as possible. Just a few months after your nineteenth birthday you gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. The six of you spent a year and half in the closest thing to blissful happiness anyone would ever feel again. One day, Danny had to make a run to the hardware store. He insisted on going alone because your dad wasn’t feeling well and neither was the baby. You took care of them while your mom and sister completed the daily chores. When he came home a few hours later he appeared disheveled, saying there were a few runners hanging out in the Home Depot parking lot when he came out. He took the first two down, but there was a third he hadn’t seen. He scuffled with it for a few minutes before he was able to lodge his shotgun under the chin and blow its head off. You began checking his body for bites. All you found was a small scratch on the inside of his wrist. He said it happened in the scuffle, must have caught some of the loose gravel in the parking lot. It didn’t look like a bite. How could you have known? How could either of you have known? The baby went down for a nap and you went to the barn to help your mother. Two of the mama goats were due any day now and she didn’t want them to be left alone. You relieved your sister of goat duty and she went in to get dinner started. After only an hour or two, you and your mother heard a scream from the house that turned your blood to ice water. When you ran inside, Danny was on the ground. He had a hole in his head from your sister’s shotgun, and wispy tendrils hung from his mouth.

“What happened?” You screamed at your sister. She was holding the baby and sobbing.

“I heard the baby crying so I came in to check on her.” She began, but the tears took over. You moved forward to grab your daughter from her arms.

“No!” She screamed. She held the baby tighter and stepped backwards.

“Give her to me!” You shouted. Your daughter’s cries bounced off the walls of the room. You wanted to comfort her. You held your arms out again, but your sister shook her head.

“Look.” She turned the baby in her arms. There it was. On the outside of her thigh. A bite mark. “Danny turned. I didn’t get here fast enough.” She cried.

“Put the baby in the crib.” Your mother instructed. She shook her head again and moved her hair from her neck. She had one too, on her collarbone. In one fell swoop, half of your family was dead. 

You and your mother dug graves in the wildflower field behind the barn. It was your sister’s favorite place. She spent hours laying there, among the flowers, reading and drawing and watching the clouds chase each other across the Wyoming sky. Your father never recovered from his illness. Some kind of respiratory infection that never cleared up. Pneumonia your mother guessed, but without any x-rays it was impossible to tell. His lungs filled up with fluid and he would have suffocated to death. He didn’t want that and neither did his wife of twenty five years. She gave him enough pain medication to knock out a horse and he went peacefully to sleep. A month after you buried your sister and boyfriend and baby, you and your mother had another grave to dig. After that, your mother gave up on life. The grief was too much. The pain was too deep. She stopped eating, stopped bathing. She was the only reason you kept going. Trying to keep her alive was keeping you alive. And then one night, she went to sleep and in the morning when you tried to wake her, she was already gone. She just withered away into nothing. She was so small that you carried her on your own to the wildflower field, not that you had any choice. You had five pretty great years together, all things considered. And within three months, it was all ripped from you. You had considered going out to the field where your family rested and putting an end to it. The only thing that stopped you were the animals. If you died, who would take care of them? It wouldn’t be right to leave them to starve to death, or worse, be eaten by infected. So you kept going. For fifteen years, you woke up and fed the animals and harvested the eggs and milked the goats. You learned to be on your own. 

Joel sits next to you on a bale of hay in the barn and his eyes shimmer with tears by the end of your story. He snakes his arm around your shoulders and draws you in close. “I’m so sorry. Sorry you had to go through all that. Even sorrier that you had to do it all alone darlin’.” You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and sniffle.

“Thank you, Joel. And thanks for being here.” That night after dinner, Joel plants a kiss on your forehead and shoos you out of the kitchen so he can clean up.

“You go take a shower and get some sleep.” He says. “You had a heavy day.” You take your time in the shower, letting the hot water wash some of the emotions of the day away. You are drying your hair with a towel when you hear Joel’s boots on the hardwood floors. What is he up to? You wonder. When you get to the end of the hallway you see him near the front door, his backpack is slung over one arm and his rifle the other. His hand is outstretched towards the doorknob when he hears your voice. He stops in his tracks and drops his hand but doesn't turn around.

“You’re leaving?” He drops his head to his chest and nods. “You weren’t even going to say goodbye?” You ask, not even bothering to try to hide your tears.

“It’s time for me to go.” He says, still looking at the floor. He’s healed enough now. He has to go find Ellie, you think. You steel yourself and clear your throat.

“Okay then. Goodbye, Joel.” You tell him. You’ve been alone for all this time and you’ve been fine. You will be fine again. He turns then to face you. You can see his own tears shining on his cheeks. “Are you sure you’re healed enough?” The waver in your voice betrays your false confidence.

“Ask me what you really wanna ask.” He rasps. He sounds as wrecked as you feel. “I need to hear you say it. I want to. I do, but I'm not a good man. I’ve done things you couldn’t even imagine, darlin’. I can’t be another thing that hurts you. I can’t be another disappointment for you. You need to tell me that this is what you want.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at his confession. “I can’t lose anyone else, Joel. I won’t make it. I won’t survive. Please , stay. Don’t leave me here all alone again.” You practically beg. You’d drop to your knees and kiss his boots if you thought it would help. He throws his belongings to the ground and closes the distance between you. He grabs your face with both of his hands and crashes his lips into yours. Your mouth opens in a gasp and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue in, tangling it with yours.

Hours later, you lay naked in his arms. You trace lines into his chest with your fingers and his chin rests on top of your head. You look up at him and he smiles. It’s now or never, you think. “Who is Ellie?” You ask. “You call out for her in your sleep.” You tell him. He takes a deep breath and kisses the top of your head.

“My daughter.” He replies sadly.

“Where is she?” Joel tightens his arms around you.

“She died.” 

I no longer have a taglist! Please follow @ramble-on-fics and turn on post notifications for updates!

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel tlou #joel miller x you #the last of us #tlou fic #tlou fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #the last of us joel #ellie and joel #joel x reader #joel and ellie #joel the last of us #tlou fanfic #tlou joel #tlou au #cw child loss #tw child loss #cw sui ideation #tw sui ideation #cw violence #tw violence

[thejewofkansas]

The Weekly Gravy #175

Salt for Svanetia/Соль Сванетии/Sol’ Svanetii (1930) – ***½ CW: child death; animal cruelty. I might’ve come to Mikhail Kalatozov earlier than any other Soviet director. His last film, the international co-production The Red Tent, was an early favorite of mine (I really need to rewatch and review it), even though I’ve only seen the international release print and not the original cut, which…

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#2023 Films #2023 in Film #CW animal cruelty #CW child loss #Соль Сванетии #Film Reviews #Nimona #Salt for Svanetia #The Weekly Gravy #The Zone of Interest

[quality-street-rat]

Kin stuff

I don't want to be pregnant ever again. But my arms feel empty. I, feel empty, and I want my babies back. I want my son, I want my Hope, I want my pups, I want my little angel. I'm just so empty. I keep trying to curl up around something that just isn't there, around a baby that's gone. I keep trying to wrap my hands around a big round baby bump, and something hurts in my soul when I realize my stomach is flat. I dunno why it hurts. It just does.

#kin tag #|greenleaf #|never again #|there were dragons when i was a boy #|blood like chlorophyll #tw child loss #cw child loss #pregnancy cw

[missmacfire]

Cw: general discussion of child loss

I love the sound of her wings but the scene with the baby is so hard to watch/read 😭💔 both in the comics and the show.

I get why Neil include this but yeah I kinda want it cut 😖

Personal: I was so scary of this when kid was a baby, I remember obsessively check their breathing.

You get a lot of advice of what you can do to limit the risks. But as far as I know no one know exactly why this happen and it will come out of nowhere.

#the sandman #the sound of her wings #cw child loss

[nerdingoutonmain]

Tag 9 People You Want to Get to Know Better

Thanks for the tag, @sadiebwrites!

Favorite color: dark green, closely followed by orange

Currently reading: A Court of Wings and Ruin by Sarah J. Maas. (I finally picked it up after years of people either loving or hating the series. It's a fun ride, and the exact kind of turn-my-brain-off reading I need right now.)

Last song: That I picked myself? Pretty sure it was Unstoppable by Sia. That I listened to? Toddler Music. I think it was a counting song about bananas.

Last series: Kenobi

Last movie: Apollo 13

Sweet/Savoury/Spicy: Spicy usually, but I enjoy a good chocolate treat, too.

Currently working on: Honestly? Myself. Our son was stillborn about a month ago at 37 weeks and it's been incredibly difficult to do much more than the basics. Before that, pregnancy had me so wiped out that I wasn't doing much creatively. I'm hoping that as the metaphorical fog continues to lift that I'll be able to get back to writing something.

Since it's apparently honesty on main hours, anxiety has rendered me unable to make a tag list for fear of upsetting someone (yes I will be talking to the doctor about this sudden raging anxiety when I go for my 6 week postpartum checkup). If you're seeing this and want to participate, consider yourself tagged (please tag me so I see it?)

#get to know you game #cw pregnancy loss #cw child loss #sorry to bring the vibe down #screaming into the void

[keii4ii]

"Someone's last words" - minicomic, post-RoP

#my art #lies of p #lies of p spoilers #cw loss of a child/ parental grief