#and the (lovely) prose got in the way | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leviathiane · 2 years

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for the ask meme!

26. tell us about an experience you’ve had that seemed unreal or supernatural. (doesn’t have to be scary)

ksahbjdsak i dont usually reblog ask memes to actually be asked anything, but thank you lmao

I've had lots of unreal experiences! Not necessarily ever supernatural, bc I don't actually believe in the supernatural myself despite my fascination with it-- but, as someone who suffers from severe insomnia and some other health problems, one of my minor symptoms is auditory and visual hallucinations.

I don't know how other people handle hallucinations. I'll be honest, I don't actually know anybody who deals with them on the semi-regular, or with any experience at all. Shifting shadows, noises that aren't there. I love bugs now, but I didn't used to. I saw them everywhere. I dream about maggots and moths. In the corners of my eyes I often see spiders. What I assume are spiders, at least-- little dark skittering things that flit just out of my eyesight, always clambering over my elbows and down by my foot, on the far wall where the shadow seems to twist, in the flickering air above too-hot metal. I have excellent eyesight. Good night-vision; better than all my family. But I'm far-sighted. I wear glasses when I read, so I can hold the text less than an arms-length away. When I shift and twitch, moving so incrementally, the flash of the glass catches the light. I always think it's a moth. I always turn.

Sometimes there really is a moth. We have a pantry moth issue. Little brown moths who gorge themselves on our rice stores. It's not always a hallucination.

The sounds aren't either. There's lots of sounds at night, you know? Wind in the leaves, june bugs (southern masked chafers, actually, but they'll always be june bugs to me) buzzing at the screen door, an owl in the distance and the coyotes and foxes exploring out of the hills. I live against a creek. I live in an orchard. There's no shortage of sounds. When I'm up late, far past midnight, I sit by the backdoor with my laptop and I listen to them. It's familiar, you know? Soothing. I've lived with those field crickets and sierran tree frogs all my life.

but auditory hallucinations can be a lot of things, you know? Sometimes I hear footsteps. It's just a crunch of leaves outside, if even that. A gust of air I mistake as a breath. No one is out there. No one ever is. I'd know if there was-- my eyesight in the dark is very, very good. My hearing is good. No one is so careful to make it over the wooden fence caging in the fruit trees without my notice. It's loud, and creaking, and my hearing is very good. And my eyes are very good. And there is no reason to fear, ever, because if anything is going to be waiting in the dark, it's going to be me. I can brush it off, you know? Just another noise in the night.

Sometimes I hear voices. Not often. A single call of my name, so loud I flinch. So loud I can't ignore it. I always get up, always look around. Sometimes I know the voice-- my mother, my grandmother, a friend I don't speak to anymore, a cousin I know is asleep in her bed a mountain away. But I get up, because it's so loud. Because it sounds scared. Because it's calling for me, and there will always be something deeply ingrained in me to answer that. No one is ever there. Just another noise in the night, if even that.

It doesn't happen often. It's not real, most of the time. Just a noise. Just a sound, if even that. Just my brain pulling at straws, because it's been three days since I've slept more than two hours. Just an old paranoia that something other than me is out there. That someone needs my help. It doesn't happen often.

But it happens. I can't deny it happens. Does it count as unreal anymore, at that point?

#depths' ask #ask meme #sorry to go off on such a tangent #hope this doesnt sound scary to people skdajnbasnd i really dont mean for it to be!! its just a part of my life #ive just been very tired for a rather long time you feel?#sorry if you were expecting something lighthearted and less uhhhhhhh just shorter in general #ive got thoughts lmao #please know @ anyone that this is not meant to poke harm at people with hallucinations in any way or type #this sounds prose-y and fictional but at the base of it these are my actual experiences. its very real for me even knowing its not #thank you for the ask! i dont answer em often but i do love receiving them

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houseofmad · 2 years

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“Let me make a contract. I shall give you my life after my death. I would like the compensation now.”

1.0 – Fated Meeting

The light peeking through the leaves of the tree was somehow blinding. Normally, the sun was naturally blinding, but the ‘somehow’ belonged to the fact that only in this small greenhouse area was there any sunlight. It was artificially created by magecraft to give a false sense of the outside world, but the large tree that stood amongst the various plants, reached high into the heavens that did not truly exist.

Yes, magecraft, humans’ technology and science that preserved magic to the modern age, allowing them to create imitational feats by means of mystery. The meaning of true magic had died long ago with the Age of Gods, and so humans, or magi, those who still had connection to the mystery once known as ‘magic’ preserved it’s life by replicating it as ‘magecraft’.

All around the green area of roses, lilies of the valley, Irish moss, bloodroot and so many others there was a strong sense of magical energy flowing through all of them as if none were cultivated normally. The biggest energy source was centered in the glass dome towards the back, it stemmed from a northern catalpa tree. The dark trunk thick and tall, its green leafs spreading out with its various branches, coated in white catalpas that gave it a snow like appearance.

With a hand, he blocked out the false sun, staring at the domed glass of green patterns in kaleidoscopic colors. There was nothing but light chirping, the sounds of bugs in an orchestra and the occasional rustling of leafs from the air condition.

The scene was straight out of a fairytale.

A fairytale not meant for him. The reason for Shirou Emiya’s visit was not to witness the astounding and false beauty of this area. He came here for a purpose.

Not too long ago, he was greeted by a familiar of a magus that had a message for him.

“My master, Camenzind, has a wish to meet you. It is a matter regarding the creation of the New Holy Grail.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he knew he shouldn’t have gotten worked up over this. It could’ve just as well been a hoax, and still, he couldn’t risk it being true. A scene from long ago flashed in his mind, a fire, a black moon in the sky, and he shook the foreboding thoughts away. That was long past.

It was not his job to find Holy Artifacts, that job belonged to the Church. But as a Hero of Justice, it was his duty to ensure a tragedy did not come from such an event as a new Grail being created.

Letting out a quiet sigh, he approached the double glass doors. It had been an hour and a half since he arrived. Dr. Camenzind, the magus who summoned him, was busy in surgery and so he was told to wait around. He thought he would find some information if he looked around the building, but searching this hospital contained zero information regarding magecraft, in fact, all of the staff seemed to be regular people.

All they could talk about was how great of a doctor Camenzind was.

Upon request, one nurse informed him that Camenzind had been an instructor at a university some time ago. This information he found useful. The man taught at the Clocktower years ago—back when Shirou was attending the Clocktower. It was how the magus knew him, yet Shirou Emiya contained no memories of this ‘Camenzind’ person. This all was troublesome indeed.

As he was about to exit the greenhouse, a small squeak and cry of pain stopped him in his tracks. Shifting lightly, he turned to the catalpa tree. In its shadow, he saw a baby bluebird crying.

The poor creature, too young to fly, sat in its misery, its left wing draped over the cobblestone path, broken; Shirou went over to the chick. There was little recognition in it for him, so he knelt down and scooped it up to get a better view of the damage. The chick cried when he examined its wing. It was lucky the wing was the worst damage it received.

Lucky for the chick, it was in a hospital. Someone here would know what to do. Looking up around the glass windows that showcased the outside, he saw many medical staff going on by their daily lives leisurely.

“Let’s get you some help,” he muttered to the feeble chirps of the chick.

A sudden presence stopped him in his tracks.

The presence was strong, gentle and warm, he didn’t understand what it was—a calming aura that seemed out of place. A tranquility that overpowered the fear and anxiety accompanied by the comings and goings of a hospital, it was sunlight on a breezy day, soft in form that caressed his soul in whisper like touches, his soul was set in a soothing spiral that he could only describe as a hopeful serenity that was out of place.

Looking up to see the cause of the change, he caught his breath at the sight in front of him.

Long blonde hair cascading down in curls fit for royalty like golden waves of an ocean tainted by sunlight, her bangs slightly framing her heart-shaped face that fell over her shoulders. A large black bow, which contrasted greatly against her milk white skin, pulled her cascading locks back. Her quite voluptuous and feminine figure was dressed in a doctor coat over a black skirt and white blouse tied with a black ascot loosely around her neck.

Perhaps the most captivating feature of her was the navy blue orbs that twinkled with stars. It was a mirror to a night sky that had yet to exist, and yet the blue of the eyes reminded him of a promise from ages long passed.

“Oh,” she muttered quietly in sounds of bells chiming. Her pink lips frowned at the sight of the bird that had her complete attention.

Blinking, his silver gaze followed her motions as she folded her hands in her lap and knelt down in front of him. It was only then that he realized time seemed to have stopped, and now it had resumed with his heartbeat in irregular motions.

Shifting his gaze away from her because the beauty of her presence made him slightly bashful, he focused on the crying chick where he used his thumb to rub its head lightly in a sign of comfort.

“It fell out of the tree,” he told her quietly.

To his surprise, she reached her small hands over his and he stiffened at the warmth of her touch. “Here, let me.” Her touch was smooth, radiating a gentle fire that made his skin shiver pleasantly.

This angel was a homunculus. He could tell from the magical energy she radiated. Her long lashes lightly blinked over her vacant stare that focused on the enclosed space between their hands. A soft blue glow encased the area. It was only when the bird’s chirping changed did the woman pull away, smiling fondly down at the creature.

The baby bird sat up and flapped its now healed wing, hopping lightly in his hands.

“There! Bye-bye, baby bird~” the golden haired homunculus stood up and waved at the chick. Her smile was radiant.

So enraptured by her beauty, he failed to notice her leaving until she was at the doors. He didn’t get a word out to say anything to her. To give his name, ask her hers—no more than that he needed to ask her why a homunculus was here. It should be obvious with Camenzind being a magus, yet the entire hospital seemed to be made up of only humans.

Too late, the doors opened, and she began to step out.

Rather than stop her or call out, he was only able to express his gratitude.

“Thank you…” he muttered quietly but doubted she heard him.

#Mad's Writing #Mad's Fanfic #fanfiction #archer emiya #emiya #heroic spirit emiya #LavEmiya #oc x canon #writing #prose #I should consider posting this on an actual effing website for writing huh #archer emiya x oc #fsn fanfic #sometimes I cringe at my descriptions but then I remember TM goes out of their way to compliment every female character #tbhrserf when the POV changes it does go in length to describe Emiya too lol because y'know Lavenza in love #my sister called this the effing twitter meeting because of the baby bluebird #I want to make this a VN prologue as a test but I got no visuals yet lol #original character

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lesbiansaaviik · 1 day

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Can I be beautifully honest with you guys? I hate 91 Whiskey and So Says the Sword

#no hate to the author cause I actually liked a one shot of theirs #but like man these fucking suck #so so boring and pointlessly long #in SSTS nothing happens and it’s boring because it’s all ridiculous purple prose that tells and doesn’t show #you can set it up with Cas being emotionless as an angel and then gains emotions when he falls in love #but he has to actually gain those emotions and you can’t just tell me what a beautiful and masterful love story you’re writing #you have to actually write it #in 91W it’s all troop movements and militaristic bullshit that I don’t care about because I know Dean and Cas will be fine #and they haven’t shown me enough about literally any other character to make me give a fuck if they live or die #great. Inias will get killed off. maybe I would care more if it weren’t so predictable and also if Cas weren’t just an asshole to him #for no reason #which brings me to my second point of jesus fucking christ 91W is so OOC #crazy take I know but Cas is not randomly an asshole! maybe he is at first but then he changes because he’s in love with Dean and he’s never #like. snappy and grouchy this is So OOC and it makes it painful to read because why should I care about someone who’s mean and cruel #all the time #I’m not saying Cas is an angel (pun half intended) all the time but I don’t think he’s cruel #and moreover I think they’ve just got Cas and Dean flipped. Dean would be perfect for the grouchy military commander in the late seasons #kind of way where he’s an ass to everyone due to grief #and Cas would make a great medic; caring about humanity to his detriment #this way around it’s just painful to watch Cas piss off Dean who is somehow more emotionally literate??? in what world #it’s just fucking boring and painful and Cas is not the one with internalised homophobia let’s be real #I would love to see 1940s era repressed queer Dean but no; I’m stuck with asshole Cas freaking out over being a fairy #and taking it out on Dean!#do you seriously think that corresponds to canon Cas’ reasons for repressing his feelings for Dean? answer quickly #anyway. rant over I will continue hate reading it so I can see if it gets good #but at this point the smut isn’t even good enough to justify it so. idk why I’m wasting my time #anne speaks #please someone say they agree with me or otherwise I’ll feel like I’m going insane #the whole fandom loves SSTS especially and I’m here like. well that sucked

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shebsart · 1 year

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Im sick with flu so naturally I picked up my newly bought copy of Howl's Moving Castle which includes DWJ interviews in the back.

And im in love with the way she tells these stories feels like a part of her books.

And my favorite:

The magic in the mundane :)

edit: I'm copying the ID by @princess-of-purple-prose below, thank you!

[ID: Excerpts of printed text which read:

I suppose there's also a biographical element in that Sophie is the eldest of three sisters, and so am I. The idea for Sophie grew out of the time I discovered I had a very severe milk allergy. I almost lost the use of my legs and had to walk with the aid of a stick. I was moderately young, but because of this I suddenly became old.

I had to wait until I knew what Wizard Howl was like. I began to discover Howl about the time when one of my sons took to spending several hours in the bathroom every morning and I got really, really, really annoyed with him.

Where were you when you wrote it? I wrote the book the way I write everything, stretched out on the big sofa in my sitting room, in everyone's way. This often annoys my husband rather a lot.

which made me burst out laughing. I laughed and laughed at the seven league boot, and when I came to the bit where Sophie accidentally makes Howl's suit twenty times too big for him, I laughed so much that I fell off the sofa. My husband was really irritated by this time. He snapped, "You can't be making yourself laugh!" And I gasped, "But I am, I am!" and rolled about on the floor.

Are any of your relatives or friends included in the book? Yes, well the thing that started me off writing the book was a friend of mine who never does her laundry. She has it around the place in huge bags for often as much as a year. When she does tip it all out and try to wash it, she discovers all sorts of clothes that she has forgotten she had.

Which is your favourite part of the book and why? I like the book all over, but I suppose if I had to choose a bit, I'd choose the place where Howl gets a cold. It so happened that when I was writing this bit, my husband caught a bad cold. He is the world's most histrionic cold catcher. He moans, he coughs, he piles on the pathos, he makes strange noises, he blows his nose exactly like a bassoon in a tunnel, he demands bacon sandwiches at all hours, and he is liable to appear (usually wrapped in someone else's dressing gown) at any time, announcing that he is dying of neglect and boredom. So all I had to do was write it down. End ID]

#howl's moving castle #hmc #hmc book #diana wynne jones #i havent seen some of these before and its a delight #not art #wow i didnt expect this to get so many notes lol #all the people in the tags who decided to read the book because of this post <3<3<3

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dduane · 7 months

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Do you have any recommendations on what to do when you can’t write?

I’ve been struggling to write for years, but telling stories is all I want to do. I have ideas and plots and characters all figured out! But actually getting the words onto paper? I just can’t do it. There’s a mental block or something getting in the way.

I want to write, I so badly do. I want to tell my stories! But no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I love the story, the words never work properly. I can day dream scenes up perfectly, but as soon as I’m near paper the words all vanish.

I guess what I’m actually asking is: how did you defeat the blank page?

Well, first of all, I can confidently tell you that your storytelling per se is working just fine. You just told me a perfectly cogent story right there, in writing. So that's good to know.

Now let me put your mind a little at rest by telling you something reassuring about the Writer's Brain:

It's not the sharpest knife in the block, if you take my meaning. It can be tricked. It can be fooled. It can be bamboozled into working when it doesn't want to... sometimes with embarrassing ease. (And this approach is, by and large, far preferable to sitting around over-analyzing one's interior life to figure out what went wrong with your developmental process somewhere in the dim lost past. Just hornswoggle the silly thing into working and then do the analysis later, if you can be bothered.)

Sometimes just changing something basic in the process the Writer's Brain is expecting is enough to make it lose the plot (so to speak...) and let you get on with work. And in your case I'd say, more or less immediately: Have you tried telling the story to yourself out loud, recording it, and then transcribing the recording?

Because this problem is a commonplace among storytellers. Sit them down in the pub and give them tea or a drink and start them going, and you'll get half an effortless hour of hilarious prose about What The Cat Did In The Middle Of The Night or When The Neighbors Were Fighting In The Street Again Yesterday. But show them blank paper, or an empty screen, and (now that the pressure to perform is suddenly in place) they freeze.

So try doing an end run around your writing brain. Borrow or otherwise procure a little recorder of some kind. (Or if you've got a smartphone, add a voice recording app to it.) Go get comfortable somewhere and get yourself into that daydream state, and then—making sure the recorder's on—start talking.

It doesn't have to be perfect unblemished prose. The pursuit of that comes later, after draft zero-minus-one. Just tell the story... or some of it. Or a fragment of it. Even a few paragraphs is a triumph, in a situation like this. You may, during the recording, have to talk yourself into the story stage by starting out talking about something else first. Let that happen.

Then when you're done recording, listen to it and transcribe it (typed or handwritten, as you please).

And maybe a day later, do this again. And a day or two later, once more. And so forth.

You're going to have to keep at this, because your Writer's Brain may start suspecting what you're up to, and try throwing spanners into the works. (Its favorite being "Oh, this isn't working, I may as well give up..." Pay no attention to that nagging little voice behind the curtain. Just keep doing what you're doing. Persistence is a superpower.)

The thing to keep reminding yourself, as you settle into this process, is that sooner or later the WB's resistance is going to flag, because you really do want to tell stories. It does too. What you have to teach it is that—to coin a phrase—resistance is useless. :)

Anyway: give this a try. You'll need to be doing this daily for at least a couple of months to find out whether it works or not. So let me know how it goes.

(BTW: once you've broken through the barrier, you may well find that dictation is a good routine way for you to generate your first draft. At that point—should you feel inclined to go a little higher-tech than recording and hand transcription—let me recommend Dragon Anywhere. This is a month-to-month subscription version of Dragon's flagship text to speech program—the one @petermorwood and I got Terry Pratchett to use when he started having difficulty typing. I use Anywhere a lot, on days when it's easier to write stretched out or lying down than it is sitting up. It transcribes what you say, and then you can just email it to yourself and cut-and-paste it into your writing document. Very handy.)

Hope this helps!

#writing #writing advice #the Writer's Brain #storytelling

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olliecoded · 1 year

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GAH i love prose poetry

#i have GOT to go back to writing in verse because the muscle is getting out of practice #but i just. love love love love writing prose poetry #and i love the way it reads #hello world

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oliviajdjarin · 5 months

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Joel Miller: Stay Down

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (she/her; afab)

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: Joel thought he had grown accustomed to fear until he finds you covered in blood.

Excerpt: He swallowed, attempting to choose his words carefully. He had never been good with them, attributing his deficiency to a long line of likewise men before him. His brain poured for sonnets, poetry, prose that he had read in his insignificant time on this planet. Something to impress you, distract you, to take away that crestfallen look in your eye.

He couldn’t do it. He never would be. So, he used his mouth for something else.

Warnings: stitching of a wound, kissing, blood, blood loss, so much yearning, unestablished relationship, probably incorrect gun talk, Joel is scared of feelings.

A/N: This is me coping with the fact that we do not get more last of us in January. Also partially inspired by my favorite song maybe ever.

Pedro Masterlist

All my writing

Joel had found his hands becoming more and more susceptible to the cold as he got older.

They would crack and bleed, flaking dried skin within his decades-old gloves before November had even begun. This not only hurt like hell, but forced him to slow down and think about what he was doing to his body for once in his life. He had a harder time gripping the reins on a horse or fingering the trigger on a shotgun. Noticeably so. And living in a small town with a little brother foaming at the mouth to make old man jokes didn't help matters.

This is what led him to you.

He wouldn't call you a hoarder. Honestly, he would be the first to admit that you were one of the smartest people in Jackson. You had somehow become one of the most materialistically rich people in the town. You consistently managed to find the most randomly useful items on your patrols, things that people before the outbreak would never have even thought to miss.

Things like shoe insoles, ball point pens, Chapstick.

And luckily for him, lotion.

You never charged anyone for taking from what you had. Furthermore, you actively asked people if they needed anything. Even offering to scout around the area in search of specifics. Joel hadn't been around that kind of softness since...

Well, a long time.

This made him uncharacteristically nervous when he first approached your doorstep, but he knocked anyway. He had never in a million years expected to leave that house satisfied in more ways than one.

He blamed it on that stupid crinkle the skin underneath your eyes got whenever you smiled at him. He couldn't help but fall into your light.

This started a... friendship. Of sorts. He would come over when he needed you, and you would happily oblige. As time went on, the visits to yours became more and more frequent, frequent enough that the rest of the town seemed to be catching on. At least, that's what his brother had been hinting at through jabs and side comments.

"You smiled at me the other day, Joel," Tommy had said. "Actually smiled."

Joel responded with a gesture he was hoping Ellie would not pick up anytime soon.

Joel was...happy. Happy with the arrangement. He had a warm body – a fucking gorgeous warm body – to get his energy out with, and the woman inside the body seemingly had no issue with his lack of strings attached.

And yet, for some reason, this annoyed him.

There was some undetectable, bruised part of him that wanted you to…what exactly? Fight him on it? Confess your undying love for him? Pull him back into bed to cuddle?

There had to be either pheromones or crack cocaine in that honeyed floral perfume you always wore. You were beginning to drive him this insane. Unfortunately for him, the place he went when he was beginning to toe that line into insanity was always you.

Joel had checked the schedule posted in the main square, assigning every able-bodied person shifts of patrol. You had a shift earlier in the day, which usually kept you busy until noon. You would then shower, eat, and spend the rest of the afternoon doing whatever the hell you wanted.

Overtime, these mental gymnastics became muscle memory to Joel.

He huffed as he lugged his aching legs up your steps, their typical milk white now coated in an ugly muddy brown. Winter had begun, apparent by the puffs of Joel’s own breaths, and the snow in Jackson was trying desperately to keep up.

Joel balled his hands into fists as he planted both feet onto your porch, blowing into them quickly, before knocking three times. Spaced out enough, but not too much. He envisioned you smiling as you heard his signature knock, but cringed at himself internally, burying the thought instantly.

It fluttered back to the surface when he heard the pads of your footsteps somewhere in the house begin but extinguished itself when they dissipated.

He waited a few more seconds, the rational part of his brain saying that you must be in the middle of something, but the man part of his brain imagining you putting on your silky red robe he loved so much, only for him to take it off you so slowly it made his own fingers shake. He breathed in deep, the laundry detergent from his nylon coat mixed with the beginnings of December filling his nose, and cracked his neck while rocking back and forth on his heels.

His eyebrows came together when he heard another rustle, then nothing.

He knocked again.

Still, nothing,

He knew you were in there – he could hear you, clear as day, and he knew you could hear him – but for some reason, you weren’t coming to the door.

His much too weathered mind began to race, thinking of three possible explanations. One, you heard him knocking, and were ignoring him. Two, you somehow were not hearing him knock on the door. Or three, you for some reason were not able to get to the door.

Meaning, there was a possibility you weren’t alone in there, and not by choice.

“Y/N?” he asked loudly. “Y/N, are you in there?”

Nothing. A bit more rustling, maybe a slight groan, but nothing.

Joel’s fingers began to tingle, and it wasn’t from the cold. He knocked again, harder.

“Y/N, I know you’re in there,” he said loudly, “just…just tell me you’re okay.”

Silence.

He gripped the doorknob and jiggled it, hard enough for the wood to groan underneath his fingertips, but it was locked from the inside. He huffed, knocking again, his hot breaths now clouding his face. He felt an ache in his wrist.

He said your name one more time, hearing the beginnings of a voice he knew better than he should have muffled by the wood, and the door was flat in front of him before he could think twice.

He stomped his way inside, coating the ground with mud and snow, and his eyes darted around the familiar living room. His vision was tunneled, scrounging for the shape of you on the floor, draped over the couch, held at gunpoint. His heart pulsed in his ears.

You weren’t in the living room.

He stomped into the kitchen, the bathroom, the basement, nothing. All that was left was the bedroom.

There was no way in hell you were still asleep.

He practically sprinted to the room, preparing himself. He had seen what men did to women, the remnants of it anyway, and despite his state of denial, he could never in a million years handle the sight of you that way. In your own bed. In your own house. Likely one of your own friends.

He pulled open the door anyway, and was met with gold.

The room was dim except for the lamps you loved so dearly, spreading their warm, glowing, honeyed light across the room in streaks. He blinked his eyes to adjust, focusing in on your body on the bed. You were facing him, skin painted with similar golden streaks, highlighting the tears culminating under your eyes. You were sat crisscrossed, upper body totally bare, back slouched tightly, your body practically folded in on itself. Your right hand was pressed against your left shoulder blade, while your other was filled with wine-colored rags.

Blood-soaked rags.

His eyes met yours quickly, and despite their dampness, they still had that fucking crinkle.

You chuckled, your shoulders dropping up and down quickly as they always do.

“You know,” you said, voice curdled and tired, “if someone doesn’t answer the door, that’s usually them saying ‘leave me the hell alone.”

You chuckled again, this time finishing it off with a wince.

His hand slid slowly from the doorknob as he took a hesitant step towards you, his body tearing itself in half. One side begging to fold your body into him, bubbling you in a cocoon. The other, itching to tear whatever did this to you apart ligament by ligament.

Your eyes slowly drooped from humor to something like shame, like a kicked dog or a broken child, and he stepped forward again.

“Don’t,” you countered weakly. “Just…just don’t.”

You scooted away from him slightly, refusing to look at him, and applied more pressure to whatever was expelling that much blood from your shoulder. Pain was suddenly present in your face.

“You want me to leave?” he quickly countered.

You said nothing.

He walked to you, removing the hand you had pressed against your wound, and sucked in a quick breath.

“Probably the first time you’ve seen a revolver bullet in about twenty years, huh Joel?” you asked, chuckling once more.

He barely heard you.

You had gotten the bullet out, but it had sunken in deep. The skin around it was red and welting, so swollen that Joel had to guess you had already been working on it for at least an hour. He winced, imagining what kind of pain you were in, and the fact that you were dealing with it all yourself.

He swallowed grimly.

“Hand me that rag,” he said. He could tell how little strength you had left to fight him by how quickly the rag flopped into his hand.

He pressed it to the wound, and you hissed.

“Fuck Joel,” you whined, squeezing the covers of your bed so tightly your knuckles went white. He held his pressure, forcing himself to think straight.

He might as well have been feeling the pain in his own shoulder.

He finally eased his pressure, wiping away as much blood from the area as he could.

“You cleaned it pretty well,” he said softly, voice thick in his throat, so thick it was hard to speak. “But…it’s gonna need a stich or two.”

“Or seven,” you said, grabbing the first aid kit sat in the middle of the bed. You opened the bag with shaking hands, taking out the needle and thread. You attempted to begin threading the needle, but with your hands quaking so fiercely you only produced frustrated grunts and sighs. He moved to the front of the bed, the front of his body facing yours, and took the needle and thread from your hands, setting them to the side. He then held your hands in his, squeezing them slightly, before using one to tilt your chin up at him.

He sighed at the storm in your eyes.

“What happened?”

“Did you kick my fucking door down?”

“What happened?”

“I was stupid, that’s what happened.”

He sighed again. “You’ve never once been stupid.”

“Today I was.”

“How?”

“It’s how I always am.” Your voice cracked. “Thought I could pick some apples for Mrs. Lawrence down the street. She always talks about how much she loved that as a kid – a freshly picked apple. Went out too far. Felt a sudden burning in my shoulder and ended up having to take out six hunters all by myself. Six.”

A single tear dripped from your left eye, the gold from the lamps turning it to sunlight.

“I could’ve died. All for a fucking apple.”

You turned away from him again, and it took everything in him not to cup your face in his hands and turn you back to him. He had never seen you like this before. So… raw. Beaten. Trampled. Doused in self-hatred. He hated it.

And yet, he didn’t want to look away. He was slowly realizing that this was the part of you he had been desperate to see. Truth. Undercarriage. Weakness.

Human.

He swallowed, attempting to choose his words carefully. He had never been good with them, attributing his deficiency to a long line of likewise men before him. His brain poured for sonnets, poetry, prose that he had read in his insignificant time on this planet. Something to impress you, distract you, to take away that crestfallen look in your eye.

He couldn’t do it. He never would be. So, he used his mouth for something else.

Slowly, gentler than he ever had in his life, he brought his mouth to your cheekbone. You exhaled a prolonged breath, the heat of it cascading down the left side of his neck. It only prompted him to kiss you more, and more, and more. His lips traveling up into your hairline, across your forehead, down your nose, and finally onto your lips. His kiss there was tongueless, rather a soft press, and yet it meant more to him than any other one you had ever shared.

He could tell by your breathing that you agreed.

He pressed his forehead against yours, swallowing thickly. “I’m glad you didn’t. I don’t know…I don’t know what I would do if you did.”

Your stormy eyes turned into a sunrise, and Joel straightened his aching back to slowly remove his coat and boots. He placed them on the floor beside your bed, keeping his eyes on you the entire time. You watched him just the same, mouth propped open slightly.

He smirked as he set his things down. He then picked up the needle and thread while using his free hand to frame your face.

“I’ll be gentle,” he said, his thumb stroking your chin. “I promise.”

You nodded. “I know you will.”

His lips wanted to meet yours so badly it hurt, but he needed to stitch you. Quickly. For a wound as deep as the one you had, it should have been closed up hours ago.

He wouldn’t think about that now. He couldn’t.

He walked to the edge of the bed and turned you around, leaning you into him slightly to give your pretzeled back some support, and began.

You were surprisingly unreactive when he first inserted the needle, taking it as delicately as he possibly could. It wasn’t until he began to tug the skin together that your body showed signs of pain.

“You’re going too slow,” you mumbled softly after he finished the second stitch. “Please go faster.”

His hands began to shake at your request. He didn’t blame you. Speed would make it hurt worse, but be over with quicker. He squeezed the top of your shoulder in response, threading the needle quickly and stitching over the center of the wound.

You let out a high-pitched whine, gripping onto the comforter at your side, and he couldn’t help but kiss the back of your neck.

He let your breathing steady, then stitched again, this time kissing your shoulder blade.

Another stitch, a kiss across your shoulders.

Another stitch, a kiss down your spine.

Another stitch, a kiss on your lower back.

After every stitch, he planted one. Something in him couldn’t help it.

He made his final stitch and cut the thread quickly, sealing it with a kiss on the side of your face. He tasted a mix of salty tears and heat from your skin. He watched your throat bobble as he moved away, finishing off the wound with a final cleaning. Alcohol and blood filled the air, along with undertones of sweat.

He had a feeling that last aroma came mostly from him.

He threw the needle and thread away into the small garbage can you kept near your bed before turning back to face you. You rested on the balls of your palms, leaning back to look at him as he walked back towards you. There was pain visible behind your eyes, he could see it, but they were coated in something else. Something somehow rawer than before.

“You should rest now,” he said, scruff evident in his voice from lack of use. He cleared it quickly. “You took a hell of a hit.”

You didn’t move. Joel moved to the first aid kit still sitting in the middle of the bed and used the (what had to be decades old) wet wipes on his hands. He tossed those as well, but you still hadn’t moved.

“There somethin’ on my face?”

You cracked a small smile. “Thank you, Joel,” you said quietly.

He hummed. “Don’t mention it.” He then leaned forward and scooped your body into his arms. You involuntarily rested against him, eyes fluttering already, but he set you down beneath your sheets and swiftly pulled them over you.

He laughed at your fight against your own exhaustion, pushing stray hairs away from your forehead. He pulled away from you, beginning to walk out of the room. A fierce grip pulled him backwards.

“Stay,” you mumbled weakly. “Please stay.”

He inhaled deeply. The sweet cocktail of your voice mixed with those words fucking inebriating him, so much so he was surprised he was still standing up straight. He felt physically winded.

He squeezed your hand. “I’ll be right back. Stay down.”

You smiled, loosening your grip, letting your hand fall back into the bed.

Joel walked quietly out of the room but would be the last to admit how he practically sprinted to your kitchen and scoured your cabinets like a man being chased. He found your pain meds, pouring two into his hand, and filling up a small glass of water. He gave a slow, silent jog back to your room.

He felt equally as winded when he caught the view of the setting sun between your windows, glazing over you like a statue in Rome he had once seen on a traveling magazine. The streaks of leftover tears were highlighted in the light, as well as a small crease in your brow.

That is what told him you were not quite yet out cold.

He brought the meds and water to you, tucking your hair behind your ear to alert you of his presence. You opened your eyes and practically inhaled the medicine before laying back down on your side.

Joel removed his shirt in a blink and tucked himself in behind you, ensuring your stitches were not firmly pressed against him, but pressed just enough to ease soreness. You curved into him perfectly, as he did to you. He wrapped his arm around your frame, taking your hands in his and massaging them gently.

You hummed. “Promise you’ll stay?”

He knew your voice like that better than any man in the world.

He pressed a final kiss to your shoulder. “I’m stayin.’”

Tag List: (if you would like to be added please let me know!)

@untitledarea @avengersfan25 @lexloon @daphne-turner @leeeesahhh

#din djarin x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x #joel tlou #joel #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel x reader #joel the last of us #joel and ellie #joel miller x f!reader

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