#I've been so depressed this year it's probably the worst I've been in a long time | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

softlyspector · 6 months

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Born lucky, under a bad star.

Summary: Joel has always been lucky, in the worst of ways.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Word count: ~13k (sorry)

Warnings: game!Joel, major spoilers for tlou part 2, angst with a happy ending, major injuries and recovery, anxiety, depression, relationship healing, mentions of death, mentions of violence, suicidal ideation

Disclaimers and A/N: Though this fic was based around some events in tlou part 2, almost all of the canon after the divergence from the canon timeline is thrown out. This fic is also based entirely around game events, characterization, and canon. This is honestly one of the most difficult things I've ever written. It took months and many many drafts, but I'm very proud of her. I hope you love her too, she was a labor of love.

As always, thank you for reading! I would love to know your thoughts! Please please please, be sure to leave feedback!

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red. - Kait Rokowski.

The lights of the clinic are so bright they’re blinding.

Your hands are still shaking, covered in Joel’s blood. It’s been hours since you returned to the safety of Jackson’s walls but there’s still a frantic, frenetic energy in the air. Everyone is shaken. It feels a little like a thousand year old tree has been felled, like a giant has been swung at and leveled, like something monstrous and infallible has been brought to its knees.

You’ve seen it happen before. Rebar right through his belly. It should have killed him. It would have killed anyone else. You’ve pulled more bullets out of Joel than you would care to count, and swaddled him in probably several football fields worth of bandages over the years.

Still, nothing like this.

Because Joel has always been lucky, even when he hadn’t wanted to be.

Lucky, in all the worst ways.

That fucking rebar, you think bitterly. It should have hit at least one organ, should have severed his fucking spine. But it didn’t. He walked it off, really, mostly, at the end of it all.

This though — to see him tortured, beaten, bleeding to death slowly—

Your edge of your vision tips black, like your mind is already refusing to go back to that room, like you’ll pass out if you think of it for too long.

A part of you wonders if maybe it’s your fault. Maybe you forgot to stick lavender in his pocket before he left that morning, like you always do.

Someone pushes the door open, snow swirls in against the tile. Voices, rising and falling. The cold that rolls through the tiny waiting room is frigid.

It’s still so red, his blood, even dried and crusted around your fingers and up your wrists.

Tommy is still bleeding and even Maria hasn’t been able to convince him to sit down and let someone look at him. No, all attention needs to be focused on his brother. Anyone with any medical know how, has to be with Joel.

You agree.

Tommy, you, anyone else—can fucking wait.

Ellie is sitting next to you, looking just as numb and shocked as you feel, her fingers twined with Dina’s.

The chatter reaches a crescendo. Something about the worsening storm, something about tracking folks with that big of a headstart through a storm like this one, something about the rapidly deepening darkness, night coming on, something about well who could do something like that anyway? Who the fuck would we even send?

The quiet that follows is painful.

Joel.

Joel is the one you send. Joel is the one that could get a job like this one done, the one that could track people through a blizzard with a dogged determinism, with pragmatism and infallibility.

“What did they want?” Someone asks the room at large. You aren’t sure who asks, you can’t make the shapes in the room resolve into people you know. “Why us? Why Joel? They wanted something right? Who were they?”

You and Tommy look at each other, Ellie makes a half muffled, pained sound beside you. Joel crossed a lot of people, maybe there wasn’t any sense in guessing.

No one answers. You look at your hands again and wonder if the crimson will ever fade.

Someone says your name and you look up. A coat is tugged over your shoulders. You didn’t realize you were shivering and you don’t know what happened to your own coat. One of the patrolmen is looking at you, his name slips your memory but Jesse is standing behind him, Maria on the other side.

You feel the ghost of Ellie’s hand against your arm. Odd, you think distantly, because she hates you. She has for a long time.

“What happened?”

You look around, but Tommy isn’t where he’d been standing just a moment ago. Did they ask him, too?

There’s a dark hole in your memory.

“I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth.

There’s no one more dedicated, more involved, in keeping Jackson safe, than Joel.

Aside from Tommy, maybe.

Joel is an effective killer, like an executioner with a mission. It’s the thing that scared Tommy the most about his brother, and it’s also the thing that had kept him alive long enough to get his second chance in Jackson. It’s the thing you have always loved most about Joel, the violence born of necessity.

And, you suppose, that’s what he’d been. Dispatcher, destroyer.

Protector.

At the heart of it all, the meat of it is, that it had always been that with Joel. It had always been in the name of protect, provide, survive. He never shied away from telling you of his days as a hunter, or, something close to a hunter. And even then, it was keep Tommy alive, it was survive until Boston, it was we needed fucking food.

Survive and provide and protect.

Joel.

Jackson had been wary of him, at first. The stories of his dealings with infected and raiders alike at odds with the way he moved in the commune, with kindness and a certain gentleness, a competency and dependability, with something so soft in his gaze when it came to that little girl he arrived with.

That reticence and worry had dissolved as quickly as it had come.

They describe him as quiet and funny, because he’s prone to good natured teasing. They describe him as fierce and short to anger, because no one can say a word about him or his. They describe him as wonderfully dependable, ask Joel for something on a supply run and you would have it in short order; sigh about the state of something in your home and it would be taken care of, fixed, the very next day.

Jackson loves Joel.

Especially that softened up, gentle creature that had emerged in the wake of everything that had happened between Boston and Jackson. Joel had always had a soft interior, trotted out in brief glimpses over the years, but the shell he wore had been so thick and sharp it was near impenetrable, nearly unknowable.

Ellie is around plenty in those first couple of weeks after. She even takes to sleeping on the living room couch. She doesn’t say much to you or Joel, hardly anything at all, but she’s there and you figure that’s what matters. It seems like she isn’t sure what to say, and desperate for the connection that nearly shattered.

The first few days when Joel comes home from the clinic, someone knocks on the front door every couple of hours and you open it and have the same conversation over and over and over again. It’s always people worriedly asking after Joel’s wellbeing, dropping off food, expressing their anger that something like this could happen to one of their own, that it could happen to someone so widely and wildly beloved.

When the knocks finally stop coming, and you can convince Tommy to go home to Maria, before Maria has to walk over and collect her husband again, you take the stairs slowly up.

You’re exhausted. You hardly sleep and when you do, you have nightmares of Joel. Formless, mind numbing dreams that you can never remember when you wake up gasping. You aren’t sure if Joel dreams of it, too. He’s always mumbled in his sleep, eyes flickering behind closed lids, so it’s hard to tell.

And he hasn’t really been coherent enough, awake enough, to ask, anyway.

“Hey,” Ellie says when you round the doorway into the bedroom, lowering the comic book in her hands. She’s beside Joel, sitting on your side of the bed, back against the headboard. “Sleeping again.”

“Was he awake?”

“A little. Drank some water.”

Despite the tension of the last few years, you know she’s thinking of another time that Joel had slept a lot, injured and only half alive.

Now isn’t like then, but in some ways, it’s worse.

You nod and take a seat at the edge of the bed by her feet. “That’s good,” you reassure her. “It’s a good thing that he’s sleeping. He needs it.”

Ellie just holds up the comic in her lap and then jerks her chin at the box on the bedside table, Joel’s glasses and book about space pushed aside. “I, uh, found them in the study.”

You shrug. “He always picked up any he found on supply runs.” You watch her from the corner of your eye and then shift your gaze to Joel. The slow rise and fall of his chest is reassuring in its steadiness, though you hate how still he is.

The skin by his temple is puckered and red, the stitches a neat little row up to his hairline. It still looks raw as a live nerve, the swelling extending to his eye, purple and shadowed in a dark bruise that trails down his cheek and jaw.

“He never said—” She stops and shakes her head. “So stupid.”

“Well,” you scoot closer and pat her extended leg. “You didn’t exactly want to talk then. We tried giving them to you, once. Left them outside your door. They got a little rained on.”

“Yeah,” she says, mouth twisting to the side. “Some of them are. . .can’t fucking peel the pages apart.” In that moment, she sounds like that little kid you left Boston with, being told not to touch something and doing it anyway.

That might have been when you fell in love with Ellie, watching her snap at Bill, and watching Joel react like any father would. It had come back to him so quickly, so naturally.

There’s a long pause in which Ellie flips rapidly through the comic book and doesn’t say anything, her fingers nervous. She looks how you feel — exhausted. “Why don’t you go get some sleep in your own bed?” You ask, reaching out to twitch a fallen lock of auburn hair behind her ear. “You’re just across the yard. If anything happens, you’ll know.”

She looks up at you, eyes flicking over your face. “I was fucking mad at you too, you know,” she whispers suddenly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You drop your hand and shake your head before looking back at Joel. He sleeps deeply now, deeper than you thought possible for someone like him, even drugged and injured.

There’s a knot tangled in your chest, that only tightens further with her question. “It wasn’t my place. He didn’t. . .he didn’t say anything to me about it for a long time, either. Wouldn’t explain what happened while we were separated. He told me the same lie. And you were going to be mad at me, too, no matter what. It had to be between the two of you.”

“And you think he was right,” she accuses hotly.

“And,” you level your eyes to hers, “I think he was right.” You dip your head. “I wouldn’t change anything, Ellie. I wouldn’t. You know Joel wouldn’t either. You matter more than that.”

Her bottom lip trembles for just a second. “Even knowing this happens?!” She gestures around the room, maybe just the situation at large.

Some of the tension knotting up your shoulders bleeds away. “He’s still here. It’s not too late.” She glances away and sucks in a harsh breath. You wait until she meets your eyes again. “And Ellie, it is not your fault. It’s not. None of it.”

“It almost was.” Her voice is strained. “Too late.”

You shrug. “He knows you care. Trust me, he does.”

She scrubs roughly at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie. “Yeah, uh, well, I’m still gonna sleep on the couch.”

“Why don’t you just stay right here, then? With Joel?” You ask and stand. “I’ll take the couch tonight.”

It is the ultimate admission of how scared she is, that she does not argue, doesn’t even try to.

For the first few weeks after the attack, Joel is in and out of consciousness. He sleeps much more than he’s awake.

And, it’s hard to tell, at first, why he’s sleeping so much. The pain medicine? That carefully doled out, nearly impossible to come by miracle drug — was it just knocking him out? Was he just sleeping because that’s what his body needed? Or, was it something deeper? Brain damage?

“He’s fucking. . .old!” Ellie says to you one morning around a mouthful of toast. It’s kind of odd, how easily she’s taken to old routines. And how weird the old routine is, because the third piece of your puzzle is missing, sleeping. “Old people take longer to heal, right?”

Right.

But he’s also Joel. And he isn’t that old.

It feels wrong, that he’s so still and silent.

“It’s not—” Her fist opens and closes. She sets down the toast in her other hand on the plate and turns, pacing the length of Joel’s kitchen, fidgeting with her fingers as she goes, white morning light slatting over her. You eye the toast. It’s hard to get her to eat, these days but you figure most of one piece is better than nothing. “His leg. It’s not infected or something, right? We’d know if it was.”

“It’s not infected,” you agree. When your own hands start to shake, you set down your mug, afraid to drop it or spill hot tea all over the floor, and make Ellie even more anxious in the process.

You don’t like to talk about it. You don’t like to think about it. The memories are like a hot brand.

The staircase creaks with the heavy thud of footsteps, before Tommy appears in the kitchen archway. You’ve always thought Tommy and Joel resembled each other, but now you see similarities in the kinds of expressions they make, too, the quirks in their movements that only siblings could share, and Tommy is sometimes a little hard to look at.

“Heading out?”

“Yeah, he’s, uh, sleepin’ again.” He leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest.

Ellie doesn’t say anything, just slips past Tommy and heads up the steps. Tommy looks after her and then back at you. “She won’t say it but she doesn’t like leaving him alone,” you explain.

Tommy nods and then pushes away from the door to settle at the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t like the idea of it either. Good she’s with him.” He tips the chair onto its back legs and tilts his head. “How ya holdin’ up?”

“Probably about as good as you are.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah. Maria told me you want off partols.”

You swallow and look away from him as you take the seat across from him at the table. “I - I know we’re down people already but I can’t. . .Tommy I can’t even look at the goddamn gate without feeling like—” You shake your head. “I just don’t think I can do it. I’d get somebody killed.”

“All right,” he says, not unkindly. “We’ll figure it out. It’s okay.”

A burn starts at the back of your eyes so you stand again and swipe your fingers against your cheeks. “You want coffee before you head out?”

“Nah, save that for Joel.” Then, “How you think this is gonna go? When he’s awake more?”

“I don’t know. You’d know better than me.”

Tommy laughs. The chair scrapes against the linoleum as he stands. He looks tired, and worried. It’s an odd look on him. It isn’t like Tommy at all. You and Tommy have always bonded over teasing Joel. There’s none of that now.

“Like hell. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with him, not me.”

“He’s your brother.”

“And you’re the love of his damn life.” He pauses and leans on the counter next to you.

That makes your mouth twitch, the pleasantly warm feeling in your chest consumed in the next second by a lancing pain that can only be an approximation of grief for someone and something that still breathed.

“I just can’t help worryin’,” he continues. “This might be enough for us, but not for him. If Joel can’t ever do anything again—”

“He just needs time, Tommy,” you cut him off quickly. Not able to stomach the thought. “We’ll figure it out. He’ll figure it out,” you say with more conviction than you feel. “We can probably figure something like a prosthetic out. People have been making them for thousands of years. We can do it. It’ll be fine. But it’s going to be different.”

Tommy’s right. You’ve spent the last fifteen years with Joel. You aren’t sure who you are without him anymore. You aren’t sure you know how to get along without him anymore. And you never want to have to find out. “He’s alive,” you finish with a nod. “Everything else, we can figure out.”

He nods. “You think we shoulda went after ‘em?”

“Maybe. But this is more important.”

Before he goes, Tommy wraps you in a hug. “So long as you and that girl stick around, it’ll be all right.”

“Ellie’s been playing the guitar up there,” you answer.

He nods and pulls back, one big hand clapping down on your shoulder. “See? Things might be all right yet. Always told Joel she’d come around eventually.” He releases you and heads toward the door then. “And get some sleep. Y’look terrible,” he calls over his shoulder. “Orders from Maria.”

For the first time in weeks, Joel wakes with some semblance of clarity. The bedroom is warm and dark, the tiniest pool of light washing over the form next to him from a little light plugged into the wall.

It’s the nightlight he found for Ellie when they first got to Jackson and her nightmares gave her more grief than she cared to admit to.

His whole body aches. He feels sick.

The sharpness of the pain is disorienting. He’s only been awake in brief, muddled flashes, the dulled fingers of drugged pain lancing through him and consuming most of his thoughts. He’d only been awake long enough to eat or drink or be helped to the bathroom like some kind of damn—

He remembers Tommy at his bedside. He hears the ghost notes of music in the air, your voice in his ear, the gentle slide of warm fingers over his skin. He remembers Ellie reading aloud, curled on her side next to him, like she used to do when she was younger, like when they’d stop for the night on the road.

That can’t be right, though. She hasn’t done that in years. She wouldn’t do something like that. Not anymore.

You’re next to him now, face tilted against the edge of his pillow. It’s hard to make you out in the dark, the shape and slope of your features hidden in the dim light.

When he says your name, you twitch, the slightest wrinkle to your nose, the tiniest spasm of your fingers against the sheets. “Darlin’,” he tries again. His voice grinds, catches and snags around his teeth. It feels like he hasn’t spoken in years.

He reaches for you and it’s agony, because his shoulder must be broken. His ribs contract painfully right, like the shrapnel of the bone is digging up into his lungs, piercing his heart. But your skin is soft and warm, pliant, beneath his fingers. It smells like you’ve been burning sage again. He wants to burrow his fingers beneath your skin, you’re so warm.

The cut of your cheekbones are sharper, the angle of your jaw reminds him of winter in the QZ, winter traveling with you and Ellie. Discolored circles line the space beneath your eyes like little hollows. You look exhausted, wan.

You blink, slowly at first, then more rapidly. “Joel?” Your voice is a whisper, like the dark is stealing it away.

Your fingers slide through the backs of his against your cheek when you shift closer, so careful about it, until you’re pressed to his side. “Joel,” you repeat, eyes sliding shut, forehead against the edge of his sore jaw.

He breathes you in, the warm scent of your skin, the smells of hearth and home, lavender and sage and woodsmoke. He closes his eyes for just a second when you shift up and tilt your forehead against his, breath whispering against his chin. “Joel.”

“You all right?” His voice still sounds rocky but clearing it doesn’t seem to help any.

Slowly, you sit up, hand still in his when you pull it away from your face. “You’re asking me that? You’re kidding, Joel,” your voice creaks. You’ve never really been a crier, but there’s a thickness in your mouth, softening out the vowels and snapping at the consonants. “Are you - We didn’t want you to be in pain. But you’ve been sleeping for so long, we gave you a lower dose so that—”

“I feel okay,” he interrupts your fretting, sweeping his thumb against the back of your hand. “Considerin’.”

You swallow and nod. “Hungry?” You glance at the window, where a gray, pale morning light is starting to leech into the room, the color of dirty snow.

“Yep.” He wishes you’d keep your eyes on him. “If you’ve got somethin’ ready.”

“We have anything you want,” you assure him. “Anything.”

Joel nods and attempts to push himself up next to you, chest and shoulder aching something awful. He bites back a groan but it still pushes past his teeth.

“Careful,” you say sharply. Before he can protest, you’re up and around the bed, one hand behind his back. “Your shoulder is broken in a million places.”

“A million?” He grunts.

“Three.”

“That ain’t a million.”

You don’t laugh and your hand doesn’t move from his back. “And broken ribs. Now lean back.” He does as you ask, real careful about it so you don’t worry.

An odd feeling creeps up inside his chest, dulled by the lighter dose of pain medicine coursing through his veins. It ain’t just a sick feeling, but something else. A helplessness, maybe. It feels wrong, in more ways than one.

Joel becomes acutely aware of what he already knows, every single injury, the graveness of them. He knows about the broken shoulder and ribs that had to be reset, torn skin that had to be stitched together, that he has internal bruising but by some miracle no internal bleeding. His face throbs suddenly, his temple tight with pain. He feels his heartbeat behind his eye and in the swelling in his cheek.

And, the worst of it, leg amputated to just above the knee. Sick crawls up the back of his throat. He doesn’t dare look.

The feeling in his chest swells until it chokes him.

Helpless, useless — something hard and fanged digs into his mind. It feels like grief, but what is he supposed to be mourning, exactly?

Everything, maybe.

His whole damn life.

“I’m fine,” he grunts suddenly. Sharply. “Quit fussin’.”

He feels like fucking crying.

“Just - shut up, Joel,” you snap back. “You almost fucking died.”

A fist curls around his throat, warm and tight. He almost can’t breathe through it. “Yeah,” he croaks, voice breaking the word in two.

“Yeah,” you snarl. “So shut up and let me fuss.”

You turn and leave before he can say anything else, footsteps rapidly descending the stairs. Voices trundle up, creased and folded, rising but muffled. You’ve always been mean when you got scared, ever since Joel can remember. You were mean as hell when he first met you, a hissing kind of frustrated, new to the QZ and new to trying your hand at smuggling.

You’ve softened up over the years. He hasn’t seen you like this in a long time, maybe not since you got separated in Salt Lake City.

More footsteps, this time heavy, stomping, coming upwards.

Ellie appears in the doorway a second later. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wild. She’s in sweatpants and a shirt that’s too big for her. She looks tired but unharmed. The knot tangled up around his lungs eases just a little. “Hey, kiddo.” He tries not to sound surprised.

Her eyes flick over him and then away. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t leave either. Instead she picks up a book from the corner of the dresser and settles in the chair across the room.

A firm but unyielding presence.

He closes his eyes, tips his head back against the wall, and tries to push down the feeling of failure rising in his throat like a tide.

Joel’s fingers are clumsy.

He can’t walk, can’t work, can’t do much of anything without irritating every ligament and tendon and bone in his body.

But even worse than that, he can’t remember how to play the guitar.

And nothing makes him feel so helpless as that.

Even after not playing for twenty odd years, the notes and the placement of his fingers on the strings and frets had come back easily to him, almost like he’d never stopped playing at all.

Now, it doesn’t.

In part his shoulder is to blame. Even nearly healed, it’s stiff. But the other part of it is that he can’t remember how to play. Every note seems wrong, and he can’t decide if he’s hearing it wrong, if there’s something wrong with his hearing, his perception, or if the note really is just wrong.

Ellie plays for him, instead.

It’s easier than talking. Neither of them are really good at that, anyway. He’s just glad she’s around at all.

He can’t help but think of that last conversation he’d had with her on the back porch, that she wants to try to forgive him, even if she thinks she might never be able to. He supposes this is her way of trying her hand at that.

Sometimes he wonders if it would be like this if he hadn’t almost died, if he wasn’t collecting sympathy from everyone like there was some kind of shortage. Maybe that conversation on the porch would have meant nothing, otherwise.

The thought hurts him, no matter how glad he is that she’s there.

One evening, pretty late, as snow peppers down through the early winter black that curtains the window, she stops playing.

The living room is quiet, aside from their breathing and the crackle of flames in the fireplace.

“I was going to invite you over to watch a movie.”

The metallic twang of the last note she plucked hangs in the air.

“I was - I was going to fucking ask you to watch a movie with me. That night. One of those dumb action movies you like. Like the ones we used to watch, remember? Curtis and Viper 2.”

She doesn’t look at him. She stares at her fingers, idly, nervously, twisting the tuning pegs of the guitar. “Think I saw that one before,” he answers, voice a little choked. “Pretty good.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Yeah, you would think so, old man,” she replies eventually but still doesn’t look up, her mouth twisting to the side. “I just - don’t want you to think I’m only here because you—” She shakes her head, and props the guitar against the wall before she stands and paces the room twice, toying with her fingers in that way she always has. “I never wanted anything bad to happen to you. Even when I was really mad.”

“Ellie,” he says but she doesn’t seem to hear him. “I know.”

“Anyway, I meant what I said.”

“Ellie.”

“I wanted things to get better. I wanted to try. I was going to.”

“Ellie.”

She spins suddenly toward the front door, one hand on the back of her neck, rubbing awkwardly. “I gotta get going.”

“Kiddo.” This time she turns and finally looks at him. The scent of pine and smoke fills the room. The red of the flames flash across her face, so serious and anxious.

When they first came to Jackson, they spent a lot of nights on the couch together. His neck always ached the next morning from sleeping upright but he’d never complain about it. Then the distance between them had grown, and he doesn’t know when the last time something like that had happened.

But that same distance is slowly shrinking now, even if things might never, never be the same again.

So many times when he looks at her, he still sees that fourteen year old kid. He’d had the same problem with Sarah, looking at his twelve year old and seeing her at five and eight. It was just how it went, being a parent.

“I know, Ellie,” he reassures her. “I do. It’s all right. Even if you didn’t mean a word of it, it’s all right. I meant what I said, too.”

And even though she said she needed to leave, she nods and sits down again. She plucks a few notes out on the guitar when she pulls it back into her lap.

“D'ya still wanna watch it?”

She does.

Joel is whittling.

It is decidedly not going well.

He’s too distracted for it. He never realized how much pressure settled on his shoulder, how much it pulled at the muscle around his ribs, from doing something as simple as this, and he doesn’t like the nausea that comes with the pain.

But it’s something he can do, so he does it.

It’s snowing outside again, wind raking against the siding, rattling the window panes. There’s a thin stream of air coming in around the window’s frame, cold.

His hands are chapped and raw, blood pooling at the seams of his knuckles.

The fix would be easy enough, but everything he needs to do it is in the basement. And the basement is a near impossible location for him to reach, so he puts up with it, hands growing more frustrated by the second because he wants to fucking fix it.

You use the office, his work space, often enough, and it’s one thing for him to be cold and uncomfortable, but another thing entirely for you to feel that way.

But he can’t make it down to the living room without help these days, let alone down two flights of stairs to the basement, and then back up them, too.

“Joel?”

He glances over his shoulder to find you standing in the doorway. You have a pair of shears in your hands.

“Still want me to cut your hair?”

He wants to do it himself. But you’d offered earlier, because you’ve been doing it for him for a long time, for years and years now. And he’d always liked it because your hands are kind with it and you’re better at doing it, anyway. But now it just feels like one more thing he can’t do for himself, one more thing he’s relying on someone else for, and that makes guilt and shame choke him.

Joel can’t seem to do a damn thing, not for himself, but, worse, not for anyone else either.

“Joel?” You ask again when the silence stretches until it’s uncomfortable. “I don’t have to; you can do it yourself.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s all right, darlin’.” You start forward when he labors up from the chair, teeth gritted, but quickly stop when he meets your eyes, warning you away with a glance.

You don’t say anything else, just back out the door and pad down the hall to the bathroom.

He isn’t sure if your feelings are hurt or not, all his focus directed on hauling himself upwards and then limping down the hall with one crutch under his arm. Feeble threads of pain lance up his leg, centering in his joints, the hinge of his knee. The space under his arm is sore too, from the crutch, even wrapped in cloth.

Joel is used to pain. He’s used to temporary aches, the sharp stab of healing wounds, the quick rip of a bullet or knife through skin, chronic pains from age and long healed injuries. On cold days, his side aches something fierce, like that rebar never really came out of him.

But this pain is different, without origin, and he’s having a hard time adjusting to it. Or maybe he’s just having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that this is not a healable injury, at least, not in the way he wants it to be.

For the rest of his life, he will be disabled. He’ll never get back to himself, never be what he once was.

The bathroom light is gold. It washes his skin into a better color, not so pale and strained and pained looking.

He hates looking in the mirror now. Joel never considered himself particularly good looking, never thought about it much, really. And, for most of his life, looks haven’t really mattered anyway.

But seeing his reflection now is a reminder of his failures. It’s a reminder of everything he can’t do.

His whole body is nothing but reminders.

He is a patchwork quilt of scars.

He doesn’t know how you can stand to look at him. But you just brush your hands through his hair when he leans the crutch against the counter and sits heavily on the stool you dragged upstairs.

The bathroom is thick with the scent of lavender and earth. Every winter it turns into a makeshift greenhouse, all the plants that can’t survive the winter dragged inside for the season.

The feeling of your hands through his hair is soothing and the tension in his shoulders slides away.

“I can do it myself,” he grumbles, despite himself, and without conviction when you run a comb through his hair.

You hum under your breath, not really paying him any mind. You know he doesn’t really mean it. Even if he feels like a fucking burden for it, it’s something you’ve always done for him, so it’s a little easier for him to accept. “I know. I like to.” You tilt his chin up and Joel steadfastly avoids looking in the mirror. “Besides, I’m better at it. You take to it like it’s a hack job.”

The trim doesn’t take long, since he keeps his hair longer anyway. It’s mostly an excuse for you to rake your fingers through his hair.

“The window needs fixin’,” he says when you slide in front of him and set about trimming his beard without asking. That’s fine, too. “I know you been, uh, kinda cold in that room.”

“It’s not so bad,” you say when you finish with him, brushing your fingers against his cheeks and then through his hair. You smile, eyes crossing his face, tracing his features like a well known map, before you twitch a lock of hair away from his forehead. “You gonna fix it for me or what?”

“Mighty big ask of ya,” he grouses, irritation itching at the edge of his mind.

You’re still smiling faintly, touching his face, the curl of hair behind his ear, the scar along his hairline and then the one over his nose.

“I just can’t see how,” you say and Joel almost snaps. He wants to. He wants to say you don’t fucking get it, that you don’t want to get it, that it’s different now. He wants to say he’s not the man you’ve always known, that shit ain’t as easy as it’s always been. He can’t do shit for you, anymore, and isn’t that the reason you’ve stuck around all these years?

But then you continue. “I left that damn caulking gun on the side table three days ago.”

“You what?”

You shrug. “Thought you might have noticed it too. And I’ve always been so bad at that stuff.”

The guilt that settles in him is heavy, but familiar. The shape of it is different, but it's still like shrugging on an old coat, it’s so natural and intimate.

He must be destined for some kind of failure, born under a bad star, something.

Everything he touches falls apart, no matter what he does. Everyone he holds dear, leaves him, one way or another, somehow. His mama, Sarah, and then Tommy, and then Tess. Most recently Ellie, though maybe things there were being mended. Maybe you were next, soon as you came to your senses.

Joel has spent most of his life taking care of people. And when he wasn’t taking care of people, he was moving, working. He hardly ever sat still. He didn’t have time to sit still.

Not before the outbreak, and certainly not after.

Even in Jackson where the pace of the world is slower, he was always busy. If he wasn’t on patrol, he was on wall duty, looking after Jackson’s security. Or, he was fixing something for someone, building something, helping with the horses. If he wasn’t doing any of that, he was improving his house, he was working on a new carving, he was playing the guitar.

Healing up, it’s involved a whole lot of sitting still and feeling useless. It had involved a lot of other people fussing over him.

A lot of sitting still and feeling like he was failing everyone he knew. Like he had already failed everyone he knew. For all the effort he put into it, it would never be enough. He cares wrong, he loves wrong, and now he can’t even do that.

He fails you in this, too. Of wishing he could accuse you of all the things he thinks of himself.

Joel knows you think of it too, you just haven’t gotten frustrated enough with him to say it yet. You haven’t had the full weight of his broken, uselessness on you, yet.

That day will come. There’s no way it won’t, because he can’t do for you what he’s always done, what he was put on this god forsaken earth to do. The one thing he’s always been able to do. Not just for you, but for everyone. Ellie, Tommy and his family, Jackson at large.

It’s always been the thing he could point to and say look, this is why I am like this, this is why you need me, why I’m around. You survived because of me. Because I made sure you did.

So he’s not worth much now, really, and all the promises he made you and all the promises he made to himself, he can’t keep them anymore. And isn’t that why you stuck by him all these years? Despite all his shortcomings?

“Sorry, darlin’,” he cups your face in his hands, smoothes his thumbs over your cheeks, the hinge of your jaw. “I’ll get right on fixin’ that for you.”

“I know you will. Thank you, Joel.” The full weight of your head tips into his hands, and your eyes slide shut. His hands are large against your jaw, scarred and calloused, harsh. Reminders, maybe, of what he used to be. He looks at the hollows beneath your eyes, the raw, worried skin of your bottom lip.

You don’t sleep anymore and when you do you have nightmares. You hate to leave the house. And sometimes you flinch even when nothing is happening around you, like memories are snapping at your heels.

He did all that to you, too. Terrible gifts he’s given and can’t take back.

When he glances back up to your eyes, you’re staring at him, a worried, anxious kind of look lodged there that he absolutely hates.

“What?” He asks, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks and then the delicate hinge of your jaw.

“Nothing.” Your eyes shift away from his, and you twitch in his grasp. He already knows what you’re about to say, because you’ve never gotten better at saying it, just like him. He doesn’t need you to say it, but you do anyway, and he hates how much he likes hearing it. It’s like a ray of golden sun. “I love you, Joel,” you murmur and hook your hands around his wrists.

For a long time, you just look at him, the silence is heavy with unsaid words, but he isn’t sure which of you is the one not saying something. “That enough?” He eventually grunts. “For you?”

You frown. “Why wouldn’t it be? Do you think it’s not?”

It shouldn’t be. All those promises stack up in his mind again, everything he can’t keep.

“It shouldn’t be.”

You pull his hands away from your face with a shake of your head and lean in to kiss him. Your lips part softly against his, the hitch of your breath sweet against his mouth. The heat of you is so close and intoxicating, it’s something he never wants to have to give up, not when your thumbs are pressed to the pulse in his wrists, and not when you taste like apple, honey.

He shakes one of your hands away to wrap his arm around your back and pull you closer, until the warmth of your body is pressed securely to his chest. Your tongue slides against his, teeth nipping gently at his bottom lip. Something warm floods his cheeks and his chest goes tight.

When you pull back, you tug on a piece of his hair then touch the blush pinking on his face. “You look real handsome, Texas.”

He tucks his forehead against your collarbone, and you fold your hands against the back of his head. “It’s enough,” you say. “Always has been.”

The next day, he finds that most of his tools have been relocated upstairs, either to one of the cabinets in the living room, or to the office upstairs.

Either way, he no longer has to traverse two staircases down and back up.

He isn’t sure when you had the time to do it, or why he didn’t at least hear you doing it.

Joel’s chest swells with love for you, right alongside the guilt that does nothing but grow.

He fixes the window.

Some days are easier than others.

He has good days and bad, and some of the bad days are worse than others. He sows the feelings up inside himself, cocoons the bad away inside his chest. It’s easier that way. And it’s necessary now. It’s just another thing you’d have to deal with.

He’s never been good at saying the things that needed said, anyway.

He tries not to snap at you. He’s trying not to get mean, and he can’t just walk away like he used to be able to when his mind got messy. But he’s been failing because he wants you to fight with him, wants you to hate him.

Joel wants you to say that he fucking failed, that he’s been failing his whole life at the one thing he was supposed to be able to do. The one thing he’s really good for.

“Stop it,” Joel snarls one day in the spring, when you offer your hand down the steps to the living room.

He doesn’t mean to snap at you like that, but he doesn’t take it back either. He’s in too much pain. And he doesn’t want to admit it.

The smile slips off your face as you step back from him, a stoney expression sliding over your face instead. It’s routine, you helping him, and maybe that’s the problem. He grits his teeth, that look reminds him of Boston, reminds him of the time before you used to trust each other.

“I ain’t helpless.”

You raise your hands and take another step back, looking away from him as you do.

The breeze that comes in the landing’s open window is cool. It isn’t quite warm enough for the window to be open but the house needs airing out after such a long winter, such a hard winter. The air is crisp with the scent of pine and the lavender hung in dried clumps above each doorway.

“I know, Joel.”

When he looks at you, you visibly brace yourself.

A wave of self-hatred so hot it burns immediately follows the guilt. But it also doesn’t stop the angry, frustrated pulse beneath the surface of his skin, pressing against the back of his teeth.

“I don’t know why you didn’t just leave me there.” The words are bitter, poisonous. Accusatory. “You should have left me to fuckin’ die.”

Whatever you might be expecting him to say, it isn’t that. Your breath catches hard.

You can be cruel, too. He waits for your anger, the burn of words he deserves to hear, something mean and hateful but true.

But the words don’t come; your anger doesn’t come. You just look tired and empty, sad.

You pace the landing, the soft shush of your footsteps echoed by the creaking of the floorboards. Your silence pricks at him. He wants you to scream at him, blame him, for failing, for being so fucking stupid.

“What if it was me?”

Your voice is so low, he almost doesn’t catch your words.

The quiet of your footsteps come to a halt. “What if it had been me, Joel? It could have been. It could have easily been me. They knew who you were. We’ve done a lot of the same shit. We’ve made a lot of the same enemies over the years.”

Your hands are shaking, your breath comes in quick little pants. The acrid, bone aching feeling of cresting anxiety and panic floods the little landing. “Me and you and Tess, we were kind of a package fucking deal. So, what if it was me?”

The breeze sliding through the open window feels different now. Colder, older, more brutal.

“That’s fuckin’ different and y’know it,” he snarls.

“Why?” Anger floods your face, the curl of your fingers harsh against your arms when you cross them. “Why would that have been different? Because you think I always need to be taken care of?”

He doesn’t answer. He looks away from you, but he can’t go anywhere. He’s at your mercy and you both hate it.

Joel leans heavily against the wall, his right hand curling around his left wrist, a nervous, anxious tick he’s never been able to shake.

“Tell me,” you beg. “Say it, Joel. How is it different? Why?”

He shakes his head once, slowly, and doesn’t look up at you. “You can say it,” you continue, your voice eerily quiet. “You never trusted me to have your back.”

That ain’t it at all.

It’s not your failure. It’s his, in every single way. He doesn’t blame you or Tommy or Ellie or anyone else. He doesn’t believe for a second that you don’t know that.

It would have been better, probably, if he died.

He doesn’t understand the guilt you feel.

He can’t take care of you anymore, can’t protect you anymore.

Worse, he can’t do that for his kid.

If he’d died, maybe that final sacrifice would have been enough to make up for everything else. Maybe it would all just be done.

He’s the one breaking promises, not you, just like he always has been.

Sometimes, when he thinks of Sarah, he can only remember her final moments. He can’t think of anything else but her blood, how red it was in the dark. He can’t think of anything else than what could have been. He can only see the halo of that mounted flashlight glaring into his eyes, his own voice pleading. Please don’t.

If he’d just been shot, he would have died first, he wouldn’t have ever known how bad he failed in that moment. He would have died first, like a parent was supposed to. No good father should ever outlive his kid.

Maybe, this had been his second chance, to finally die first.

Born lucky, bad star, like always.

So, what would he do, if it had been you? He’d have taken care of you, just like you’re doing for him. But that is not anathema to him; that is just how things are supposed to go. It wouldn’t have been a failure.

He’s no use to you anymore, no use to anyone.

He doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he nods.

“You’re right.” He shrugs and pain splinters across his shoulders. “It would have been different.”

Your expression flickers blank and you turn away. It would have been easier to stomach if you screamed at him, if you slammed a door.

But you’re just quiet.

Once, during the late autumn, when you were traveling with Joel and Ellie, you noticed Joel wasn’t eating.

Food was in short supply. None of the houses or buildings you looted turned up anything edible, and wild game had been elusive for weeks as the weather turned wetter and chillier.

You’d noticed him doing it a few times before, but nothing like then. Joel would dole out carefully rationed food and not allocate any to himself. The bags under his eyes deepened. His temper was shorter. He’d gotten pale and hollows appeared in his cheeks that meant he hadn’t been getting enough. Joel had always been huge, broad and strong and tall, with thick arms and thighs, but when he dropped weight, it always showed in those little hollows first.

Then, one evening, after clearing out a barn of infected, he’d stumbled, hand to his forehead, pale as you’d ever seen him. “Christ,” he’d mumbled.

“Joel?” Ellie’s voice had pitched up with worry. She’d looked at you, and said, “He hasn’t been eating.” The words were all a rush, accusatory and begging for you to do something.

“Ellie—” He’d growled.

“I know she’s right, Joel,” You’d interrupted with a snap. “You think we wouldn’t notice? You think I wouldn’t notice?”

He’d gotten pissed off and marched off into the woods to the stream to refill your canteens. You’d given him a wide berth for several hours, making the newly cleared barn into something livable for the night with Ellie. When dark had started to set in you went after him, boots crunching through frozen leaves.

He’d been sitting by the creek bed, an inscrutable expression on his face. “We ain’t got enough,” he’d said, not looking at you. “You and Ellie need it more. I’m fine.”

“But you're not. You can’t just not eat. You can’t take care of us if you aren’t okay, Joel.”

The air had smelled like earth and decaying leaves and stagnant water and ice. The scent reminded you of better times, of apple cider and cinnamon and new beginnings, of autumn fairs and coffee shops.

You’d sat behind him, pulled him against you for just a moment, chin on his shoulder, and said, “It’s all right to let me look after you, too.”

You figure that even with the change in circumstances, things are still like that with Joel. He’s always doing the metaphorical equivalent of making sure everyone else eats first, even if it means he’s starving.

He’s never been one to give up or give in or let go. When Tess was bitten, Joel hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d wanted to stay and fight. To fight a useless and unwinnable fight. That mindset was never going to fade.

You don’t speak for a few days. Guilt swallows the whole of your heart and leaves you dry and empty. Joel blames you, you think, even if he won’t say it.

He comes to you late one night.

It’s dark and the bedroom is overly warm. He sits heavily but without help at the edge of the bed. He’s getting better at that, even if he doesn’t think he is.

His hair is longer and it falls into his face when he leans over you, fingers against your forehead and temple and then your cheek.

“When I was real young,” he says. “My dad died. We didn’t have much money and my mama worked all the time.”

You turn on your back and try to make his face out but his expression is unreadable.

Joel hardly ever talks about his folks.

“I got my first job when I was fourteen, to help with the bills. Money was better on account of half of it not bein’ drank away, but we still needed the cash.” Joel pauses and you scoot over. It takes a minute for him to find a comfortable position with you but when he does, he continues. His voice echoes against your ear, the beat of his heart pounds against your cheek. His chin rubs against your forehead, one large hand splayed across your shoulders.

“Since she worked so much, I was always takin’ care of Tommy, of damn near everything else. And my mama, too, sometimes.” He swallows, and you feel the bob of his throat against your forehead. His chest is warm beneath your cheek, even through the two layers he always wears. “So I knew I was young when Sarah came along, but I didn’t really feel it. I took care of her and her mother, ‘til she went her own way. Just the way I always had.”

The rise and fall of his chest is steady. He cups his free hand around yours and tucks your palm against his heart.

“I know I’m not easy, in any sense of the word. I never have been.” A heavy tug of shame weighs his voice down. “Too mean and bitter, I guess.” There’s a long pause, and you want to protest but you’re sure if you interrupt, Joel won’t finish saying whatever it is he needs to.

“So anyway,” he continues. “I try to make up for it. By doin’ what I always have, even if it means I end up alone. I wouldn’t change anything. I don’t know what I’m good for if—” His hand slides up your spine, thick fingers resting at the base of your neck. “And I can’t do it anymore. Can’t take care of ya. So, it woulda been different, if it had been you. Because it’s you we’re talkin’ about.”

Joel goes quiet after that. His palm continues its nervous path over your spine. The bristles of his beard are soft against your temple. The rhythm of his breathing is still slow and even, but you feel the prickle of nerves in the way he touches you.

It isn’t easy for Joel to say the things he feels, even to you, even all these years later.

His body is so familiar to you, so warm and strong beneath you. Comfort, in short, in its purest form.

You aren’t expecting him to say any more, but he does. “Things. . .they always have a way of fallin’ apart, in the end.”

When you lift your head, he doesn’t look at you. You press a finger against the edge of his jaw, turning his head gently until his eyes meet yours. “Joel,” you touch your forehead to his. You aren’t good with words either, but you try. “You are more than that. More than what you can do for people.”

He’s quiet for a long time, eyes fluttering closed, his breath a calm pool against your mouth. “And I’m more than that? To you?”

“Joel, if I only wanted some guard dog, I would have gotten one that could listen better.”

He snorts, and a little of the tension melts away. “Yeah, I reckon you would have.”

The dark is a warm cocoon of things less easily said in the light.

“Yes,” you say quietly after a long, peaceful silence. “Joel. You’re so much more to me than that.”

It’s late spring again. The Wyoming air is mild, and heavy with the scent of blooming life.

Sage grows in dense clumps up in the mountains, deep between the ridges of the sharp peaks. The smell of it, earthy and crisp, chases itself on the breeze, all the way down to Jackson. It twines with the smell of flowers painstakingly planted along his front path.

Arrowleaf. Goldenrod.

Lavender, right by the mailbox, courtesy of some superstition held onto from before the outbreak.

It’s thick, cloying, pungent.

It’s overripe, rotting. It smells like death.

It’s making Joel fucking nauseous.

He squeezes your arm, a warning without words that he needs a break.

It’s the smell.

It’s the sun and the gentle breeze.

He tells himself the sick, crawling pain mixing sourly in his stomach has nothing at all to do with his newly fitted prosthetic leg.

Slowly, without a word, you turn and guide him back through his familiar backyard to the porch.

He sits heavily on the steps, just inside the cool pool of shade, and pulls in deep breaths that rattle in his lungs and do nothing to stave off the dizziness, or the pain.

Your hand slides up and down his back before your palm settles against the back of his neck and urges his head down between his knees.

Joel feels like a fucking kid. His hands are shaking.

“Damn thing is useless,” he growls after a minute when the nausea passes and he can lift his head, because it’s the only thing he can do, because it’s goddamn humiliating.

Everything is, these days.

You just bump your shoulder into his and hum low under your breath, used to his attitude, used to his bark that only sometimes has a bite.

You’re patient with him, but tough, not willing to indulge his foul moods. “It’s just something you have to get used to,” you assure him. “It’s not going to be like before.”

Joel doesn’t want to admit that he wants to take the prosthetic off. It’s like admitting defeat before he’s even gotten a chance to fight.

And he’s tired.

Exhausted, really.

“Hey,” you dig your nails into his wrist. He meets your eyes, pragmatic, practical, his match in everything. “We aren’t supposed to go at it so hard anyway, remember? You did really well.”

He doesn’t want to admit that, either, that your praise washes pink in his veins, that he likes to hear it, thrives on it. If he’s doing right by you, good in your eyes, things can’t be awful as they might seem.

That’s what he latches onto. Your pride. Your acceptance.

“This was just the first time, Joel,” you continue. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

He ain’t so sure about that, not with the way his leg aches. A leg that isn’t even there anymore, chopped off right above the knee, to save his life, apparently. It’s part of why it hurts so goddamn much. Feels like he’s pushing his calf into something it can’t fit in, like the long gone meat and bone are getting ground up into his thigh.

But if he gets the hang of it, then things will be better. He’ll at least be able to move on his own. He might be able to find some way to work again. Wall duty was looking pretty good, because all you really have to do is sit there and watch the horizon and be able to shoot pretty well.

There is hope in the future. There is hope in you reminding him of that, realistic to a fault, pragmatic to your core.

And unlike Joel, you’ve never had it in you to lie.

Joel tightens his hand on your forearm again, pressure on your sun warmed skin. It’s a poor substitute for the thank you that you deserve. You seem to get his meaning though. Your hand feathers through his hair again and the sun doesn’t feel so abrasive, and the smells of spring don’t seem so weighed down by death.

“Ellie’s coming for dinner,” you offer. “Said she’s got a movie or a game or something that she wants to show you.”

Yeah, so maybe the day ain’t so bleak as he thought it was.

“All right.”

You offer him a hand up, and slip your arm behind his back. He carefully drapes his arm around your shoulders, mindful, even now, of his weight against yours. “What a strong thing you are,” he comments, not able to stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. You look so determined.

It’s the way you always look, when put to task.

You roll your eyes. “Lucky for you.”

“Lucky for me,” he says, soft about it.

The stairs are the worst part of getting back inside, but it's much easier than it had been before.

It’s a relief to collapse into the couch and take the prosthetic off. The phantom pains still ache and stretch painfully tight, like the skin is being pulled taut, like there was a knot that just needed massaged out. He grits his teeth and represses the urge to reach down and rub sore muscle that no longer exists.

It’s a relief to collapse into the couch, even if guilt punches him in the chest for it.

It’s an even bigger relief when you press yourself into the space next to him. He doesn’t know how you stand it sometimes. How you can look at him and still not hate him for every mistake he’s ever made.

“Knee always fuckin’ bothered me anyhow,” he comments, turning his head so his words brush against your temple. “Don’t gotta worry about it gettin’ stiff now, I reckon.”

You reward him with a snort, the scrape of your fingernails against his cheek, a kiss.

It’s easier to get around, with the prosthetic that he hates.

But he’s slow. Slower than he’s ever been in his whole life. And sometimes, most times, it frustrates him.

Being able to walk is one thing. It’s a fine thing. But he needs to be able to do more than that. Run, fight, shoot. A fucking pipe dream. But he’s back to building, carpentry, and that’s something at least. Something useful.

Joel has tried asking you about that day, because he doesn’t remember a whole lot besides the pain. But your chest goes fluttery with panic, the rise and fall of it unfamiliar to him. You don’t get nervous. You never have, not over anything.

But when he asks about that day, you mutter something about Tommy and blood, and he can’t get anything else out of you. Tommy does the same, eyes cast to the side, thumbs hooked in his belt, foot starting a nervous rhythm.

He doesn’t understand what’s wrong with either of you, what the goddamn problem is.

In some ways, Joel’s always thought you were tougher than him, a balance of brutal and rough and unforgiving with softened sweetness. Bash the skull of a hunter in with a metal pipe, then use your unsullied hand to stroke back Ellie’s hair, to offer help to strangers, to pat the nose of your horse gently.

He would never want to be on the other side of the wrath you kept wrapped up inside your heart.

But, now, you don’t leave Jackson anymore. You haven’t been outside Jackson’s walls since that day.

Tommy tells him you can’t even bear to take a shift on the wall, which mainly comprised of sitting at the top of the wall and doing a whole lot of nothing, looking at the horizon, shuffling your feet to keep warm.

It’s unlike you. You love to patrol, just like him.

That’s his fault, too. Your nightmares, your sleeplessness.

Ellie plays the guitar for him, even after he gets the hang of it again, even after he’s walking on his own again, the chords coming back to him easier and easier. They don’t have to talk much, that way.

She’s still mad, but he almost died, and she’s willing to try with him.

She comes over for dinner. She always brings a movie.

It gets easier.

And slowly, by the end of the summer, she smiles when she sees him.

He’s gotten the hang of walking again, which is never a sentiment he thought he’d have about himself. Joel always assumed he’d be killed before something like really old age could set in, or something like this, a disability he doesn’t want to learn to live with.

It’s rained recently and the yard smells like perchitor and the ever present mountain sage. The grass is just a little muddy from the many loops around the yard. “You’re going to fall and break your neck, old man.”

“Breakin’ my neck can’t be much worse than what it is right now. We ain’t goin’ around the yard anyhow. Now c’mon, put your shoes on, kiddo.”

“It’s still raining,” she complains.

“Means no one’s outside to see me humiliatin’ myself.”

Ellie only rolls her eyes but does it anyway. He doesn’t need a hand anymore, but he’s shaky sometimes and despite your best efforts he’s still refusing a cane. But he also hasn’t been using the track in the yard in weeks.

That, and he actually has somewhere to be these days, figuring out better security for Jackson, looking after the patrol teams, assessing who was ready to be put into rotation. Managing is what he should be calling it, though he doesn’t care for it. He and Maria butt heads too often for it to be anything close to enjoyable.

When they pass the mailbox, Ellie points to the lavender. “I never thought to ask about it before. It’s everywhere. Some nailed above the door and everything.”

“Some kinda thing about protectin’ the home,” Joel explains. “Far as I remember, it protects from bad energy. Somethin’ like that.”

“I thought that was sage?”

“Sage you burn,” he explains. “And we get plenty of that too. Whole damn house smells like it.”

“Seems like the kinda thing Dina would do,” she says and then seems to realize who she’s said it to. But she doesn’t change the subject. “Didn’t take her for the superstitious type. Doesn’t seem like it really works anyway.”

Joel shrugs. “She was before the outbreak, I guess.” He watches Ellie from the corner of his eye. She’s steadfastly not looking at him, but she also doesn’t usually say so much to him. “Didn’t have reason to think of it for a long time. Lavender wasn’t exactly in high supply in Boston.”

Ellie nods.

“She used to, uh, put some in your backpack when she knew you was goin’ out. Same with me, always put some in my pocket.”

There’s a long silence. Jackson’s streets are oddly empty in the pouring rain. Lights glow in the windows; inviting, homely. “She didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs and his shoulder only aches a little for it. “It’s just the kinda thing parents do, even if it don’t make any damn sense.”

“Yeah,” Ellie agrees as the turn toward the center of Jackson. “You wanna stop in the Bison?”

“Sure,” he agrees. “For a minute.”

“Full schedule?” She teases. “Aren’t you supposed to be in your sunset years?”

“Well, gotta have something to fill up the days, kiddo. Maybe one day you’ll actually be able to keep up.”

She just scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

Joel tries not to smile.

Being mobile again, busy again, feels good.

It feels good, but it also means he’s in near constant pain.

He tells himself it’s good, that pain sharpens him, makes him better.

Until he’s slumped on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night, heaving his guts up from the ache in his leg.

You find him there, sweaty and panting, with a glass of water in hand. Joel pushes himself upright against the wall with a sigh as you close the lid of the toilet and flush it before sitting beside him on the cool tile.

“You’re overdoing it again,” you say, not unkindly.

“I ain’t tryin’ to,” he mutters and takes the glass of water when you offer it to him.

“I know.” You cover his free hand with yours. “Wanna get up?”

You smell faintly of peppermint, burned incense.

When he shakes his head, you stretch to flip the light switch over your head. He’s plunged into darkness, alone, for just a moment, before you settle again. The warmth of your head against his shoulder feels stolen.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. He breathes through the pain still crawling around his knee, the phantom flesh of his calf.

“I was a goddamn fool,” he whispers into the silence. “You know what I was thinkin’ that day?” He’s not sure where the words come from, the confession. It feels a little like the words are being pulled up out of his body, yanked right from the center of his chest.

“Tell me,” your nose is warm when it bumps against his collarbone.

“‘Bout Ellie. How I’d want someone to help her, if she needed it. So I helped that girl. Almost got all of us fuckin’ killed.”

You don’t answer, not at first. But eventually, you lean into him and say, “If you want me to blame you, I won’t. I will never find fault in kindness.” Your thumb strokes his knuckles slowly. “Never. Especially not yours.”

He brushes his mouth along your hairline, skin silken against his mouth. “Y’know when we was on the road, I was sure you’d get us killed. But y’always knew when to trust someone. How much to trust ‘em.”

“I. . .” you start and then trail off, fingers squeezing around his. “I was always lucky, and I always knew I had you at my back. If I messed up, you were always there.”

His eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the bathroom, and when he meets your gaze, he can see the glaze of tears in your eyes. You suck in a shaking breath and clear your throat but don’t continue. “And I’m sorry I wasn’t there the same way.”

“This ain’t on you,” he says. “Don’t think that. It’s me. It was a long time comin’ somethin’ would catch up to me.”

You settle in against him, one hand digging into the sore muscle of his thigh. The heat feels like, the flex of your gentle fingers even better. The pain that doesn’t exist fades just a little.

“And for the record, darlin’, you were there the same way.”

It’s autumn again when you go back onto the patrol rotation. There’s frost on the windows and on the spikes of overgrown grass in the front yard. He just got back from a night watch on the wall.

You’re taking his old routes with Tommy, and you don’t tell him about it until the morning of. Not a fucking soul breathed a word of it to him, and he’s the one figuring out the goddamned rotations.

And Joel realizes though he’d been worried about you not wanting to leave Jackson anymore, not even being able to go near the gates, he was glad you hadn’t wanted to. It meant you were safe. Even if he couldn’t keep you safe anymore, the walls of Jackson could.

“I’m not doing this with you right now,” you say before you leave, pretending like he can’t clearly see your hands shaking before you walk out the door.

He follows you onto the porch. He can’t remember what he says, just that you look upset and then hurt, just that you don’t say goodbye when you walk away and that you probably don’t have lavender tucked into your pocket like he always did.

“Please.” A word he hardly ever says, a plea he never gives into.

He says it to your retreating back as you pass the mailbox, but you either don’t hear him or choose to ignore him.

Maybe he didn’t say it at all.

That day is hell. It’s long and pocketed with anger and anxiety. If something happens to you, he isn’t sure what he’ll do. He doesn’t like that you left him upset.

Maria doesn’t entertain his outburst about it when he finally corners her after looking for her all morning. “She was ready.”

“I didn’t even know we were considerin’ sendin’ her back out!”

Maria just levels him with a glare that could freeze hell over. “That isn’t up to just you. And why do you think she didn’t want to tell you?”

He’s at the stables with Ellie that evening when you come home, waiting. It’s cold and his leg is aching something bitter and awful but he doesn’t move and Ellie doesn’t suggest going back home because she knows he won’t hear it. Dina stops by and he listens to them talk. Ellie’s face softens when she looks at Dina, cheeks a soft pink in the fading light, ducking her head and fidgeting with her fingers.

Joel tries not to pay them any mind, but it's hard not to find endearing.

When you and Tommy get back, it’s full dark. He wants to throttle his brother for not telling him you were going back out on the trails, but it’s too cold for much of that. All thoughts of strangling Tommy fly from his head as soon as he sees you, because you have a smear of blood on your cheek and down your neck.

“Goddamn it, what happened?” He demands, hands against your face before you’ve even fully dismounted.

“I’m fine.”

“That ain’t what I asked,” he sweeps his thumb over your skin, flakes of red shifting to the ground. The knot in his chest tightens as he watches it flutter through the air. “What happened?” He growls again. “Tommy?”

“The usual, Joel,” you pull his attention back to you. “It was just cleanup. A couple of infected. Nothing.”

“Uh huh,” he tilts your face one way and then the other.

“Just some splatter.” You shrug and smile at him; your mouth twitches, and he realizes you’re teasing him.

“Splatter,” he repeats flatly. “That ain’t funny. You ain’t funny. C’mon, let’s go home.”

Ellie and Dina have disappeared with your arrival but they aren’t far; he can hear their chatter as they walk along the street toward the center of Jackson, the echoes of their voices reaching back towards him. “I’ll deal with you later,” he says to his brother.

Tommy just raises his hands and says he’ll stable the horses. But he’s grinning and maybe that’s a good thing. It’s been awhile since his brother has seemed himself. It’s been awhile since the two of you have given him grief together.

“Leave Tommy alone,” you say as you walk toward Rancher Street. You seem steadier than you had been that morning, more confident, more yourself. It isn’t a long walk back, even with his leg, though he limps worse than usual because of the cold. You wrap an arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his back pocket, body warm against his side. “We did good together today.”

“Mhm. I’m sure you did.”

“You mad at me?”

“I wish you’d tell me,” he murmurs. “When you’re goin’ off to do somethin’ stupid. I need you to talk to me. Worried the whole goddamn day. You ain’t exactly in practice out there anymore.”

You hum and then nudge closer to him. “Put your arm around me.”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, maybe a little harshly.

“Joel,” you laugh and nuzzle your face against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’m cold and I had a rough day. Put your arm around me.”

So, he does. And he leaves it there until you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter in front of him, lavender plants stacked in the sink behind you once again as the colder weather sets in.

This is better. So much fucking better, than the other way around. This is right.

He cleans the blood away, finds the swell of a bruise on your shoulder and a cut lengthways over your collarbone.

It’s easy enough to take care of. It isn’t as bad as what he’d been imagining all day long.

He’s well in practice for this sort of thing, for bandaging and assessing wounds.

“Sorry,” he says as he works. “For this mornin’.”

“Mhm.”

“I worried all day. Not much I can do now, if you get into a spot of trouble.”

“I handle myself fine. Tommy was there. He’s a good partner out there.”

Joel grunts, dabs rubbing alcohol along the cut. “He is,” he agrees reluctantly. He supposes if you had to go on patrol with anyone, he’d prefer you go with his brother.

You touch him as he works, fingers patting over his jacket, the collar of his flannel, the frayed edge of the t-shirt beneath that. “I had to go back out, Joel. You would have argued with me and I can’t be afraid and useless forever.”

“Useless,” he scoffs and unspools a length of bandage. “You don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“Joel,” you say softly, exasperated. “Baby, you don’t know what it was like that day. I thought you were already dead.” Your voice trembles and you have to swallow harshly before you can continue. “Helpless and useless doesn’t even begin to cover what I felt. What I still feel.” You shake your head and cup your fingers around his. “I dream about it every single night and I still don’t really remember what happened. That scares me a lot.”

He slides his thumb along the gauze, your eyes wide and worried when he meets them.“I’ll never be who I was, sweetheart.” His voice sounds mournful to his own ears.

“You’re exactly the same man, Joel. I’m just happy you’re here and alive and you’re worried you aren’t alive the right damn way.” You shake your head. “I can’t ask for much more than what I have. Than what we do. Me and you. Ellie back in our life. A home. Food. Family. You,” you touch his jaw and smile. “Still here. Still taking care of me.”

There’s a lump in his throat, hard as a stone. “Yep.” He coughs in an attempt to clear his voice but he sounds just as wrecked when he speaks. “Patrol musta been real good to y’today.”

You just laugh, and the sound of it is wet. “Yeah. It was. I thought it would be terrible but I missed it.”

“I know you did.”

“You should come on a ride with me sometime,” you say slyly. “I bet it’d feel good to be back in the saddle. You’ve always been a good shot from the back of a horse.”

He has.

Maybe he should.

💞 If you made it this far, thank you for reading! Comments and feedback are so appreciated. 💞

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

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love-in-my-twenties · 18 days

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Habits that changed my life for the better

I stopped joking about myself. It was mostly about suicide jokes (it was a decision that I made after the worst moment of my journey with depression, if I can call it that), but, really, it's about all self-deprecating stuff. It may be just jokes, but it stays in your brain.

Positive attitude. It's similar to manifestation, in a way, but in a... down to earth way, I guess. Thinking positively about stuff changes everything for me. Almost everything is simpler.

I deleted Twitter. It may be a different social media for everyone, of course - now probably TikTok for most - but, well, Twitter was where I spent long hours everyday. I started taking breaks from it about a year and a half ago and deleted it in August. It was hard - I loved the community there and I miss the daily updates from my fav fandoms, but it's for the best. I still can't explain how Twitter affected me but I do feel better since I stopped spending so much time there.

Taking vitamins. I didn't think it would really make a difference but it definitely did. The biggest surprise for me was vitamin C - my immune system has improved super quickly when I started supplementing it. I didn't even realise how bad it was before. Other than that, I take B complex, A+E (hair, skin), and iron (i tend to have a deficiency of it). (& D when it's winter).

Having a consistent skin care routine. It's calming and both doing the routine and seeing the effects make me feel better. (I do realise that many people have more demanding skin than me and searching for the right products can be frustrating and expensive. I'm just talking about my experience).

Other things that I think are worth mentioning:

Therapy - just a short explanation that I've been on therapy (with breaks) for about 6 years now. I've had social anxiety for most of my life, now still struggle with depression (and amnesia, actually) a bit, but what I wanted to mention here is that I learned a lot from it. It's obvious, but I just think it's important to pinpoint that I did not just learn how to think more positively and love myself by myself.

Exercising! - I still struggle to make it a habit, but when I actually do exercise regularly (I do pilates), I really feel better. It's worth it.

Hydration - same with drinking water. I really don't think I have to explain it in any way lol.

#habits #self care #self care tips #self love #daily habits #healing #growth #wellness #text post #it girl #that girl #health #self improvement #self development #this post has been waiting in my drafts for a while now and i thought that i'll finally publish it

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thetriumphantpanda · 11 months

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Ghost of You | J. Miller (Chapter One)

Series Summary / Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. And no-one ever explains the guilt you feel when it isn’t anymore. When it’s just a dull ache and you can finally breathe again, when you can start letting people get close to you again. People like Joel Miller.

Pairing / Joel Miller x Female Reader

Word Count / 3.4K

Warnings / soft!Joel, reader is a widow, in depth discussions and descriptions of grief and depression, will have eventual smut, SLOW BURN.

Authors Note / I AM SO PROUD OF THIS LITTLE STORY YOU HAVE NO IDEA. I've wanted to write soft!Joel for so long so I hope you love it as much as I do! If you do enjoy it, reblogs, asks and likes are my drug so I'd love to know what you think! Also considering following for more!

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Grief is a strange thing. In the beginning it had been all-consuming. There wasn’t a moment of the day where you didn’t cry, didn’t ask yourself why it couldn’t have been you instead. There were days that you couldn’t bring yourself to throw back the sheets of your bed and get up. For the first month, you think you managed to shower three times. No point if no-one was going to see you. You hadn’t left your house since the day of the funeral, life had become a monotonous circle of waking up, soaking your pillow with tears until you made yourself sick, throwing on the same clothes as before and then doing the same thing but led on the couch.

People had reassured you it would get easier. That each day it would subside, little by little, and you cursed them for being right. The longer you sat with your misery, the easier it became. One morning, a few months ago, you remember waking up, only this time you didn’t roll over and place your hand on the empty side of the bed and cry when you realized your husband wasn’t there anymore. You got up and showered, taking 15 minutes to brush the matted mess of your hair, and you dressed in new clothes.

You managed to walk to the market hall and purchase food with your ration cards and Maria had almost fallen over when she saw you in the aisle. That was the worst thing though. You’d been absent from life in Jackson for almost six months, and whenever you left your house people looked at you. Some still had those sympathetic eyes, telling you they were sorry for your loss, but there were the others who judged you. How pathetic you were for falling into despair like you had.

It wasn’t as if he’d met a violent end, he was quite lucky, actually. In this world death came at the hands of evil, whether it was being taken and tortured by raiders, or torn limb from limb by infected. Your husband had died peacefully, drifting off in his sleep in the hospital. The doctors had said it was cancer, which seemed painfully unkind to him. He’d never smoked in his life and was probably the healthiest person you’d ever known, but when was life ever fair?

You could tell they whispered once you’d passed. How dare she be so upset when my husband was killed on patrol? How lucky you were to have been able to say goodbye and hold his hand as he passed, when someone else turned into one of those things all alone. So now it wasn’t grief that kept you behind closed doors, but shame. Shame at knowing you thought they were right, that not being able to pull yourself together was selfish. Selfish to all the people who had managed to carry on with their lives after losing someone, selfish to the community for not being able to pull your weight. You were stuck and you had no idea what to do about it.

The only way you could face leaving your home these days was on Maria’s comforting arm. She’d been your friend for years, she and Tommy seemingly the only people who understood you. Didn’t force you to do anything, let you come to your own decisions when you felt ready. No-one would dare look at you or speak in hushed tones whilst she was around.

The sun was soaking Jackson now, it was summer, and you were grateful for the warmth of the sun on your skin, everything felt better with the sun on your back. With summer came one of your favourites of life’s simple pleasures. Strawberries. In the market you picked up as many as you could purchase after buying your essentials. Maria walked you home, helped you put away everything and then left with a comforting hug.

You carefully placed a large handful of the fruit in a bowl, rinsing it under running water. You were about to sit down on your couch to eat them, but the sun was filtering invitingly through your front windows. You stripped off your jacket, leaving you in your simple tank top and jeans before opening your front door to sit on the bench on your porch. You had sunglasses resting on your face, Tommy had found them on a patrol trip a few months ago and you were grateful for the safety you felt from them. People couldn’t walk past and meet your eye.

You were finishing your third strawberry when Tommy walked past, a man you didn’t know on his left shoulder. He took a look to your house and smiled on seeing you sat in a patch of sunlight, he waved, which you return, then he turns to the mysterious man on his left to say something before they start walking over.

“It’s good to see you out, honey,” He smiled, walking to lean over the railing of your porch, “What’cha got there?” He asked, motioning his head to your bowl of strawberries.

“You want one?” You asked, picking the bowl up and walking over to meet him, he gladly takes the biggest fruit in the bowl, pinching the spidery leaves off before putting the whole thing in his mouth, “How about you?” You asked, extending the bowl to Tommy’s mysterious companion.

He takes a strawberry as well, doing as Tommy did, but he takes smaller bites of the fruit, like he’s savoring it, “This here’s my brother Joel,” Tommy speaks, Joel extends his hand and you take it, shaking it softly in greeting, “He arrived a few weeks back, he’s been getting settled with his daught… with Ellie, but I thought it was high time he started pulling his weight.”

He had a smirk on his face as he said it and you could see the beginnings of a smile on Joel’s face too, “This one’s a real taskmaster,” You say to Joel, a smirk across your lips, “You’ll be wishing we had a retirement age soon enough.”

“Can’t think where he gets it from,” Joel chuckles, “You were takin’ notes all the time we worked together before weren’t you?”

Tommy smiles and nods, “Learnt from the best,” There’s another round of chuckles from the men, “Listen, we should get a move on, but I mean it, it’s nice to see you out like this.”

“Thanks Tommy,” You offer a small smiled, “Here, take a strawberry for the road.”

Both men take another fruit gladly before the way and make their way back down the street, leaving you on your own once more. You slide the sunglasses back onto your eyes and take your place in the path of sunlight on the bench. You sit there for a while, eating your strawberries, thinking about all the times you and your husband had done the same, holding hands as the sunset, cuddling up into his side when the temperature dropped. You realized suddenly that you weren’t sad. That the tears that usually threatened to fall were nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was just a feeling of happiness, grateful that you’d experienced love in a world where it had seemed impossible. Sure, you wished he would reach over and take your hand in his like he used to, squeeze it and place a soft kiss to your palm, but you were no longer ruled by the grief that had consumed you all those months ago.

“She seemed nice.” Joel muses as he walks with Tommy.

“She’s lovely,” He replies simply, “Just had a pretty rough time of it recently.”

Joel hums in acknowledgement as his boots hit the ground in time with Tommy’s, “When you said it was good to see her out, what did you mean?”

Tommy sighs at his question, but not out of frustration like he usually did when Joel asked him questions, more out of sympathy, “Her husband died about a year ago,” He begins to explain, “Nothin’ violent or anythin’ like that, the doctors reckoned it was cancer, but she took it real hard, I don’t think she got out of bed for the first week, and then after his funeral she just kinda withdrew, she’s been all alone in that house for months, refuses to leave unless it’s with Maria because people talk.”

“People talk about her?” Joel is shocked, in a world where loss in inevitable, what makes someone else’s grief less worthy than others?

“We’re safe here,” Tommy says, steering him into a building at the end of the street, “But that doesn’t mean people don’t die when they’re out there,” He references his patrol men, he’d lost a few which he would always hold heavy in his heart, “Maria told me once that when she took her to the market a few months ago, some busybody wives were talkin’ about how unfair it was she got to say goodbye, that he’d been sedated and it was easy for him.”

Joel stops in his tracks, letting Tommy walk in front of him. They’re in the gun store, not for anything in particular, just so Joel knows where everything is so he can stop following his brother round like a lost puppy. His mind inevitably wanders to his own grief in this moment. The pain of losing his own daughter, the all-consuming feeling of ‘what is the point in life anymore?’ without her. The scar on the right side of his face and the hearing loss in the same ear when he’d tried to end it all. He hadn’t been strong, not really. If he hadn’t of flinched that would have been it, the easy way out, as some would have said. He’d struggled for a long time with his survival but that didn’t mean his was worth more than your grief, or yours more than his. It wasn’t that simple.

“I spoke to them, told ‘em if I heard ‘em gossiping again then we’d have no issues moving them on their way, but I suppose people are always going to talk, they just do it where we can’t hear them.”

“I’m guessin’ she knows?”

“Of course she knows, Joel, that’s why she shuts herself away, easier that way I guess.”

“Doesn’t make it fair though, feelin’ like you can’t leave your house because people are gonna judge the way your husband died.”

“She’s been better recently,” Tommy speaks, leaning against the table behind him, “Still won’t really go anywhere without Maria, but seein’ her today, it was nice.” Joel nods his way through Tommy explaining the signing out system for guns, follows him around to the stables where he shakes the hand of the young girl in charge of caring for them and then settles himself next to his brother at the bar for a drink. All the while, he can’t stop his mind drifting back to you and your loneliness, your despair at your loss, or the rotten porch step he’d noticed at the front of your house that might just give him the reason to get a little closer to you.

A few mornings later, there is a soft knock at your door. Your face contorts in confusion, Maria wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow. Leaving the coffee pot to its filtering, you walk slowly to the door, opening it to find Joel stood on your porch, toolbox in hand and planks of wood resting against the railing.

“Good mornin’,” He croons, “Not interrupin’ anythin’ am I?”

You shake your head, “Can I help you?” You asked, wincing slightly at the defensive tone of your voice.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind, but when I passed with Tommy the other day, I noticed your porch step was rotting,” He points to the old timbers behind him, “I’m surprised you’ve not fallen through it already, so do you mind if I fix them?”

Your exterior softens and a small smile pulls at your lips, “Of course,” You say, “I’m just making some coffee, do you want some?”

“If you don’t mind sharin’, then I’d love some.”

You leave him on the porch to get started. Your mug is already set next to the coffee pot, you open the cupboard and instinctively reach for the only other mug you ever needed. It had meant nothing to you when you moved in. It was white and had a pattern of sausage dogs printed on it, but it had always been his. You hold it in your hands when you realise what you’ve done. His face flashes behind your eyes. He’s standing in front of you, his hair tousled from sleep, his voice still low and raspy. He thanks you as he takes hold of his mug, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You set it back in the cupboard like it had burned your palms, reaching instead of the plain black mug at the back of the cupboard.

You rest your palms on the counter, closing your eyes to take deep breaths, feeling the weight of your body through to the ground. Once you don’t feel the wave of sadness flowing through you any longer, your quickly pour the coffee into the mugs, taking them out to the porch where Joel is currently working to take the rotten boards up, not that it’s taking much work, a little force from his hands and the wood in crumbling.

“Here you go,” You say softly, setting the mug down next to his toolbox, “I hope you don’t mind it black, I spent all my rations on strawberries this week, so no milk.”

“Just how I like it,” He says, looking up at you, “Thank you.”

You take a seat on the bench out front, it’s been a long time since you had the company of someone that wasn’t Maria or Tommy and it was nice to watch him work whilst you sat in the sun.

“Thank you, by the way, I didn’t realise it had gotten so bad,” You remark, and before you can think about what you’re saying, you add, “My husband always used to handle this stuff.”

You press your fingers to your lips as Joel’s movement still slightly, he knows what you’ve said, but he continues working, “It’s alright, this is what I used to do before all of this, so I’ve got an eye for rotting wood.”

“You were a builder?” You asked, desperate to steer the conversation away from your loss.

“I was, Tommy and I were contractors, worked on a bunch of different sites together, kinda annoying the world ended, we’d just booked a really big job, was gonna pay the bills and then some for once, my daughter had already spent the money on a trip to Disney.”

“Ellie?” You enquire, remembering the name Tommy had given.

He shakes his head as he sits back on his knees, coffee mug in hand, “No, she’s not mine by blood, she came along a lot later, I lost my daughter on outbreak day.”

“Oh,” You say simply, “I’m sorry Joel.”

“It’s alright,” He shrugs, taking a mouthful of coffee, “I struggled, for a long time, didn’t see how it was fair, but it’s been easier recently, all because of Ellie, and this.” He motions around to the town.

You’re silent for a while, your gaze flits between Joel working and the dregs of liquid in your cup. You understand in a way. The loss is different, but it’s loss all the same.

“What was his name?” Joel asks quietly as he’s rooting through his toolbox for some nails, “Your husband.”

“Mark,” You speak quietly, realizing quickly it was probably too quiet for him to hear, “His name was Mark.”

“Were you together long?”

“Eighteen years,” You answer, “He was my neighbour in the first QZ I was in, I’d lost my parents a few years before the outbreak so I was on my own, he moved in a year later and would always wake me up every morning when he stomped about to go to work,” You were smiling, recounting how you’d met, “One morning I’d had enough, I went right over there, pounded on the door and gave him what for. Said I was tired of waking up to the sound of his work boots every morning, and I guess the rest is history.”

Joel smiles as he reaches for his hammer, nailing in the new boards, “Love at first sight?” He asked, worried at first that it’s too personal a question.

“Something like that,” You offer in reply, “I guess it just kinda happened really, like most things do.”

There’s silence between you again as Joel hammers in the last of the nails. He stands up, pressing his full weight on the step, “All done,” He declares, shutting away his toolbox, “Don’t have to worry about you fallin’ through it now.”

You stand up to admire his handiwork, you must admit he was good at what he did. Efficient but thorough, the step had never looked so good, even when you’d first moved in, “Thank you Joel,” You place a hand on his arm and give it a gentle squeeze, “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” He bends to pick up his coffee mug and hands it over to you, “Nothin’ else need sorting?”

“I mean, nothing that risks death or serious injury,” You jest, “But there is something you might be able to help with.”

You gesture for him to follow you through the house, setting the dirty mugs in the sink as you pass through. You open the back door and motion for him to join you. The garden is a mess, there’s no beating around the bush here. The grass is out of control, but that’s because you haven’t been able to go and get your gas ration for the lawnmower. The decking out back is fine, Mark’s handiwork in the year before he died, but you point to the unfinished table and chairs in the corner, or rather the pile of wood that never got to become the table and chairs.

“Mark was going to build some table and chairs, you know, so we could have guests over or sit out here in the evenings, but he got sick before he could really start,” There’s a lump in your throat now and you’re willing yourself not to cry, not now, in front of a man you barely know, but nothing you do can quell the feeling inside of you and a few tears fall down your cheek, “God, I’m so sorry,” You sniffed, “I’ve done so well not to do this today.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Joel soothes, he pressed a firm hand to your shoulder for comfort but keeps his distance, which you are grateful for.

He gives you a moment to compose yourself, watching closely as you rub the tears from your eyes and take a deep breath, “It would just be nice to have somewhere to sit where people aren’t going to watch me.”

Joel’s heart almost breaks at your words. He doesn’t know you, not in the slightest, but the thought that you felt like you had to hide away, in your own community, the place that was meant to make you feel some semblance of normal, was preposterous to him.

“I’ll build you something, don’t worry,” He reassures, “Tommy has me on patrol for the next few days, but as soon as I can, I promise I’ll build you the best damn table and chairs you’ve ever seen.”

You laugh now, through the remnants of your tears, “Thank you.” Is all you can manage to say.

He’s turning around then, you go to follow him, but he stops in his tracks, eyes admiring the trellis against the back wall of your home, full in bloom of sweet peas, “These are beautiful.” He comments.

“They’re sweet peas,” You inform him, “Maria found the seeds for me, said something about it being good for me to have something to put my energy into,” You shrug, “I guess she was right.”

You reach out and pluck one of the deep purple blooms, “These are my favourites,” You say, turning the bloom over in your fingers before you hand it to him, he looks confused, “Sweet peas are meant to symbolize kindness and friendship,” You explain, “Also fond goodbyes, but I think kindness is more appropriate here.”

He takes the bloom and tucks the stem into the breast pocket, the petals of the flower peeking out where you can both see it, “Well then, thank you,” He nods, “I’ll see you soon, sweet pea.”

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#Pedro Pascal #the last of us #the last of us hbo #Joel Miller #Joel Miller smut #Joel Miller fanfic #Joel Miller fic #Joel Miller fan fiction #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fanfic #Joel Miller x you #Joel Miller x reader #Joel Miller x female reader #Joel Miller x f!reader #Joel Miller Pedro Pascal #GOY

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ratatang · 4 months

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Dude just went through your block and your Midnight!AU sounds fucking awesome. We love Basil angst 😁

How did different members of the group cope with the loss of Sunny? (If you haven't already talked about it)

Also your art is hecking amazing lol

Thank you!

Okay so, we'll start with Mari.

Mari- After the death of Sunny, Mari became more selective of her friends, only trusting a very certain amount of people, more specifically Hero. She still has a liking for musical instruments, though it is a slightly tarnished passion post recital. She is still extroverted in a sense and usually goes out with Hero as well as holding onto that strong core trait of kindness and caring. However, she has a hard time controlling her emotions and usually relies on Hero for emotional support.

Kel- Very similar to the Canon Kel, but after Sunny's death, he matured quickly, although he still puts a big smile on, Kel struggles with processing heavy emotions such as depression. He visits Sunny's grave frequently to update him on what's going on in Faraway. Kel wants the friend group to go back to how it was before and wishes for Hero and him to be closer like before.

Aubrey- She took it very rough, not only did she lose her crush, but her relationship with her role model shattered too. Luckily she did have Kim bring her back to a normal level. In the present, she will avoid any topic in her past, especially when it comes to Sunny or Mari. She denies feeling any sort of negative feelings when it comes to her grief and says how she is just over it. [She is a part of the Idol Gang and uses singing as a way of coping that deep pain inside her.]

Basil- Probably took it the worst, not only did Basil see the incident before hand, but he also noticed Sunny deteriorating. After hearing Sunny committed suicide, he isolated himself more and more, scribbling over the photos of Mari and believing that Mari is solely to blame. He uses gardening as a way to cope, but it's very hard to brush off those feelings of Anger towards Mari. Over the years, he mended his friendships with Kel and Aubrey. Although it is very awkward with Hero and very poor with Mari.

Hero- Took it the easiest. Although it was still a huge blow to him when announced. Deep down, he feels like he failed Sunny and failed the group when they shattered. He has mostly learned to live and let go, accepting that what happened happened, but he is still sad about losing Sunny. However, he usually is more preoccupied with Mari now, usually with her on days he's off.

Sunny - I've been living here for as long as I can remember. I am now perfected.

#omori #omori fandom #omori fanart #omori basil #omori mari #omori sunny #omori aubrey #omori hero #omori kel #omorimidnight #omori aus

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ivygeorgi · 2 years

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Them again because they're the most precious thing in my life ❤️

Long time no see... again. Uhm... I just turned 18 yesterday! Thought I should make a post for it like every year, now following last year's drawing with something in a similar style.

I guess I should also do a recap of this year just like always, so... This year fucking sucked. Probably the worst year of my life because I was struggling a lot mentally. Pretty sure I have depression and anxiety because... Man I've been so miserable and it hasn't gotten better. Worse actually. And it influenced my art as well. At one point even drawing made me feel absolutely terrible.

The strongest coping mechanism I had was, you guessed it, Dagcup. What I don't tell is that when I'm feeling down, I create the most dagcup content in order to escape from myself. So there's a chance that the best of my drawings (the wholesome ones and even the naughty ones) are the result of me being anxious or depressed. It's sad to think about, but I can't go without it.

I really hope I'll get better soon...

My art improved I think? Probably not too much, but I hope it did. I'm sorry I don't have much positive stuff to write about. I just felt like I should be more open about this bc it's hard to keep it in all the time and I don't wanna pretend like everything is okay. but it is what it is...

Thank you if you read this far and thank you for being here and supporting me and my art. It truly means a lot ❤️

#Dagcup #dagur #dagur the deranged #hiccup #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #httyd #rtte #httyd modern au #Httyd fanart #personal #vent

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lokisbiiiitch1993 · 25 days

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Long Time no See

Loki x Reader fluff

Hi - it's been a few months sorry for my long absence - I had COVID in December and since then I have been sick all the time - my Immunsystem is the worst , I felt depressed and also worked a lot overtime but I hope I have more time now

It's been a few months since the last time you saw your dear Friend Loki.

"I will call you,when I am feeling better" was the last Message you sent him - damn,time flies so fast , you thought -feeling bad .

Feeling better, you wanted to surprise Loki in Asgard but for that to happen you needed to persuade Thor to bring you to the Palace .

After a lengthy honest conversation about your need to see and talk to Loki ,he agreed to bring you.

Walking through the long majestic Hallways for some time , you pondered about what to say to him - feeling like you walked too fast because you were standing in front of his Door already , taking a deep breath,nervously you knocked three times.

"Who is there " Loki asked

"Heyyy, it'sss Me" you answered softly

"Why are you here ? What do you want after all this Time?" Loki wanted to know ,he already suspected you lost interest and abandoned him.

"You... I wanted to talk to you...I wanted to see you.." suddenly the Door opened and Loki let you in

"Long Time no See " you whispered

"I missed you" you added

"Should I believe that, really?" he stood in front of you with crossed Arms and a hurt look

"Well , Yesss - to my Excuse I was really sick ,I felt a few days better and then was sick again and again , even the People at my Workplace said I have the Immune System of a 90 year old -well .. that means probably nothing to you but what I want to say is I feel much better now and I am sorry"

"I understand but that wasn't all ,wasn't it?"he responded in an honest interest and not typically Loki teasing way

Dumbfounded you stared at him - "You can see right through me, don't you?"

"Yes"

"Alright,to be honest I've been depressed lately,I hate the Winter months , the darkness it's so cold and depressing,i felt so tired all the time ,In addition to me being sick."you answered, staring at him, waiting for Loki's reaction

"So ,why didn't you call me?I could have at least tried to make you feel better. "

Smiling at him you caressed his Cheek "I am sorry but I didn't want to bring you down,it's my Job to cheer you up"

"by the way I heard you were sulking in your Chambers?did you miss me that much ?"you teased

"That's ridiculous,who told you that Nonsense?" Loki answered defensively with a blush

"The one who brought me to you , your good and kind Brother"

"Good and kind.....that Idol of Idiot Worshippers ..and why did you ask HIM to bring you here anyway" Loki hissed grumpy

His reaction made you laugh "Is that jealousy? "

"That's absurd why should I be jealous of that witless Oaf?"

"I don't know?you tell me " Loki rolled his eyes at your response

"Are you that oblivious? You should have called me instead of spending time with Thor "

"I should have done many things differently"you answered honestly before hugging him

"I should have also checked up on you but I was so terrified of crossing your Boundaries and you hating me" Loki confessed

"I could never hate you, my Dear"

"It's actually the opposite" you admit with reddened cheeks.

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki x reader #loki imagine #loki odinson #loki fluff #loki of asgard #loki x y/n #loki x you #loki mcu #marvel loki #loki fanfic #loki laufesyon x reader #loki x female reader #marvel fanfiction #marvel imagine

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melloween-candie · 10 months

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Hold still [C.G]

Bully Carl Gallagher x Bullied Reader

Summary

You've known Carl for a very long time, and for a very long time, he has been picking on you. It started off small but gradually escalated to a much more painful issue. Your friends think he likes you. You think it's the other way around. But Carl, his thinking is different.

A/n - I realized that I have been using the same point of view throughout almost all of my writing, and I figured it was boring to constantly read like that, so I'm changing it up! Anyways the point of view I've been using is secondary. Figured if anyone cared- I am now going to try writing in first person.

Also, I figured I might as well finish this since it's been sitting in my drafts since day one. It's small and simple, I kinda wished I did more to it, but who knows- maybe I'll make a part two for it someday or just recreate it entirely.

Some parts in this fanfiction aren't canon. Meaning it wasn't from the show!!!

Warning: Self-harm, bulling

Word count: 1,443

[Angst/fluff]

Part 1, Part 2

Shameless Masterlist

Fandom Masterlists

/"Talking"//Thinking//Muttering-Whispering/

***Y/n's Pov***

I was cleaning up the bloody mess I made on my wrist. This was the third time this week that I did this to myself. I couldn't help it, though. I've been feeling depressed lately, at least more than usual.

It's not anything in particular. However, my mother would say otherwise. She thinks it's all cause of that "no good Carl." In her own words too. Though she wasn't wrong.

I've known Carl for years, and he hated me ever since we met. I don't know why he hates me; he just does.

I never did anything to him in particular, or at least I don't think so.

"Y/n! You better hurry; otherwise, you'll be late again!"

That was my mother. I should probably go...

"Coming!"

Time skip!~

It was currently breakfast time here at my school. I normally hate breakfast time, along with lunch and free time too... My friends say I'm weird for that, but truth be told, I hate it because of him...

"Yo! Carl!" A random guy yelled. "What's happening?" He says as they get all friendly.

I bit my lips and held my books tighter. All-cause Carl Gallagher just entered the room.

Carl Gallagher... He's umm... something? Most people would call him a bully, especially if they saw the way he treated me, but honestly, I just think he uses me as an excuse to not look weak. After all, back then, during elementary school, he had this reputation of which he'd beat up kids just for looking funny.

Honestly, I envied him about that. Not caring about what anyone else thinks and just doing what feels right to you. I want to live like that.

The bell rings, signaling everyone to head to class.

Oh great. I hate this part. Reason is because I'll have to walk past him and if you were listening, he's not so friendly with me...

"W/n! There you are!" Carl gave you a big smile. "I was looking for you!"

"Ah... it's Y/n..." You said, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. "Never changed the name." You laughed awkwardly, trying to break that uncomfortable feeling.

"Rrright. Anyways! Where's my homework?" Carl didn't sound so friendly no more.

"Right here." You handed him your notebook. "If you could, I'll need tha- and he's gone." You sighed in defeat as you walked towards your first-period class.

I know that was pathetic, and you probably dealt with worst, but that was him being nice. Believe it or not, I got lucky. He was in a good mood this morning soo...

You entered your class and sat down.

Anyways, Carl used to like me. Or at least that's what my friends would always say back when we were still in middle school.

Nowadays, they don't really care about my situation with him anymore. It's old news to them. Which I don't blame them even if they did care; they couldn't change anything about it.

"Y/n? Y/N!"

"Uh?!" You snapped out of your thoughts. "Oh, hey, bff/n. What's up?"

"What's up?! What's up with you? I've been snapping my finger's in front of you for the last minute. What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, it's nothing."

This is bff/n. S/H/T are amazing. In fact, S/H/T is the only one that still cares about well the Carl situation.

"Did Carl do something again?" S/H/T said?

"No. Not exactly..."

"Where's your notebook?" S/H/T asked.

"Uhmm-"

"I KNEW IT! HE TOOK IT AGAIN, DIDN'T HE!"

"Keep it down!"

"Y/n! How can you be okay with this!"

"It's okay, really-!"

"He's tormenting you!" S/H/T interrupted. "Eventually, it'll turn into something way worst!"

"He's been 'tormenting' me for years, and it's never gotten too bad-"

"TOO BAD?!" S/H/T yelled. "He gave you your first panic attack! He embarrassed you countless of times..."

And there S/H/T goes. This is going to take a while.

You rested your head on the palm of your hand as the teacher walked through the door. Closing it, signaling that class is about to begin.

Time skip!~

"Look, Y/n. I'm just worried about you. Every year Carl does this to you, and only you; for some reason, doesn't that make you feel somewhat uncomfortable?"

"I mean... Eh?" You shrugged your shoulders. As your best friend groans in irritation.

"Look, Y/n. There's a 50% chance he likes you, and the other 50%, well, who knows but try to fight back or at least say something!"

"Ughh, bff/n. You know that will only make him mad," I said as I grabbed my math book for my next class. "And besides, as long as I don't irritate him, I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well, still..."

Time Skip~

Math class was as irritating as usual. Carl being Carl, kept throwing paper balls at me. Him and his group of friends kept snickering to themselves, making it a little hard to concentrate... Why did the teacher assign me to sit next to these people... ugh.

Anyways that's not the worst part. The worst part was when we got our homework papers back. Normally I would get really good grades in math, but today I got a B+. I rolled my eyes in aggravation. I have to bump this grade back up.

However, I thought it was only my grade that dropped... When I got into the hallway, Carl grabbed me unexpectedly.

"What the h*ll is this?!" He held his homework paper to my face as his other arm held onto my shoulder, pushing me against the lockers. The people just walked on past, pretending they didn't see anything.

"Uhhh..."

"Uh- UH?! Don't act stupid!" He yelled tauntingly. "You're supposed to be the smartest person in our grade! So why do I have a B on this paper?!"

"Look I'm sorry but It was just hard for me to focus during that lesson-"

"THE HEL* DO YOU MEAN HARD?!"

"Well- Well, maybe if you'd stop throwing paper balls at me, I could have focused better!"

Uh oh. That was the moment I knew I had screwed up... Carl's face turned bright red with anger as he dragged me towards the janitor's closet.

It was dark and dusty in there; it was like barely anyone ever cleans in there.

"Listen you! I told you before I gave you my homework- give me an A, or I'll kick your as*!"

I don't know what's gotten into me lately, but I said something I thought I never would-

"Why?! Why do you even care? I mean, you've never cared about anyone or anything before, so why do you care so much about your grade?!"

"Are you stupid or something? I don't, but football does. If I don't keep a good grade average, I'll get kicked off, and if I get kicked off, I'll kick you off this EARTH!" His hold on me grew tighter. I couldn't help but back up; because of this, he pushed forward.

"Ow!" I squealed. I could feel the blood starting to droop down my arm. I didn't realize this, but there were a lot of sharp objects in here... or at least it felt like it. With that, Carl grabbed the dangling on switch, turning on the lights.

He didn't notice at first, but eventually, he saw the blood. He looked at it and then looked back at me. He still had that irritated look on his face as he continued to hold onto his homework.

"Tch." He quickly grabbed my arm and pushed back the sleeves. I couldn't even react. "What the he*l?" His tone became quieter, but if his face could speak, it'd say something like, "Seriously? Cutting yourself? You're so weak."

Then without even saying anything, he started looking for something, not letting go of my wrist while doing so.

"Wha- What are you doing?" I said as he yanked my arm. He then clearly found what he was looking for, but the closet was a little too small, so I couldn't really see what he was starting at. He grabbed it, and I heard this taring sound. To my surprise, he was holding a piece of tissue, cleaning up my wound.

"You need to be more careful." He grumbled.

Huh?!?! I was so confused by this. He must have assumed that those cuts and scares were all accidental...? But what's weirder about this is why- why does he care?!

Maybe my friends were right... at least in a way. I blushed at the thought. Maybe he did like me, at least a little...

A/n

I wanted to give the reader the feeling as if Y/n is actually talking to you, as if you are the voice in, well, your own head. Or if you want you can think of it as you talking to an invisible friend in your head. Which ever works for you.~

#shameless #Carl Gallagher #carl gallagher x reader #fanfiction #bully x bullied reader #bully #bullied #violence #high school au #depression #torment #reader insert #fanfic

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gabrielsbubblegumbitch · 2 months

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Guys guys Panaceum passed 100 kudos and 1k hits and I can't stress enough how much it means to me. It's the first thing I've written in seven years and my first narrative piece entirely in English. Some of you probably know how self-conscious I was about my language skills, so seeing people actually praising it helps heal my long-standing insecurities.

Getting back to writing has been such a therapeutic process for me because for years I was consumed by pathological productivity and hadn't allowed myself to "waste" time on what I perceived as useless activities when I should have been writing academic papers and research proposals. It was so good to rediscover the joy and satisfaction that come from simply telling a story. And I can't wait to finish the second part ❤️

I know I'm like very emotional about it but I barely clawed out of the worst depressive episode in over the year so every nice thing is like a breath of fresh air.

#hazbin hotel #voxval #private

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not-poignant · 5 months

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Jesus H Christopher, Pia. Your writing load is insane.

Maybe you should cut back on how many chapters you release for certain stories? Like Stain and Palma (since these stories dont equal income) until UtB the other Underline stories are almost done. Just a thought

Because I feel burnt out just by thinking of writing that much, so I can only imagine how you feel. Please take care of yourself

Hi anon,

TL;DR: My brain is stupid, which is why I can't do this, even though it makes sense and is logical.

Unfortunately the fanfiction is what often makes the original fiction possible, or more enjoyable.

If I lock myself down into too much schedule and rigidity, or if I only focus on writing for money, I actually start to hate writing, even if I love the stories. There is nothing like 'will this earn money, do people like this, would people pay, what if they all decide to stop paying for this, why would they pay for this, would I pay for this, how much would people pay for this, is there any incentive for them to pay for this, actually if I wrote a ton of different tropes maybe I'd make more for this, but that's depressing, but I need the money, shit what do I do, what if I lose my income, what if it all stops tomorrow, I need to write more, I need to write more, I need to write more' that is actually very exhausting and makes writing not much fun at all.

And to deliberately break out of that headspace as much as possible, I write fanfiction. Because that headspace (the one I wrote about above), on its own, even if I'm only writing two stories, can and has led to burnout and depressive episodes. I don't recommend it.

In a way, one of the reasons I can write so many stories right now (ADHD meds aside) is that I am letting myself break out and just have fun with fanfiction, and remember that my original writing is meant to be fun too. But without fanfiction, I lose sight of that very quickly.

Fanfiction means that when an original story chapter does super badly, generally there are still excited comments elsewhere that keep me going. That's how I survived The Ice Plague, and that story would never have been completed without fanfiction, because that was my worst performer of any story I've ever written. It also means if a lot of subscribers leave at once, I don't feel like The Worst Writer In The World. So having fanfiction behind me was like...a literal safety net or my security blanket.

If I have to discard my security blankets or use them less often in order to keep writing the original stuff, I might as well just stop entirely, because my longest hiatuses from Patreon (i.e. one lasted 1.5 years, many have lasted 4-6 months) have been when I'm mostly just writing original fiction, and am not writing much fanfiction, or not deliberately finding time for it, and finally get so stressed out re: money I literally have to stop. I'm on a (partial) Disability Pension.

A long time ago some professional people told me I probably shouldn't be working at all because of my mental illnesses and then paid me money because of the severity of those mental illnesses. My dumbass brain be pretty fragile, actually, and keeps chugging away because I make bad business decisions and write stuff I enjoy instead of writing to market, or doing rapid release, or releasing more novels (or novels). Writing does ironically help when I'm stressed, but not when I'm stressed about making money because of writing.

I will cut at my income before I cut at my love of this job, and unfortunately fanfiction keeps me going in this job, which means I can't really cut at that first.

(Also from a business perspective, it's actually a very good funnel to the original stuff and then subscription. Most of you wouldn't be here if you hadn't read one of my fanfics first and then gave the original stuff a try - I try not to think about that too much because I need fanfic to not be about money, but the fact is, I would not have this career without fanfic).

I do have plans to take two weeks off in January from posting chapters (I can still post rewards in the second half of January) and that's not too far away.

And the reality is that I probably would have kept going okay if real life hadn't imploded on top of everything like the world's worst bukkake party.

#asks and answers #personal #pia on writing #i am not a smart business owner #i'm an emotional fragile mentally ill one #who has to make decisions that keep me wanting to do this job #because at the end of the day #my severe treatment-resistant mental illnesses #do not do well with the pressure of making money #and feeling like a failure #so i need to actually do things that aren't about money at all #to remind myself that i don't need to have a breakdown #over never making a minimum wage #(i'm getting closer though which is probably why this burnout came on)#(i've been pushing a lot harder than normal because... well... i'd like to make #an average income one day)#(i may not be smart enough or well enough to do that)#(but i will keep trying)#i just have to keep trying as someone with a very broken mind #who copes with that brokenness through working hard #breaks are stressful and i have to think hard about what's best

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maconthepen · 7 months

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What a bagel taught me about how to live.

There's a small grocery shop at the end of my street.

When I say small, I mean tiny. In fact, I often avoid it on Saturdays. Not being the smallest person in stature, I tend to get stuck awkwardly on boxes of fruit the owners haven't unpacked. All would be forgiven and fine if not for the withering stares of the designer activewear crowd who, like circling sharks, single me out as Not One of Their Own. Saturdays just aren't made for that kind of negativity, so I tend to make myself scarce.

But the staff in the shop are lovely and they pride themselves on stocking the best baked goods in the area. Specifically, their bagels. It's no word of a lie. Those bagels stand tall and proud, whether they're plain, poppyseed, sesame, or blueberry. If a food had a sixth sense that it was about to be bought and devoured, these bagels would have it. If I were to get hopelessly anthropomorphic about it, I'd say they exuded smugness. I can't blame them. Were I that perfectly formed, I'd be smug too.

The kicker is that they aren't stocked every day, and today I really, really wanted one. I wanted to pile it high with cream cheese and salmon and to garnish it with care, like it came from a cafe. The idea fixated itself as soon as I was awake, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

The grocery shop was bagel-less.

Instead, trying to delude myself into believing I could salvage the situation, I went to my local chain supermarket and bought a subpar pack. Little did I know how subpar they would be. My lunch in the picture above looks amazing — and its toppings were exceptional — but underneath was a blasphemous affair. These were the worst bagels I'd bought in my life. They were small and dense and probably overbaked, and I missed the high, chewy, pillowy goodness of the ones from down the street.

Make no mistake: I ate, and I was grateful for the food, but this exceedingly ordinary experience taught me a lesson I've been halfway to learning in the past few weeks:

Everything has its season.

I'm still learning to go with those seasons. A long bout of depression has meant that, for months, I haven't been especially keen on leaving the house. I've delegated all grocery shops to delivery services from major supermarkets, and when the fresh produce that arrived in stiff paper bags seemed bland and tasteless, I assumed it was the fault of my taste buds.

Little did I know, until I started on antidepressants and began going to counselling again, how fine a thing it was to wander out into the world — to the market, the park, the small grocery shop down the street — and really see what was there. To smell the in-season fruit. To taste air that wasn't stale. To buy bagels one day and almond croissants the next, because that's what the world is offering up, and it was finite, so I'd best enjoy it while it lasts. I've been cooking with the weather again, taking care to make soup on cold days and face-meltingly spicy, fresh salads when the sun is out.

I've been caring for myself better, but I have also been caring more about the world. In doing so, the world and I feel back in sync. The people in it feel closer. About a week ago, buoyed by all the new conversations I've been having with people, I realised that I didn't know the name of the man who owned the grocery shop along the street. For years, surrounded by a fog of my own brain's making, I hadn't asked.

It turned out his name was Dan. He asked mine in return, and I told him.

"You're lucky this morning," he said, smiling his usual warm and genuine smile. "That's the last of the sesame ones."

Then, as I was leaving the shop, he called: "Oh, I nearly forgot! You're a Swans fan, aren't you? Good luck today."

Bewildered, I turned back around to face him. It was footie finals season. I wasn't wearing my team's scarf, but I had been some months ago when I dropped in for a packet of chips on the way to the game. I'd been in and out of the shop in thirty seconds, but Dan remembered the scarf all the same.

I felt the hot sting of guilt return. I couldn't believe I'd never asked his name.

But then I recalled a visit on a freezing June day. Dan, nameless back then, had been rubbing his hands together near a small space heater under the counter. He'd been wearing a black and white hat.

I ventured, "We might be playing the 'pies next week. Here's to both our teams making it through."

He nodded. "Sounds like the perfect occasion for a loaded bagel and a beer."

It was a Saturday. I wish I could say the activewear crowd parted like the red sea, but they just looked on, as impatient as ever as I left through the shop's sliding door. The sun was out. It was a beautiful day — the kind that still felt like a novelty after a long winter — and I realised I didn't give a shit what anyone thought of me. I had Dan's name and his bagels, and my life was in a season of joy.

#original writing #writing #mental health #recovery #my writing

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never-wednesday · 9 months

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Hey its a Lil late in the month but this disability pride month I wanna talk about long covid. I also have chronic pain and all sorts of worms in my brain but I've been dealing with that forever. So we're talking about the new stuff. Putting a readmore because I'm talking about what my experience being sick with covid was like and it's probably unpleasant to read.

It's December of 2022 and I work retail while I'm home from school for winter break. I mask up every time I leave the house, including for work. My parents don't. My father talks about covid not being a big deal. He caught it last year and it was a mild cold for him. He says "i ate lunch with someone who had covid last week and im fine!" My mother catches covid a week after that conversation. I test and am seemingly fine despite symptoms of a cold, and then three days later (one of those days was a full 8hr shift at work where I was worn ragged because it's almost christmas. I also got heat exhaustion because the AC was busted and I live in TX.) I feel the worst I have felt in ages. My mom insists that my dad takes me to get tested for the flu, and I schedule a covid test while I'm at it. My covid test comes back positive.

For the next week I am bedbound, only able to sit up enough to try to eat something and only able to stand up long enough to get myself to and from the bathroom. I sleep through the days when I can get the dayquil down, and cough through the nights when I can't get the nyquil down. I hallucinate when im tired. One of those nights I swear I talk to god. My brain is fogged and it hurts to breathe. I am worried I will need to be hospitalized because I can't seem to keep any water in my system. It's a miracle that I can write instructions for my father to cook ramen for me. I can only drink the broth. One morning I try to take dayquil to soothe my throat and I vomit. My stomach is empty and I stand over the sink wretching.

It feels like a miracle when I recover. Christmas day my symptoms mostly clear up and I'm able to sit up long enough to use my computer, something I was unable to do for the past week. I test negative, my second best Christmas present that year. The first is the Elden Ring soundtrack on vinyl. I am elated that I made it put the other end.

A week later my friend comes from a few cities away to visit for a few days. We go shopping one afternoon, spend a few hours standing around at the local game store looking at dice and miniature plastic dragons. We get home at 6pm. I collapse into bed and wake up 3 hours later. I talk to my doctor about it in January, she says it should go away over time. Six months maximum.

I spend my spring semester exhausted. I start using a cane to make sure I can walk across campus. I'm thankful that many of my friends are also disabled because they understand when I need to ask people to slow down, or bail because of my fatigue. Many of the abled people in my life do not understand. One day I go out to a museum, a thing I am excited to do. When I get home at 4pm I make myself popcorn, then collapse into bed. I can't walk to the sink without my cane, I can barely get out of bed. This is what I have to adjust to.

Six months pass. The fatigue is not gone. I am home for summer break, and I try talking to my parents about my fatigue. They don't understand. I talk to my doctor. She is convinced it's depression symptoms. My mental health is largely the best it's been in years- I've been in treatment for months now and it is helping.

It's been about seven months now. I am not receiving treatment, nor will my doctor acknowledge that I have long covid. She has relented into testing for physical things. I got a CT scan, and have a sleep study scheduled for when I get back from visiting family in August. Depending on what these turn up and how my doctor reacts I am preparing to find a new doctor. I am not excited about this, because I like my doctor. But if she refuses to acknowledge that what has happened to me is likely covid and therefore will not treat me I will find someone else.

I don't really have a moral here beyond please mask up, get vaccinated, etc. Even if covid doesn't fuck you up it might fuck up someone you pass it to. Or even worse, it can kill the immunocompromised people around you. Please have compassion for the people around you. My father, who is a loving and caring man, brought this illness home to me. It wasn't out of malice, but it still has affected my life for probably the rest of my life.

#disability pride month #disability #covid #covid isn't over #disabled #okay to rb #lyra.txt

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catboybiologist · 6 months

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Hello, I've heard from a few trans women that their transition made higher education impossible I wasn't sure if they were talking about college or grad school, but since you're a woman in a PhD program I was wondering if you think transitioning would make getting a higher education harder.

Thanks

Someone who might be trans that wants to pursue a master's

Hm. This is weird to answer. Unfortunately I can't offer TOO much insight here. I'm very much a baby trans (~1.5 months HRT) and I present as a man day to day without issue (seriously, y'all have NO idea how masculine I look outside of my pictures). When I do finally socially transition, I'll probably have more thoughts.

With that out of the way, here's my personal experience so far:

I don't think I would have transitioned if I was NOT in academia/pursuing my PhD. I think most of the issues people run into can be divided into three categories:

1. Financial difficulty with acquiring HRT or other gender affirming care

2. Closer ties (financially and emotionally) to family and being seen less as an independent adult means greater pressure to not transition, and consequences if you do

3. Academic stress and pressure while you're undergoing emotional changes that may make things difficult short term.

Personally I was able to dodge most of those issues.

A huge part of this is because I spent a lot of time meticulously ensuring a lot of aspects of my life are in place before I started HRT. I waited until I was out of undergrad, which has weirder finances, I scoped out options at my student health center vs in the community, established queer community, waited a year to start in a good lab and establish there, scoped that lab out for queer acceptance before I joined, and in general became more financially and emotionally secure. Also, while I'm still in good terms with my parents, I'm not financially or emotionally reliant on them anymore- so if that changes when I come out, it won't affect me as much.

Looking back, it's hard to say whether I would recommend doing things this way. During the time that I was "figuring things out", I was dying. I was depressed and aimless, and I couldn't make happiness or contentment my baseline emotion. Starting an online femboy account was my only outlet for a while. Also, my results are going to be less drastic now that I've waited until I'm 25 to start.

Obviously, I still have the stress of a PhD to worry about while my emotions and body are changing. But to be honest.... My PhD has been kinder to me academically than my undergrad. All of my goals center around two or three long term, overarching projects instead of a million tiny assignment and study snippets from a million directions. I personally think this is easier to manage even if it's more work overall.

In return, the academia environment has been good to me about my queerness. There's a gender care specialist on campus via student health where I can get HRT, queer organizations and events are much easier to come by in a university environment, and people on average are far more educated and open minded towards LGBT issues than the general public. I have a role in the main queer graduate student group here, and it would have been hard for me to find explicitly supportive friends without that.

I'm gonna throw an additional paranoid note your way: a master's degree is hell for everyone. While the exact ways in which this is true vary from program to program, but in general, they feel like the worst of both worlds from undergrad and a PhD. You're locked out of or have less of a chance for the financial stability and employment positions of a PhD position, but you're also locked out of the financial aid and support of undergrads. I'm very biased from a miserable MS experience, though.

So yeah. I think my experience has been different than a lot of people, but I hope there was some small insight there!

#trans #transfemme #transitioning #academia #transgender

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creatinghelen · 7 months

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happy world mental health day, loves. I'm gonna free write and try not to edit myself - so here goes

I started this blog (berecovered) when I was really not doing well. I was living in a different country to all my friends and family, alone and isolated. I was falling back into behaviours I thought I was long over. it was a really hard time - so much so that I rarely think about it now because it doesn't feel good. I had probably the worst day of my life at that time. I realised a lot of bad things that had happened to me. but as I did several years prior, I realised there's one person who can get me out of these situations: me. but in the words of my best friend, "be brave, but remember you don't have to do it alone". and I didn't do it alone. I went to therapy (again), and most importantly - I think - I started this blog. it began as a safe space for me to consume positivity and recovery content in the place that started my issues in the first place, which was radical, and kind of scary. my mum was so worried when she heard I was on tumblr again - for good reason, because prior to me changing my url and deleting my posts I had fallen down the same rabbit hole as many years ago. but this time was - and continues to be - different. what was just for me to begin with has grown into something bigger, a little positive corner on an internet that can be so dark sometimes. there have been times where I've not felt like keeping this blog up, but I've done it because of the messages I get telling me how much it's helped, and that's what's kept me going all these years - only a few times where this blog had gone silent. then a couple of years ago I turned another corner - when I realised this blog is mine, and I can share my voice, not just reblog others'. that was really pivotal and I think has contributed into where I am now - creatinghelen. whilst my content is much less eating disorder recovery and depression recovery focused, I think this will always be a part of my blog. I think it's so important to nourish all sides of you, and all of your experiences, so that you can continue to grow. and now I'm growing into more than just this. the foundations are stronger and I'm finding my voice in many more ways, sharing my art with people and letting the creativity seep into my life. but most importantly, I'm living. however up and down and messy it can be, it's my life and I'm so grateful for it. at a number of points in my life I never thought I would make it here. I didn't think I could spend a day home alone without restricting. I didn't think I would make it to this age. I never thought I'd be where I am, with what I've achieved and the peace I feel. but I'm here. and so are you. and I'm so grateful that you and me - moving through the intricacies of life - can share this positive corner of the internet together. I love you.

#hj #world mental health day #long post #<3

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softpine · 2 months

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@bb-enablefreebuild it's true, but asa says it himself, "I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I have everything a person could want and a better family than some could ever imagine - but it’s not enough for me. I don’t know why. I want to be happy, but I don’t know how." it was important for me to include that part in there, because that has nothing to do with finn – well, only a little bit in that he knows he can come across as ungrateful given that his family is incredibly supportive and some people's families, like finn's, are the opposite. otherwise, this is entirely centered around asa's internal feelings. he's had depression nearly his entire life, it's just that when finn is around he's able to find reasons to take care of himself (going outside for long walks, sleeping regularly, paying attention in class because finn tells him to, taking his meds, etc.) and without finn there to ground him, asa is falling apart for more reasons than one. so yes it's the heartbreak of losing your first love, but it's more than that for him. it's losing the primary reason for living in the moment and looking forward to the future :(

he will be soooooooo pissed :( we'll have to wait and see if asa tells him the truth (or the full truth) about how he got to this point... especially after everything asa said in this post; he KNOWS finn wouldn't approve of any of his actions thus far, but he keeps digging his grave deeper and deeper because he's already gone too far, he's already broken finn's trust and he can't leave things like this now :(

that tag is so funny, i wasn't even referring to myself in Sim God terms i was just mad at him as if i'm a powerless reader like the rest of you jfkjsds and YEAH poor casper :( he'll come up in one of the next posts so i don't want to say too much, but the fact that his worst fear is missing out on something important while he's away, to the extent that he's calling constantly to check on his family is so..... :(

bro yes 🤭

thank you for sharing!! that makes complete sense to me and that's a really sweet way to incorporate your mom in that decision 🥺

RIGHT he needs the sense knocked into him fr

@forgotten-pixels ahhhh i love this question, i was JUST thinking about mac while i was making vegan chili mac the other day fjkjsds i'm actually going to save this in my inbox and take some pictures for you when i have the energy because i miss mac and honey too :') they're always hanging out in the same room while i'm taking screenshots, they just NEVER make it into any good pics. it's actually a curse i swear

i honestly have no idea, i'm sorry 😭 it'll probably be awhile though, i haven't been doing great tbh but i want the next post to look as good as it does in my head so i don't want to half ass it!!

@itsalwaysgonnabeher oh you caught that huh sjfkjsds don't worry (yet) 💖

@little-orphan-ant I'M SORRY 😭 i'm thinking brandi wtf at all times too lmao

omg okay so i'm saving this message in my inbox for later because i KNOW for a FACT that i listed everyone's favorite candy many years ago but tumblr's search function is so incredibly ass and i don't have the energy to keep searching for it right now but i will find it eventually i promise 🥺 and if not i'll just rewrite it and then when i inevitably find the original post we can compare my answers and see how well i know my characters' tastes fjksjds

absolutely yes i'm afraid 😌

in my head i still have to sound it out sometimes if it's been forever since i've typed her name fjksjds

@rebouks thank you so much 🥺🥺 the same goes to you!!! 💖

@moonfromearth thank you!! it's so sweet you thought of me ;-; 💗

#sorry i'm answering some of these so late #been fighting for my life in my brain lately and words are not coming easily 👍🏻#but it's been so long since i've had to break out the replies post :')#asks #anonymous #nonsims #brandi answers #moonfromearth #rebouks #bb-enablefreebuild #forgotten-pixels #little-orphan-ant #itsalwaysgonnabeher

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rosemaryandarsenic · 2 years

Text

Mine

pairing| Gareth Emerson x female reader

readersynopsis| Gareth has an important question to ask you, but you almost spoil it because of a misunderstanding. (Happy ending, DW) Based on Mine by Taylor Swift

warnings|SMUT! 18+ only as always, minors DNI. Also, the reader struggles with symptoms of burnout and overreacting, self-doubt, intense emotions, and insecurity. Parental trauma. Alcohol. Oral sex, daddy kink.

AN: This is not my finest work, honestly I've been feeling shitty so I wrote this for myself lmao. Mental illness sucks, and I don't see it often in fics bc it's depressing so I wanted the reader to struggle a little. I have Bipolar and it makes relationships stressful sometimes, but it doesn't make them impossible. This one is for my fellow mentally ill friends, ily <3 Also, Gareth and the reader are in their early twenties! The reader is in college and waitresses for work. Her roommates are Robin and Vicki! Everyone is happy and nothing unusual exists in this universe anymore.

You’re staring at the worn-down tiles in the classroom, your professor drawling on about the upcoming final you have next week. It’s hard to concentrate, and your anxiety makes you agitated. Between finals and work, you have already been stressed the hell out, on top of both your boyfriend was practically nowhere to be found. You’d called Gareth three times this week, with no answer, which was abnormal. He usually called you every day, especially when you were too busy to be together in person, but this whole week had been radio silence. The two of you had been fine, to your knowledge, except for a small spat a few weeks before. You tried not to think about it, wincing. Because of your parents, even little fights felt ginormous, weighing down on you like a pile of bricks from the quarry. He wouldn’t leave? Right? Your stomach turned, and you tried to quell the fears in your mind. Instead, you pictured the worst possible cases - anxiety fuels delusions splashing across your vision. Gareth never gave you a reason to feel jealous or insecure, but you’d never really gotten over knowing his ex in high school. You’d been there for ground zero, and despite his insistence over the years that their 3-month long relationship meant nothing in comparison to how he felt about you, it clouded your mind. Relationships were something you avoided after your parent's divorce. They were messy, even the best ones. It felt like too much was on the line when it came to trusting people. You chided yourself - you knew better than this. You are safe, you’re loved, and all is well. But the feeling stayed with you all day, growing worse as you still didn’t hear from him.

Slinging your bag into the passenger side of your car, you sighed heavily and rummaged around for a tape to fill the silence. You needed a distraction, something that wasn’t bussing tables or writing papers. A movie maybe? Your Roommates wouldn’t be home till late tonight, both working the closing shift at the diner. You started the car in frustration, feeling hopeless. Maybe a movie AND alcohol would be better. Your thoughts trailed again as you drive home, feeling genuinely down in the dumps. When it got this bad you usually called Gareth, something about his voice calmed the nervousness in your mind. It hurt worse, feeling like he wasn’t there, but it wouldn’t last forever. He was probably busy, also with work and school, and the band. You perked up, changing direction from your apartment towards Eddie’s. Eddie was one of your oldest friends, and he always seemed to know what to say when you needed to vent. Maybe he’d be home, it was Friday after all. You pulled into the entrance to the trailer park, feeling slightly better at the idea of not being alone when you noticed that another car was parked next to Eddie’s van. Gareths car.

You groaned, pulling into the spot next to him and parking, questioning your options. Go inside? Leave? They all felt bad, so you opted for the what was hopefully the most sane - go inside. As you neared the trailer, you could hear music coming from Eddie’s window, a small waft of smoke sneaking out his cracked window and trailing upwards to the sky. You knocked rather loudly, and heard the music stop as Eddie’s footsteps sounded inside.

“Who in gods name-“ he started, as he swung the door open and saw your face. Your expression must have been more obvious than you thought, because his brows immediately furrowed together.

“Hi sweetheart.” He smiled, tone completely changed. “Cmon in.”

You smiled at him, trying to shake off your anxiety.

“Sorry to bug you, Ed’s. Got out of class and was feeling restless.” You say, pushing hair behind your ear.

“You can never bug me.” He chuckled, looking at the ground like he was thinking too hard.

“I didn’t realize you and Gareth were hanging out.” You nod towards the cars outside. “I uh, I can leave if you want!”

He looks confused, “We weren’t planning on it,” he looks down again, “Um, he’s actually not here anyways so you’re fine.”

You feel a jolt in your spine at his words, the anxiety flooding back in. You don’t want to show it on your face but you’re not sure what reaction would be better.

“Oh. Okay.” Your palms are sweaty.

“Wh-where is he?” You mumble.

Eddie looks like he’d like to crawl under the table, his eyes still directed at the ground. He shakes his head, a small smirk on his face.

You’re absolutely falling off the deep end mentally, your anxious mind going a thousand places at once. You can feel tears burning behind your eyes and will them not to fall. What is it with the men in your life? Why can’t they just say what they’re thinking?

“Eddie.” Your voice quivers more than you mean it to and he quickly looks up at you, the smirk disappearing.

“Are you crying?” He looks shocked, and walks over to you with a worried expression.

“No.” You sniff, “no. Actually yknow, I think I probably should go. Um.” You avoid his reaching toward you and bolt towards the door, trying to keep your composure. This is silly. This is so silly. You wanna go home, just take a shot and go to sleep. Eddie is following after you as you swing the door open and walk directly into the person on the other side of the door.

Gareth, despite his arms already being full, catches you as you ram into him, nearly pushing the both of you off the front steps.

“Whoa there,” he says, stopping you as you push past him now, desperately wanting to be in your car and away from this mess. The sound of his voice sends you over the edge and you let out a choked sob. Jesus Christ this is embarrassing.

“Honey, hey, whoa.” He says, dropping serval bags on the ground as he sees the tears streaming down your face.

“What the fuck, Munson?” He’s red in the face, grabbing you to him as he looks back at Eddie, who’s just as confused as he is. “What is going on?”

“Wasn’t me man,” Eddie exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Y/n, hey.” Gareth is clinging to you now as you wipe your face, cheeks burning.

“It’s fine! I’m fine!” You stutter, “Eddie didn’t -“ you gasp, trying to catch your breath, “he didn’t do anything. I’m fine! Okay?! I’m fine!” You push him back, stepping towards your car. “I gotta - I…” you manage to get out before turning and bolting. Absolutely not. This is too much.

Gareth and Eddie watch, both looking totally lost as you sprint back to your car and nearly eat shit on the muddy ground.

“What the hell did you do?” Eddie says Gareth.

He just shakes his head. “I don’t know but I think I gotta go.” He replies, leaning down. “I got it though.” He whispers and hands a small bag to Eddie.

“Can you hold onto this please?” He asks, and Eddie nods.

“Go get her man.” Eddie nudges him, looking back towards your car as you drive away.

Gareth does.

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

You slam your keys on the counter in your kitchen, tears rolling freely down your cheeks now. Nothing sensible is going through your brain, so you let it out, sliding down onto the floor and letting your head fall into your hands. There will be an explanation but it’s not right now, and you feel terrible. Where had Gareth been? Why was he being so sneaky and quiet? And Eddie, was Eddie in on it? It felt like you were thirteen again, crying on the kitchen floor as your parents screaming sounded through the house. A door bangs as your mom storms out, your dad watching from the front window.

“Go to your room.”

“Daddy?”

“Now.”

You bawl harder, the loneliness crawling into your gut, a familiar feeling after all these years. You don’t want to lose Gareth. You can’t bare the thought.

Trying to compose yourself you gingerly stand, your knees wobbly from the rush of emotions. It didn’t matter, you would make it. You just needed to stop crying. Maybe a shower would help? You stand there, shaking a bit and holding your arms close to yourself. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You jump at the sound of knocking on the front door and feel your heart leap a little. Stop hoping, you mumble to yourself, it’s probably just the neighbors wanting to know if someone is dying. You cry louder than you mean to sometimes. Irritated, you swing the door open and feel a rush as you see the dark blond ringlets you know so well.

Gareth is standing at the door, clearly flustered from rushing to follow you, a concerned look on his face. He hadn’t expected you to answer on the first knock. Silently he reaches out to you and you give in, crawling into his arms and burying your face in his shirt. You both stand like that for a minute, without speaking.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper.

“You don’t need to be.” He whispers back.

Gently, he pulls away and lifts your face towards him, wiping off excess tears.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on, my love?”

The pet name elicits more tears from you and he pulls you back into his arms.

“Is it me?” He asks, bluntly but softly. “Did I cause this?”

Your heart aches, and you try to find the words to explain. It feels stupid, how upset you are.

“I…where were you?” You ask, deciding to start there.

He tenses and you feel your gut drop again. Here it comes.

“I was looking for a surprise for you.” He says, turning slightly red.

“What?” You say, pulling away.

“A surprise,” he holds your eye contact, running a hand through his hair.

“What kind of surprise takes all week?!” You blurt out, more confused than before.

He looks stressed, like he’s trying to find a way to tell you without telling you everything.

“Can we sit?” He asks, gesturing inside.

You move, letting him inside, and he sits down on the sofa with his legs criss-crossed underneath him. You didn’t sit, so he taps the sofa next to him.

“Baby, please.”

You sit down with a huff and raise an eyebrow. This better be good.

He can see the irritation on your face and groans internally. He’s not gonna let you in on what it is, he’s worked too hard, but he needs to calm you down.

“Listen I’m not ruining your surprise, but I can tell something’s bothering you.” He starts, wringing his hands together. “I didn’t realize I’ve been so distracted and I’m so sorry, honey.” He leans in and puts a hand on your leg.

“Why not just answer the phone?” You groan, letting him touch you. It helped, but you were stubborn.

“The phone?” He asks.

“I’ve called you three times this week!” You snap.

He groans, “shit. Jeff forgot to pay the bill. It was disconnected till last night. I thought I left you a message?”

You turn red. “Our answering machine is broken.”

He chuckles, pulling you closer to him.

“I’m so sorry.” He says again, “I should’ve just come over.”

Your resolve is starting to crumble, as you lean into him. You missed him.

“You know I'd never ignore you, right?” He says as he strokes your hair. “I could never forget about my sweet girl.”

You nod, trying not to cry again.

“I just…I get scared sometimes.” You let it out. “I don’t want -“

“We aren’t your parents.” He says adamantly. “I won’t let it happen again.”

The two of you stay cuddled together on the sofa for a while, until you drift off. Gareth chides himself as you sleep in his arms, working through the rest of his plan. He needed to be more careful, it would only take a few more days and he didn’t want you to feel like this. He watched as your chest rose and fell, still stroking your hair. Just a few more days. He hoped his plan would make up for this week.

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

The next few days progress more normally, your anxiety lifting as you finish most of your finals for the semester. It’s Monday, only one test left this afternoon and then you have no school and two full days off of work. You were in between classes, eating lunch outside as the late spring sun shone through the clouds. Rainy days were your favorite, and today had been no exception, though you appreciated the chance to eat outside. Gareth still seemed jittery, but you brushed it off. You knew now that he was planning something, but you also know better than to push it. He’d get ideas and be stuck on them for weeks sometimes, unable to focus on anything else. Your concerns about his attention being directed elsewhere were no longer plaguing your mind because you knew he’d tell you eventually, so you focused on the tasks at hand. Stretching, you took in the humid air and smiled. Just a few more hours and you’d be curled up on the sofa with your friends and your favorite snacks. The whole summer was ahead of you, with only work to deal with before your senior year of college came around. Sliding off the bench, you pulled your bag to your shoulder and threw away your garbage as you waltzed inside. Just a few more hours.

While you finished your exams, you had no idea about the commotion happening at Eddie’s. Your roommates, Robin and Vicki, were hauling ass as Eddie followed them around bossily. Gareth had finished his finals that morning and was sweating his ass off trying to stay calm. Dustin and Jeff argued in the kitchen. Steve and Max were supposed to be arranging flowers around the living room but were instead arguing as well.

“It should go here!” Max insisted, pointing at a pile of roses that had been prodded the point of wilting.

“No way, those are supposed to be over there.” Steve flung back, stabbing himself on a thorn and wincing.

Lucas sighed, moving the bouquet around for the third time in the last 5 minutes as the two of them continued to argue.

“I need to leave to get her in like ten minutes, can you just DECIDE.” Gareth pleaded, his cheeks red as a tomato.

“You need to cool down, man.” Dustin said, handing him a bag of frozen peas and earning a glare.

Wayne walked through the door with boxes of pizza, chuckling at the chaos.

“Where is the man of the hour?” Eddie called from out front, struggling to fit through the door as he carried in another bouquet of flowers.

“Don’t crush them again Eddie, I swear to god.” Robin yelled behind him. Vicki and her had been moving flowers all day from the flower shop where Vicki worked, and she was covered in scratches, a bit of mud on her knee.

Will was leaning on the counter, observing the chaos, and he moved to grab the flowers from Eddie before he suffocated them into a second death.

“You have the ring?” Eddie asked, sending Gareth into a spiral as he laughed, pulling it out of his pocket.

“Eddie, stop it.” Nancy swatted him as she came from the bathroom, rolling her eyes. “You’re gonna give him a heart attack.”

“Man, don’t stress, half the town is here to help.” Jonathan said, following Nancy in and giving Gareth a sympathetic smile. “It’s gonna be fine.”

Gareth gave a half hearted nod, he’d barely made it through his exams this morning because of the anxiety. What if she said no? Even more terrifying, what if she said yes? Y/N was his dream girl, they’d been together for almost five years and he still got butterflies. What if he threw up? What if he passed out? He started to sweat again and pulled the bag of frozen peas to his face. Wayne smiled and patted his back, giving Eddie a solemn look.

“Everyone out!” Gareth's mom hollered from the doorway, “out.”

The group finished their tasks and trailed out, moving to their assigned positions as Gareth's mom wandered to him with a smile.

“Hi,” he mumbled, still holding the frozen peas to his cheek.

“Hi.” She whispered back, putting an arm around him. “How are we doing?”

She always talked like this when things were stressful. In his entire life he’d never heard his mom speak of his problems with a “you” instead of a “we”. It was always them together, never him alone. He wanted that for him and y/n. Always together, a team.

He sighed. “Im fucking nervous.”

“You should be,” she laughed, rubbing circles on his back. “She’s a good girl, it’s been a long time coming.”

“What if she says no?”

“She won’t.”

“But-“

“Gareth Emerson, remember who you’re talking about.” She said, smiling again. “I have seen the way she looks at you, since the day she stumbled onto our porch with that bloody lip.” She laughs, and he laughs with her. The day they met, she’d just moved in next door, and had gotten the houses wrong in a panic from falling off her bike. He’d opened the door to a furious girl, hands cradling her mouth and eyes wide as she realized she’d almost walked into the wrong house.

“Oh my god I’m sorry.” She sputtered, blood dripping out of her mouth. He’d fallen head over heels immediately, and they’d been tied at the hip since.

“She won’t say no.” His mom whispered again. “Now, let’s get your ass moving, lover boy. Her parents will be here in five.”She poked him, and shoved him out the door. “Time to go get the girl.” She winked.

Over the moon, Y/N turned her face towards the sky, admiring the clouds forming overhead as she waited for her ride. Gareth would be there any minute and she didn’t want to wait any longer. All day she’d been dreaming of the sound of the rain on top of Eddie’s trailer as they celebrated the end of the school semester and relaxed. The sound of Van Halen blaring from a beat up sedan drew her attention with a grin. Gareth is always so loud, you can hear him coming from a mile away. He parked and she slipped towards the car happily.

“Someone’s in a good mood.” He smiled, opening the passenger door from the front seat. She slid in and pulled his face in for a kiss, lingering an extra minute to appreciate the softness of his lips against her own.

“Someone stole my cherry chapstick again.” She laughed, pulling away. Gareth blushed.

“I keep loosing mine.” He grins.

The drive to Eddie’s is calm, Gareth breathing intentionally slow to calm himself and smiling as he watched Y/N lean back in her seat. Her eyes were closed, the wind blowing through her hair as a small smile spread across her face. He loved her so much it felt a bit like he could explode.

“Do you think the boys will let me get away with watching Ferris Buellers Day Off again?” She mumbles.

He laughes, “not on your life.”

She giggles and pouts, opening her eyes.

“It’s a great movie, okay?”

“You just have a crush on Cameron.”

“I do not!”

“Sure, sugar.”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Maybe I just like grumpy boys, is that a crime?”

“Are you calling me grumpy?” He feigns offense.

“Absolutely, gare. What’re you gonna do about it?” You retort, grinning and batting your lashes at him. “My grumpy boy.”

He chuckles, pulling into a spot behind the trailer to park and trying not to give away the excitement that’s buzzing around in his head.

“Listen,” he says quietly, “before we go in, I want to give you that surprise I’ve been working on.”

You nod, smiling at him. “Okay! Are you sure you wanna do that now?”

“It’ll only take a second.” He nods. “Hop out, and then close your eyes. I gotta get it from the trunk.”

You raise your eyebrow but comply, getting out and closing the door. Your brow furrows as you wait, not hearing the sound of the trunk at all, only the breeze around you.

“Gareth?” You ask. Silence. Slowly you open one eye and nearly jump out of your skin. “Dustin! What the hell are you doing?” He’s in front of you with a huge smile, Gareth nowhere in sight. “What-“

“No questions, m’lady. Follow me please.” Dustin says, gesturing broadly as he leads the way. As they walk towards the trailer, Will and Mike are waiting, also smiling.

“You guys are creeping me out.” You laugh, “what is happening?”

“No questions!” Max says, as she, Lucas, and El also join the group that’s leading you inside. In front of the trailer, Steve, Vicki, Nancy, Jonathan, Jeff and Grant are all waiting. Each of them holds a single rose, which they hand to you as you walk towards the door. The realization of what’s happening is kicking in as you see the cars out front. Your parents, hopper, Gareth's parents. Everyone is here - which means…which means.

“Makeup check.” Robin says, stopping her at the door with a huge grin and fussing with your hair.

“Rob-“ you start to ask.

Robin cuts you off, “listen to me, pretty girl. I know you well enough to know you probably know what’s behind that door, right?”

You nod.

“Good. Now get your ass in there before I start crying.”

You nod again, hugging her aggressively as she tries to fix your hair again.

She opens the trailer door and you can hear guitar, softly playing. You know it’s Eddie but you can’t see him, instead all you see is wall to wall flowers and candles. The inside of the trailer has never looked like this before, or smelled so sweet. Gareth is standing in front of you now, in the center of the room, a sloppy grin on his face.

“Hi” you whisper shyly, reaching out for him.

“Hi.” He whispers back, pulling you in.

“You ready?” He whispers in your ear as he holds you close, and you nod.

Carefully pulling away from you, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a little black box before he shuffles down onto one knee.

You’re trying incredibly hard not to cry, and shockingly, so is he. You wipe a tear off his cheek with your thumb as he stumbles out a few words before clearing his throat.

“Will you - will you marry me?” He gets out, eyes watery as they look up at you longingly.

“YES.” You shriek, toppling into him as he laughs. You hear the guitar squeak as Eddie throws it off and bounds out from the kitchen.

“SHE SAID YES.” He yells, slamming the door open. “YES!”

Chaos is erupting around you as everyone floods in, the room filling with your friends and family. You stay wrapped around Gareth as choruses of congratulations and “finally!” surround the both of you. This is the best day ever.

—-

Hours later, well into the night, you’re back at your apartment with Gareth. At midnight, Wayne had ushered everyone out, sneaking the both of you out first with a box of pizza and some champagne so you could escape the clean up. You’d barely made it inside the car before Gareth had you smashed up against the door, hungrily attacking your mouth with passion that could only come from being pent up for weeks about the day. You leaned into it, rolling your tongue along his teeth as he moaned into your mouth. He only pulled back when Eddie slapped the passenger window and yelled , “get a room.”

You flipped him off as Gareth rolled the windows down and started the car.

He visibly was in a rush as he drove back to your apartment, glancing at you every few minutes with a huge smile on his face.

“Someone’s happy.” You teased, giggling as he shook his head and laughed at you.

“I’m marrying the prettiest girl in the world, can you blame me?”

You blushed, and leaned over, sliding your (now ring-laden) hand across his denim-covered crotch.

“Prettiest girl in the world, huh?”

He groaned, leaning back to give you room.

“Don’t tease me, baby.”

“I’m not!” You say innocently, running your hand over his growing erection.

His face was all red again, eyes locked on the road as you reached for his zipper and slid out of your seat.

“How could I possibly tease the cutest boy in the world?” You say slowly, nuzzling your face into his stomach as he drives, his cock pressing out of his boxers underneath you.

He moans again as you slide your hand up his clothed shaft and press kisses to his tip.

“You’re gonna kill us both,” he whines, one hand flying to your hair as you start to pump him with your hands.

“So pull over then.” You say, pawing at his boxers until his cock is free.

He’s panting, cock leaking precum as he pulls off to the side of the road. Your hands are fully wrapped around his length, pumping away, and you lean in and take him in your mouth as he parks.

You can hear him letting out the most guttural noises as you suck, letting drool slide out of your mouth and onto his legs as he ruts into your mouth.

“S-so good.” He stutters, pulling your hair away from your face as you bob up and down, your own whining echoing through the car as you feel him twitch against the roof of your mouth. Flattening your tongue, you run it up the underside of his shaft while looking up at him, eyes begging him to cum on you. It sends him over the edge, as he grunts, cum splattering across your face and the steering wheel.

You giggle, straightening up. “See, not dead!”

His cheeks are bright red, eyes locked on you as wipe your face with one finger and pop it into your mouth, savoring the salty taste.

“Keep doing that and I’m gonna cum again.” He mutters, reaching around you for something to wipe off the rest of your face. Finding nothing, he pulls off his shirt and delicately wipes away the mess from your face, then the car. You plop happily back in the passenger seat, snuggling in as he gives you a confused look.

“My turn when we get home.” You wink and he grins, starting the car again.

The best part of giving him head in the car is getting to watch him after, cheeks glowing and hair tussled as the music blares. You also know you’re in for it when you get home.

As the two of you pull into the apartment complex, you fumble for your keys, not bothering to get your book bag out of the back. Gareth barely lets you out of the car before picking you up and slinging you over his shoulder. He’s short, but he’s strong as hell, which comes in handy when you like to be man handled. You walk inside, and he tosses you onto the sofa and slams the door shut behind him.

“Mine.” He mumbles, not bothering to undress himself before diving between your legs. You’d worn a skirt today, and he thanked Ozzy for the easy access. Ripping your panties off, he slides both hands under your ass and licks at your wet folds, making you cry out.

He hums into your cunt, lapping away as your hands run through his hair and tug him closer to you. When Gareth eats pussy it’s like the rest of the world stands still. He always starts hungrily, like he’s starving and then get slower, letting you wind up before sending you crashing down again. He angles your hips up with his hands still grabbing onto the flesh of your butt, tongue circling around your clit as you start to beg.

“Gare-“ you cry out, writhing as he pulls his face away. Your juices cover his chin, and gloss his lips.

“Yes honey?”

You giggle. “I wanna ride your face.”

His eyes get wider and he practically throws you off the couch to make room.

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” he grins, “have a seat, princess.”

You straddle his face, his hands greedily pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he laps at you again, soliciting another moan.

You whine, arching your hips onto his face, falling apart as you feel his tongue along your clit again. He slides a finger into and starts pumping as you ride his face into the cushion.

“P-please daddy.” You moan, grabbing onto the sofa for support as your legs start to shake. He slaps your ass and you start to see white light spiraling across your vision.

“I’m gonna cum-“ you moan, panting.

He slides in another finger and it sends you over the edge, crying out as your legs tremble. He slides you down onto his chest as you come down from your high, curls plastered to his forehead and the chain around his neck hanging haphazardly.

“I got to K.” He chuckles, and you smack him lightly. You’re both a mess but you lean in for a kiss anyway.

“I love you.” He whispers.

“I love you more.” You whisper back.

With a wink, he says. “I love you most.”

#gareth emerson #gareth the great #gareth emerson x reader #gareth smut #stranger things #rosemaryandarsenic rants #gareth emerson x y/n

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