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skepwith · 2 months

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More Parts of the Revenge for OFMD Fans

Part of a series: Revenge Master Post.

This post is about stuff in the body of the ship, going more or less from top to bottom. I’m saving the sails and rigging for my next post. If you want to know more basic terms like fore and aft and bow and stern, look for “Parts of the Revenge” in my master post.

Obviously, using these terms is entirely optional, since David Jenkins et al. are free and easy with the ol' historical accuracy. This list is for pedants like me and people who like historical and specialized language. Enjoy!

Main Deck

The low “walls” on the sides of the open decks were called the bulwarks—they were to keep people from falling overboard. On the Revenge, the bulwarks are topped by a rail (railing).

A gap in the bulwark, together with a set of rungs on the hull, was called an entry port. It allowed people to climb aboard from a dinghy.

The top edge of the bulwark was the gunwale, pronounced gunnel. The expression “loaded to the gunwales” is still used to mean very full. The top edges of a dinghy are also called gunwales.

An opening in the deck is called a hatchway. I wrote about hatches a while ago, but what I didn’t realize was that the hatch is the part that covers the hatchway. The wooden grid that lets light and air through is called the grating.

In the bow, the curving rail that goes from the figurehead to the hull is called the head rail, which would’ve been really helpful to know for my toilet post. Oh well.

Stede’s journal could at a stretch be called a logbook (or log). This was a book in which an officer noted details of the ship’s daily progress and journey. Probably a bit less fanciful than Stede’s version.

Weaponry

The Revenge has guns (the word used for cannons) on her main deck and her gun deck. Before a gun was fired, the barrel was cleared with the sponge, then loaded with gunpowder and shot and wads of cloth, all of which was tamped down with the rammer. There were different types of shot, or ammunition; cannonballs were called round shot.

To fire a gun, a lit fuse (usually a slow match) was brought in contact with the vent at the top of the gun—called the touchhole—to ignite the gunpowder. (The wick added in OFMD isn’t accurate. Shocking, I know.) The slow match was usually held with a staff called a linstock, tucked into a notch on the end. You didn’t want to be right next to the cannon when it went off, because there was a non-zero chance it would misfire and explode in your face.

Despite what you see in movies, cannons didn’t produce a lot of fire and smoke; the cannonball did damage by going unstoppably through hulls, masts, and people—often many at a time—like a deadly Energizer bunny.

The gunpowder was kept in kegs in a small room called the powder magazine. (A magazine is an ammunition storage area.) This room was in the hull of the ship, below the water line, to minimize the chances of a stray spark sending the whole ship up in flames. The shot was kept in the shot-locker, a small room in the hold (though this word wasn’t recorded till 1805). As we know, Stede calls this the ball room.

Besides the regular cannons, the Revenge also has swivel guns, small cannons mounted on swivels. These were too small to damage another ship; they were there to fire at boarders and approaching boats. Or, you know, to set off fireworks.

To take an enemy ship, sailors might use a grapnel (or grappling hook). These were attached to a rope and thrown at enemy bulwarks or rigging so the ships could be pulled together for boarding.

The Gun Deck

Everything on a ship had to have a special name: stairs were always called ladders; the floor was called the deck; and a wall or partition inside the hull was called a bulkhead.

Some of you may know that a ship’s kitchen is called a galley. However, this usage wasn’t recorded until 1750; the earlier word was cook-room.

Likewise, the mess is where you eat on a ship, but this sense wasn’t recorded until the late 1800s. In OFMD’s time, mess meant “a group of people who eat together,” like officers of the same rank or sailors on the same watch.

You might know a berth as a shelf or box to sleep on, like Stede’s (and Ed’s) bed, but this usage wasn’t recorded until the 1790s. The earlier meaning, used from at least 1706, is “a room where a particular group (such as officers or midshipmen) eats and sleeps.” So you might call Jim’s room a berth—except that it changes hands, and its name has been firmly established as the Room.

A berth is also a place in a port or harbour where you can moor (park) a vessel, and thirdly, the safety margin around another vessel or object, which gives us the phrase “to give [it] a wide berth.”

Finally, the area where the animals (remember them?) were kept was a small triangular area in the bow called the manger. This seems to be where the Revenge’s en suite is, at least as far as I can figure, but if you want to include the animals for whatever reason, they’d probably live somewhere around there.

Storage

Some of the stuff on board was stored in casks, a.k.a. barrels. These could be any size, but a large cask was also called a butt. A scuttlebutt was a butt full of water attached to the deck for sailors to drink from. Unfortunately, the word wasn’t recorded before 1800, and the “gossip” meaning not till a century after that. But it’s a great word and you should use it anyway.

A keg was a small cask, usually less than ten gallons, used for things like gunpowder or rum.

A sea chest was a wooden box used to store an officer’s personal effects—or to confine a nosy hombrecito.

The Ship’s Bottom

(As it were.)

In several of my posts and diagrams I said the lower decks of the Revenge were the gun deck, the orlop, and the hold. But my friends, I made a grievous error: the Revenge has no orlop. I know!

In season 2, for the first time we get to see what’s below the gun deck. When Frenchie opens the secret passage in the kitchen, he reveals a set of stairs—sorry, a ladder—down to a grim, damp space. The kitchen is on the gun deck, so this is the deck immediately below it, and while on most ships that would’ve been the orlop, in this case it’s the hold.

The hold was the lowest compartment of the ship, used for storage and cargo. It also sometimes held the ballast—heavy stuff (e.g., pig iron, gravel, stones, lead) put there to improve the ship’s balance. The lowest part of the hold itself was called the bilge or bilges—the area where bilgewater collected and had to be pumped out.

Episode 3 shows the water on the floor—sorry, deck—making it pretty clear we’re in the bilges of the hold. On top of that, an Instagram post by crewmember Will Giles (shared on Tumblr by @ourflagmeansbts) mentioned repurposing the “bilge set.”

Which all proves that the Revenge’s hold is immediately below the gun deck, with no orlop in between.

The keel is the structural piece that runs lengthwise along the middle of the hull’s bottom. Keel-hauling was to drag someone along the outside of the keel, underwater, as a punishment—very nasty, often fatal.

Also underwater, at the stern, is the rudder, whose movement makes the ship turn. On a dinghy you steer by moving the tiller, a horizontal bar attached to the rudder post. On a ship like the Revenge, you turn the ship’s wheel, which is attached to the tiller via cables, and that moves the rudder.

That’s all for now! Coming next: sails and rigging, in port, and more sailing lingo.

Sources: Wikipedia, historicnavalfiction [dot] com, Oxford English Dictionary

#ofmd #ofmd meta #mapping the Revenge #nautical history #adopt our crew

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thief-of-eggs · 2 months

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The point of Wylan Van Eck is that he does not belong with crows, but you need to squint to see it.

It’s in his mannerisms- how he folds his clothes still even though he has no dresser or closet to put them in. How he carries a clean handkerchief because what kind of person doesn’t have a clean handkerchief on them??

It’s how he uses cutlery even when no one else is. How he keeps his fingernails clean despite working with gunpowder and other explosives all day long.

It’s in his manner of speech- how he slips up and uses too intellectual of words for an average Barrel street rat. How he tries to use slang and ends up sounding just a bit off.

It’s in the slight clipping of his vowels, in his patient tone. He’s never had to lie his way out of death, never had to manipulate his way into a meal. He does not know how to smooth talk. How to caress his way into someone else’s secrets with his voice alone.

It’s seen in his subtle judgment of those around him. Jesper tries to clap him on the back and Wylan flinches away- not from the touch, but from the gunpowder that lingers on his hands and would stain Wylan’s already dirty shirt.

It’s subtle, the ways that he does not fit in. You wouldn’t be able to know it just by looking at him, even if he doesn’t fit the typical Barrel description. But spend enough time with Wylan Van Eck, and his upscale roots begin to show beneath the cracks in his carefully molded facade

#this is mostly a complain for TV show Wylan not seeming like an ex rich boy #sorry i love this boy so much i needed to analyze him #soc #six of crows #wylan van eck #shadow and bone

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hellsburners · 9 months

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pain and suffering

summary: to which criminals run from the shadows, and the shadows run home to you. pairing: frank castle x male reader x matt murdock word count: 4k warnings: 18+ warning, unprotected s3x, dom!mattfrank, bottom!reader, double pen3tration, blowj0bs, mentions of violence a/n: i got this request like a whole month ago and im sorry to anon it took me a while to think of this

masterlist | more matt murdock

gif credit for frank & matt

The night air looms over Hell’s Kitchen. A normal person might hear the honking of cars and the loud chitchat of people in the street, but to a man like Daredevil, he hears everything. He hears Sally from down the street, crying as her husband comes home drunk, or Dominic, stealing another purse to pay for his brother’s medical bills. The city is not just a cluster of sounds for a man like the Devil, it’s a war cry. His city needs help, so he braces for the jump, a leap into the battlefield.

To him, pain and suffering is a saint. The pain of every hit, every jab, and every punch. To Matt Murdock, the pain of getting hit is like lashing for every sin he’s made. He is the fist of God, the guardian angel of the Kitchen, his suffering is the price for the safety of his people. So to him, yes, pain and suffering is the saint that guides him, the adrenaline to jump, to fight, to stand back up and fight again because he knows if he doesn’t, worse men will.

He sits wounded on top of a building, the hanging laundry hiding him from plain sight. He pants, blood gushing from his lower rib. But then he smells it: gunpowder. The sound of clanking metal and rubber boots walking closer to him. He knows that smell, the smell of danger, the smell of bad news, the smell of The Punisher.

“They hit ya’ pretty bad tonight Red,” his rough voice roared across the building. He smells of blood, not his blood, but the blood of at least thirty other men.

“I don’t need your help, Frank,” Matt said, wincing as he tried to stand.

“I doubt that,” he was closer to Matt, he took the rear end of his rifle and pressed it to Matt’s wound, he cried out in pain. “See?”

“I don’t need any help from you.”

“That’s your problem, Red. You’re so self-righteous. You’re out here bleeding yourself to death thinking God sent you here on earth to be his punchin’ bag,'' he puts the rifle down, the metal butt hitting the floor. “You think your God can miraculously heal your wounds? The Devil ain’t no saint.”

“And you’re any better?” Matt spat. “You wear that skull on your chest and you think that gives you the license to be a killer?” he licks his dried-up lips, the wounds weighing on him. “You’re a beast, Frank. A wild creature with no self-control, bloodthirsty, and—and inhumane.”

Frank was right, but Matt’s pride would never take any help from Frank Castle, he’s a murderer, a cold-blooded killer, and men like him have no place roaming the streets of New York. Matt tries to walk away from Frank, he could feel the blood drip into his waist, his head dizzy. Before he could even reach a meter away from Frank he feels the pull of the earth and drops into the cement floor, out cold.

“Dumbass,” Frank spat.

—

To Frank Castle, pain and suffering is a weapon.

Pain is the bullet to the head of a wife beater, a pedophile, a human trafficker, and any other demented fuck that helps in spreading crime in his city. He sniffs in the scent, it’s nauseating, the smell of garbage and piss, the smell of dead bodies piled in a heap for the cops to find. The blood pooled on his boots, painting them red. He reloads the gun, pulling on the lever that locks the bullet in the barrel, ready for the trigger.

“Please, man. I have a wife and two kids,” the bald man begged. His shirt was soaked in blood, a bullet grazed his hip. He walks backward achingly, his back hitting the wall. “Fuck, man I swear I don't know anything ‘bout this! ”the man kneels in front of Frank, his hands together like he’s praying.

Pain is the bullet that ends all suffering.

Bang!

The man falls on the concrete, blood dripping out of his skull. Frank wipes the blood splatter on his face with his sleeve. He takes the pistol and slides it into the holster on his thigh. He grabs the man’s sleeve and pulls him into the heap. No loose ends.

Frank takes his rifle and leaves. Taking the rooftops so the cops won’t see him. His body is sore, but it was never a hindrance. He sees a red blur across the building. The Devil himself, running from a bunch of men. Frank notices the Devil walking strangely, a hand on his left to cover a bleeding wound.

He takes the sniper rifle and aims it at the four men searching for the masked vigilante. He reloads the rifle, and one by one the men drop dead. The Devil was clueless as to where the bullets came from. He walks over to the wounded man, lumped over the side of a rooftop wincing in pain.

Frank had always admired the Devil’s determination, always standing back up after a fight, the line he wouldn’t cross, it amused Frank in a way. He liked to toy with it, always putting the red vigilante in positions where his moral code is tested.

You know you’re one bad day away from becoming like me.

Frank once told him, and he guessed it wasn’t true. Despite how hard the world hit him, he never crossed that line. That’s why when the Devil ended up face down on the concrete floor he took his body into his shoulder. Carrying his body to the only place he knew would understand the situation. To the person that knew the creed of pain and suffering.

He stands in front of the wooden door, the door was locked. Not his first instinct to knock, because he knew he would always be let in. He knocked on the door, no answer. He knocked louder, banging on the door, the sounds echoing throughout the hallway.

“Jesus Christ, people will hear you,” you said, answering the door.

—

To you, pain and suffering is a curse. The curse that binds people to hospital beds for years, slowly rotting into the sheets as more and more medicine gets pumped into their veins. The curse that brings people into the emergency room, stabbed my knives, with broken knees, amputated fingers, and gunshot wounds through bone and muscle.

You earn money from pain and suffering. Doctor’s fees from people you know can’t even afford it. You always wanted to give them pro-bono, but you weren't loaded like that. That’s why when injured vigilantes were involved, everyone in the New York underground knew your number.

You had known people like Maya Lopez, Misty Knight, Ben Reilly, Ty Johnson, and Tandy Bowen alongside other masked heroes. That’s why when The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen arrived at your door four months ago you didn’t second guess your decision to help him. To you, helping these people would absolve you of being complicit in the suffering of innocent people in the hospital.

“Got your number from Spider-man, hope you don’t mind,” he said, sprawled on your kitchen table covered in blood. His muscular body contracted from the pain as you sewed his wounds shut. You never truly cared about forming connections with your clients, it was more of a get-patched-up-and-leave type of way.

He would often flirt with you whenever he came by, his dimples forming under his mask whenever he smiled or laughed. “Don’t worry Doc’ I’m a big boy,” he said, smiling at you. The smile quickly faded when you dug into his skin to retrieve the bullets on his bicep, a groan leaving his lips. You tried not to think about it, but he's pretty cute.

On one night, a man banged on your door, you rushed to meet a shadow drenched in blood as if it was raining blood from the sky, a white skull on his chest. His hoarse voice groaned as you took him into your kitchen. Multiple bullet wounds, and gashes on his chest, in your personal opinion a person with that many injuries would've ended up on the morgue.

“Did you fall into a meat grinder? What the hell,” you said. You tried your best to patch him up but he needed some blood transfusions.

“Check the bag,” he groaned. Inside were bags of blood from the hospital, all type O, what the fuck.

He stayed in your house for two nights, you checked his vitals every hour to make sure he was still alive. This hasn’t happened before, you’ve never had a client that was on the brink of death. It was always some minor injury, but this man managed to wake up and stand after two days to leave.

You found a bundle of one hundred dollar bills in your mailbox the next day.

—

“Bring him to the couch,” you said. You took Matt’s body as Frank carried his legs, you took his limp body into the sofa, a deep wound on the torso, an easy fix for you at this point. It has been months since you first met the two men in your apartment. You’ve spent multiple nights helping them, in your apartment, or Matt’s, or Frank’s bunker. You were technically associated with them to the point that you know their real names.

“The emergency kit is on the kitchen counter.”

“Got it Doc,” Frank saluted, removing his trench coat and his bulletproof vest, his muscular form bulging through his black shirt. They reeked of blood, you could taste the iron on your tongue.

Matt’s eyes fluttered, his head turning to the sound of your voice. “Hey,” he said, groaning through the pain. You cut his undershirt open, the wound gushing out blood. You took some gauze to soak the viscous liquid, making sure the clotting starts.

“Sit your ass down, Red,” Frank ordered. You managed to sew the wound shut, you gave Matt some pain relievers as his eyes fell back into sleep. You let him rest for a bit, covering him in a fleece blanket. You walked towards Frank, a few cuts on his arms, he was already in the middle of sewing some of them before you helped. “Don’t worry about me, it’s nothin’”

“Make sure you don’t die in my kitchen this time,” you said, walking to the kitchen sink to rinse your bloodied hands. You opened your refrigerator to grab a drink. “Want a beer?”

“Sure,” Frank nods.

You took a cold beer from your fridge, the metal caps clanking on the floor. You handed him the bottle, he took a big swig like he was thirsty for water, some liquid falling from the corner of his lips. He sat on a wooden chair, legs spread, the hem of his shirt raising a bit to show a peak of his abdomen.

Matt soon woke up. Much to your disagreement, taking a beer of his own. He took a seat in your dining area, topless with bandages around his torso. The three of you are looking at each other around the table. “So–what happened tonight?” you asked.

Matt’s frown was deadset. Frank taking gulps of his second bottle of beer. You were taking sips of your bottle, looking at the heated tension between the two. It was annoyingly anxiety-inducing. “You know, I don’t know what’s the point of talking to you two—I’m a physician, not a therapist.”

“You need to stay away from him,” Matt said, his lips a straight line. “He’s a dangerous person with nothing good going on for his pathetic life.”

“Boohoo! Little catholic boy here feels entitled about being god’s little bitch,” Frank spat. “Is that what you think bitch boy?”

“See? He’s an immature old fuck that thinks the world’s answer to violence is guns and bullets,” Matt said, downing his beer.

“He’s just using his lawyer bullshit on you,” Frank said.

You rolled your eyes, it’s always like this, them bickering. You downed the beer, the bitter taste running through your tongue. You set it down with a loud clunk. The two men halted their bickering.

“I’m not taking sides but I think both of you are annoying cry babies that should just kiss and make out!” the two men frowned their brows. “You bicker like an old couple—the two of you need to suck it up because, at the end of the day, the two of you leave a trail of blood in this city that I clean!” you shouted.“You know how many people end up in the emergency room thanks to you two, I don’t even keep count of them anymore.”

Matt called for your name, to apologize or something, but you took another bottle of beer and gulped on the bubbly drink. Instead of talking you took his lips to yours, the bitter taste of his mouth shared with yours. His hands come to your neck, fingers wrapping around the flesh as his tongue meets yours. You smell his clean shampoo mixing with the alcohol, he smelled like a man who took hygiene seriously.

You pull back to walk towards Frank, bending down to kiss him, pressing on his shoulder with your hands to guide you. The bitter taste of both of your mouths intoxicates you. He grabs the hem of your shirt, pulling you in more. He smelled of cheap soap and gunpowder. You pulled away to catch them frozen, feet glued to the floor, aghast.

“See,” you rubbed your hands. “Not hard at all.”

Frank was biting his lip chuckling, his fingers massaging his lip. He pulled you to his lap, kissing you harder, his hands falling to your ass. Your hands run through his dark hair, his stubble pricking your face. You moaned from the contact, Matt’s enhanced senses making the sound echo in his head. He hesitated but his groin turned to the noises you made. Frank’s lips fall to your neck, nibbling on the skin eliciting more lewd noises from you.

“See this red?” he said. “This little slut likes it.”

“Play with his ear, he likes it,” Matt ordered. Frank hadn’t known that.

“He also likes it when I do this,” he pinches your nipples, and you shudder from the slight pain. The two men didn’t know that you had experiences of having sex with them on different occasions. “So you’re a little whore huh, you do this to all of your clients?”

“No—,” you gasped. “Just you two.”

Matt chuckled. Frank had set you on his lap so that you were facing Matt, his hands playing with both of your nipples as he left purple hickeys all over your neck. Matt had knelt in front of you palming your growing erection. The ache in your groin grows from the lack of release. Tonight these men offer you more pain and suffering but in ways that elicit nothing but pleasure.

He takes your trousers off leaving you with nothing but your shirt, finally something to ease the pain. Matt stood to open his pants, his thick cock standing tall, the hairs neatly trimmed. “Take his dick inside your mouth,” Frank whispered, while he stretched your legs open so his fingers could tease your hole. He took his fingers to your mouth making it wet.

Matt’s hands ran through your hair, his tip teasing your swollen lips. As you took his length into your mouth, Frank's finger entered your hole curling inside drawing out muffled sounds from your mouth. You were quickly bent over by Frank, his head in between your ass cheeks licking and fingering your hole, while your head was bobbing up and down on Matt’s cock.

Frank smacked your ass so hard it left a red print as he continued to toy with your rear. Matt groaned as the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat. Frank pulled you back with your hair, popping Matt’s cock out with a string of saliva. It was painful the way they carried you, but in some sick twist of events, it turned you on even more.

“My turn,” Frank said, as he takes your mouth to his sex, you engulf his thick uncut cock, your nose hitting his unkempt hair taking in his scent. Matt bent down to toy with your hole, curling and stretching two fingers inside you stimulating your prostate. You were turning your lips as you sucked on Frank’s cock, a hoarse groan leaving his mouth as he grabbed onto your hair tightly.

Matt stroked your cock as he moaned, eating you out with his wet tongue and playing with the rim of your hole. Frank took control of your mouth, fucking into it like you’re his sex toy, his cocking hitting the roof of your mouth at a constant speed. Frank could feel his climax coming so he pulls out leaving you a wet mess next to Matt.

“Can I fuck you?” Matt asked. You nod, taking them into your bedroom.

Frank undressed and took a seat on the small sofa chair in the corner of the room, stroking his hard cock. You were on all fours on the bed, facing Frank. His eyes glued to you as he stroked. Matt lubes your hole before slowly pressing his cock into your hole. You gasped as he sheathed into you. Frank smirked, this turned him on even more, his large arms contracting as he stroked his cock.

Matt started to fuck you slowly, his hips slapping your ass. He started to let out guttural moans, his hips becoming rigid as he gripped onto your waist, his nails digging into your skin. He bends down to kiss your neck, rutting into you, his hard thrusts ramming into you. “I’m close,” he moaned. He jerks your cock to the point that you yelp out, cum shooting out of your cock as he continues to jerk his hips before he emptied inside you, a deep groan leaving his lips as his cum fills you. You two collapsed on the bed, his body weight on top of you.

“Move over Red,” Frank said, looming over you as Matt moves over before Frank mounts you. Matt’s cum formed a slippery lube that made Frank’s cock ease its way as it thrusts. Your body was still weak from your high. He grabs onto your hair as he ruts into you, continuing his hard pace against your body. “You like that?” he said, stroking your sore cock back to hardness.

“Ye–yes, fuck,” you moaned.

Matt was at the edge of the bed, soothing your hair as he peppered kisses all over your face. The bed creaked as Frank humped you, veins popping across his arms as his grip on you tightened, you’re sure it would leave marks. He pulled out, leaving you to gasp from the sudden lack of fullness. He sits back on the headboard of your bed, legs sprawled as he gestures for you to ride him. You mount yourself on his hardness, sitting on his thick and hairy thighs. Matt sits on the edge of the bed, his erection coming back from the sight of you two.

“Take it like a good boy,” Frank praises. You hold onto his chest as you feel the hardness enter you, some of Matt’s cum leaking out. You take Frank’s lips, you now realize how abrasive his stubble was. You move your hips around and around, Frank lets out curses here and there. He pulls your head back, littering your neck with more marks, his fingers find your nipples, teasing them to draw out more moans from you.

Franks sees Matt on the side, his hard already leaking precum just from watching you take Frank’s cock. He calls for Matt to come to you two, to join back in. You feel Matt’s fingertips on your skin, your body is now so filled with stimulation, his mere touch driving you wild. You feel his erection on your back, his lips attached to your shoulders. He takes his leaking cock and presses into your hole, the size alongside Frank’s was a tight fit, your breathing quickens from all the pressure. The two men made sure to guide you and praise you as you take both of their lengths.

You cry out from the sensation. Frank takes your lips to stifle your cries, tears fall from your eyes as your tongues touch, and Matt inches to join your kiss. The three of you kiss into the pain, The two men slowly moving inside you. The pressure was so intense but the arousal overcame, your sex was so hard, leaking so much into Frank’s abdomen. They start to thrust, Matt could feel his sensitive frenulum rub on Frank’s, it made his eyes roll back, his senses overflowing.

All of you reeked of sex, the sounds of slapping skin and wet tongues fighting for dominance against the grunts and moans. The constant rocking was making the bed hit the wall, the mattress moved as if there were an earthquake. You were all covered in sweat, hair sticking onto skin, Hands gripping the wooden headboard, fingertips roaming skin, and tongues lashing on each other.

Everything felt like a blur to you, you were being rocked back and forth like a playground swing, your core sore from the fucking, and there were pairs of hands all over you touching your most sensitive spots. You could feel the climax, creeping into your body tingling your coccyx to the highest peak of your spine. You felt their erratic thrusts, Frank was a groaning mess under you, his neck all red and his face flushed. Matt was a noisy mess on your ear, cursing and calling your name like a prayer, his arm wrapped around your waist as he fucked.

You were at your peak, arousal overflowed from your body into theirs. Their cum filling into you. You all yelped out in pleasure as you rode your highs. Frank dug his hands into your thighs as Matt hid his forehead on your shoulder, rutting their fill into you. The next few minutes came to you in flashing lights, like fireworks spraying colored lights all over the room.

You woke up the next day to two heavy bodies at your sides. Matt’s arms around your waist with your head resting on Frank’s chest. All of you reeked of sweat and cum. As you turned you saw Matt’s eyes flutter, his long lashes flicking as his golden eyes beamed under the sunlight.

“Sorry about last night,” he whispered.

“Why? I had fun,” you said, peppering kisses all over his cheeks.

“You sure?” he said, as he rubbed his thumbs on your cheeks.

“Pretty sore but nothing a pain reliever won’t fix,” you said.

“I guess you’re right, making out fixes everything,” Frank said, his voice deeper. He joins you and Matt, pressing kisses all over your shoulders. Matt takes this as a sign to kiss you all over your neck, their hands snaking all over your body. “What’s good for breakfast around here?” Frank said in between kisses.

“There’s a good diner across the street,” Matt said, leaving soothing kisses on the marks they left on your neck. Your body was so sore and painful, but these men made sure to make it up to you. You woke up last night to them cleaning you up, Matt wiping you with a damp cloth and Frank rummaging through your closet to grab something for you to wear. Despite their rough lifestyles, they made sure you were taken care of. Maybe a little less pain and suffering next time though.

“But first,” you said, pulling away from them.” Shower.”

interactions are greatly appreciated btw if u liked this fic and want more send me a prompt and i'd gladly make something from it :>

#matt murdock smut #matt murdock x reader #daredevil smut #daredevil x reader #matt murdock x male reader #daredevil x male reader #matt murdock x male reader smut #daredevil x male reader smut #punisher smut #frank castle x reader #frank castle x male reader #frank castle x reader smut #frank castle x male reader smut #punisher x reader smut

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months

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The Great Escape

Warnings: allusions to non con/dubcon, kidnapping, drugging and other possible dark elements. Proceed with caution.

Note: Here is another wish! This one with Lloyd.

Please leave some feedback so I know you want me to do more of the wishes I got. Otherwise, I find it hard to keep my motivation.

Wish Corrupted: I wish Steve or Lloyd (dealers choice - I'm feeling indecisive today) would save me from my crazy, stress-filled job and give me more free time to enjoy my hobbies (reading, crocheting, quilting, or baking).

You hit the bar on the door. It doesn’t budge. You look up frantically at the beaming red EXIT sign above. You hit it again, again. You throw your body against the metal barrier, the calm footsteps closing in beneath the rampant puff of your breath.

“Real cute to see ya try, princess, but I’m doing you a goddamn favour,” his voice rolls down the hallways towards you.

You turn, pressing yourself to the door, pushing your elbows back as you continue your struggle to find some give. His shadow is skewed by the emergency lights, the stale office made sinister by the outage. You whimper. Who is this man?

“Aw, you don’t gotta be scared,” he silhouette reaches up with his pistol, scratching his head nonchalantly with the barrel, “but I can’t say it doesn’t fill my balls with joy.”

“Who are you?” You breath, choking on a sob as he struts closer, steps slow but startling. He doesn’t hurry, he knows you have nowhere to go. “Please, I… I didn’t do anything. Don’t hurt me.”

“I told you, kitten, you don’t needa be scared,” he coos, “I’m not gonna hurt you… much.” He snickers, the hall darkening the closer he gets, “I’m gonna do you a real big favour.”

You sink down to your knees. The door isn’t opening. You’re trapped. You put and arm up as you slump against the metal, waiting for the end. This psycho is going to murder you.

“Just don’t move,” he slithers as he stops before you.

He crouches and brings the silencer under your chin forcing it up. You bat your lashes and peer up at him. His face is lost in the dark. He tuts as pushes the barrel firm against you.

“Such a pretty face,” he purrs, “all you gotta do is hold still.”

There is no sudden explosion of gunpowder, no bang, just a prick. You slap your neck and he pulls away, chuckling as he holds up the long syringe. You brace the door with your other arm and whine.

“What was that?” You croak.

“Shhh,” he says, “deep breaths.”

Your muscles slacken, your lungs grow heavy, and your head wobbles. You lean into the door as the strength drains from you, eyelids drooping as the world tilts dangerously. The blackness of your subconscious swallows you up before you collapse.

💉

You come to slowly. Your body is stiff and your head is muddy. Your eyes open bit by bit, taking in the expanse of the strange room. The unfamiliarity fills you with dread. What is this place? How did you get here?

You can’t remember. You groan and touch your head, your hand clumsy, seeming almost detached from the rest of you. It takes all your effort to sit up. You gape at the pink skirt across your lap, the scalloped hem, and the tight cinch of the belt around your waist. You never wore anything like that.

You plant your hand on the cushy mattress beneath you and lean on your arm as you steady yourself. You let your eyes explore. The wooden bedframe, the frilly edge of the sheets poking out from beneath the duvet, the round rug beneath the bed, the matching night table; every piece pristine and exact. Like the replica of a fifties sitcom.

You turn your head. There’s a double-wide dresser with a mirror over it. Your reflection gives you a start. You shift your body to face yourself. You watch as you stand, as if you’re looking at someone else. The pink dress buttons up the bodice, cap sleeves top your shoulders, and a round collar frames your neck.

You lean forward, hands on the dresser as you gape at yourself. This can’t be. Where are you? Who are you? No more stiff-cut blazer, no tucked blouse, no tailored pants. It’s a twisted joke.

The door opens but you can’t bring yourself to move. You glance at it from the mirror. A man enters but you can only see to his shoulders. He stops just inside the door.

“You’re awake,” he says flatly, “nice to have you back in the land of the living, buttercup.”

The voice sends a shiver through you. You know it. You close your eyes and see the flashing emergency lights, the nearing shadows, feel the cold barrel on your chin. You spin to face the man and look at him head-on.

His hair is slicked back, his sides buzzed, a trim of bristly hair across his lip, a singular flaw in an otherwise handsome face. A stranger, like the woman in the mirror. You grip the edge of the dresser and stare at him.

He laughs and reaches for you. You cower as he caresses your cheek.

“I couldn’t figure out the makeup so you’ll have to do all that,” he says.

“What– what is this?”

He snorts and tilts his head, letting his hand fall down your throat. He inhales as his eyes follow his touch and he plays with your collar.

“Not much of a thanks,” he hooks his finger under the top of your dress and draws you away from the dress. He keeps you close as he watches you placidly, “you’re free, sunshine.”

“What? Free?”

“That corporate wheel was grinding you down,” he intones, “it’s your turn to do the grinding.”

You shake your head. You don’t understand. He sweeps his other arm around you, groping your ass as he pulls you flush to him.

“Keep me happy, and I’ll do the same,” he rocks you with him, “eight hours at a desk or a couple minutes on your knees, I know what I’d choose.”

You blink at him in horror.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have more than enough time to catch up on that book,” he affirms.

“Book?”

He nods towards the bed and you notice the familiar curled corner. The same book you’ve kept on your coffee table for months, the one you never had the time or energy to finish. You gulp and look back at him.

“No more spreadsheets, cupcake,” he winks, “but you’ll damn sure be spreading those legs.”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #corrupt-a-wish #the gray man

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daydreaming-jessi · 6 months

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Still working on the second chapter of this fic so I decided to doodle follower Leshy to inspire myself. Love him and Shamura and their dynamic, also love the idea of him acting like a mix of heket and Narinder cause they’re the ones he was closest too, thus having a temper the equivalent to a barrel full of gunpowder

#jessi doodles #cotl #cult of the lamb #cotl leshy #follower leshy #cotl shamura #follower shamura #cotl the lamb #he has a tiny bit more restraint in the fic. just barely.#only because he’s just arrived and trying not to get kicked out #the lamb thinks he’s a mini green replica of Narinder when he first arrived and that makes them like him a bit faster #I’m headcanonning that he wears a sweater under his robes that he’s had forever. I think other artists do the same cause of his in game art

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lundenloves · 4 months

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“ 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐏𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 “

⤷ this was written in around 40 minutes flat. i love you all, thank you for being here to support my ramblings.

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His first deployment. Nothing short of devastating, a ruinous experience not meant for the likes of an eighteen year old. Shoved between a divergence of broken and bruised ageing men that forced a squint from younger eyes. The smell of drink and gunpowder mixed, sat shoulder to shoulder with bloodied uniforms and pairing eyes that sunk to the floor as if by force. “How is it?” A splutter of conversation was hosted through cigarette ends, two older men sat adjacent from one another in the truck. Simon paid an ear.

“The same.” He answered, sitting back and leaving a weighted sigh. “Bad.”

The thump of an impatient fist against his thigh was one Simon had sidewardly eyed, painfully aware of his own crisp green camo. Against its purpose, it did little to blend him in. Each pocket was still with tact stitching, sleeves unworn by others’ demise and his teenage build was a patent sign of his rank. “Lost a dozen or so.”

Unscarred hands white knuckled a rifle, jaw tightening through the ins and outs of that sole conversation beside him. The truck battered against divots in the sand they drove through, his stomach churning with each time pressure had been applied to the breaks. “Bravo?”

“Bravo.” Spare ash from their smoking had tumbled over Simon’s boot, his eyes pointedly watching the grey flake and disappear. “Lost their sniper, stupid sods.” A brief pause for what was assumed to be an inhale, desert now surrounding every side of the four by four, not one clue was to be had of their exact location. “Y’wouldn’t put a young lad on his own up on ninety-two would you? Fuck sake.”

Young eyes reverted toward his gun, heavy and worn with scratched handwriting across the barrel. The day was a fleet. Two lives had been lost that morning, two men to his left on that last drive. Two neat bullets placed into chests that pried the last drop of life they had clasped so desperately to on that desert floor.

Simon watched them die from his dugout. A pit in the sand created by waves of wind, the seniors beside him wrapped a sole knuckle on his helmet in empathy. “Don’t let it stick with you, son.” Seven words that had shaped a military mindset from the beginning.

His eye twitched from the loss of life, watching the last breath leave a soul before going limp. The youthful silence was noted by the men alongside him, apparent trauma was something that hadn’t slipped yet only turned into a weapon the older he grew.

Trauma was key.

Trauma was valued.

Because what was a soldier without trauma? How could bullets take another life without the aid of anger. Not only had two men lost theirs, Simon had also taken his first. A fumbled mess at best, the worst way to go without dignity at the wrath of an eighteen year old child. His ungloved hands fingered at the trigger, equivalent to flooring a pedal in a car his knuckles turned white with the grip and his eyes involuntarily squeezed shut.

His arms had dropped to his sides after the fact, blood spats across his face from a point blank effort that had left a traumatic scene. His kill wasn’t nearly as neat and kind, though heavy and messy. The weight stuck with him, taking five paces backward to the colleague behind him who was only a year older at the time. “It’ll get better.”

And those three words paired with the prior seven had merged to find a mantra. Somewhere hidden between desolation and adrenaline had he finally understood the Who Dares Wins motto of the SAS, nevermind the surface level of Be The Best — an army effort that ironically felt below of his own expectation of himself. Who Dares Wins felt right. It felt deeper and solid, something that resonated and rumbled within his chest.

But for years, Be The Best was the phrase he aimed to please. His first deployment was a testament to that, eyes wide and glassed on the ride back to base that was missing two men save for their dogtags and guns. His hands shook uncontrollably as did his leg that trembled without conscious effort, he felt sick to the stomach and the blood on his uniform now felt like the rest of his life.

He noticed how no one spoke.

How hands aggressively rubbed at faces and boots were kicked up on the two ghost seats adjacent. The quiet wasn’t necessarily due to respect of fallen men but fatigue. Sleep never came for weeks and the start of a nightmarish routine had only just begun, this was living hell but it felt right.

It felt deserved.

The red water that had pooled by his feet that night in the shower wasn’t something he could ever wash off and anxiety had peaked.

By his first deployment, every corner he looked around was now subject to threat. Every fast movement was met with panic and his eyes had went longer without blinking. Hand pats on the shoulder were now cause for fright and the deafening blasts of machine guns made home in his house. Hell, they’d taken a room.

He became completely closed.

No one got in.

No one got out.

simon 'ghost' riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbars @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @rayhawk05 @han11dh @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @iluvoaldmen @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @spencerreidisbae123 @paperbag-prncss @cookiecutta @sluttyforsimon @loveangelic @friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen @hayleybarnesx @reignthereigner

MY FUCKING TAGS BROKE

#simon ghost riley #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod mw fanfiction #simon riley #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader

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moonlight-prose · 1 year

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HURT

➝ 01. THE CURSE OF THE FOLD

a/n: apocalyptic stories are probably one of my favorite genres to write, because angst is my bread and butter. so here i am writing the angsiest fucking story ever. i've plotted it entirely and worked on it while waiting for the show to drop to finally post this. so hopefully you enjoy. (this takes place about ten years before the last of us.)

summary: you were alone; watched everyone you love die or you killed them yourself. and you thought it would remain that way forever...till him.

word count: 6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not sexually explicit but still 18+ (READ AT YOUR OWN RISK BUT BE AWARE), gore, violence, tw blood, angst, death, assault, one bed trope, gratuitous prose about the apocalypse setting, probably ooc writing for joel, more angst. please let me know if i missed anything.

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You were going to die. That was no longer a concept that you found to be impossible in your early stages of life. No, you knew you would die sooner rather than later. You knew that survival was a thing to strive for and death had become something to welcome. When the world turns to shit, leaving humanity on their own to fight against monsters, death didn’t seem so scary in the long run.

It became peaceful—an end that you found to be the better option. You’d rather die by the hands of humans or your own than become one of those things. Turning wasn’t the way you’d go. It was brutal and horrific; left more heartache behind than the desired numbing sensation you hoped came with death. No, you refused to become something that was no longer deemed a human, but was now viewed as a monster.

This was a promise you made to yourself ten years ago and even now as you stared down the barrel of a gun, you knew you made the right choice. Death would be swift—an end to your life that you found satisfaction in—rather than something you feared every fucking day.

You’d stopped on your journey in an attempt to find a safe situation for the night. One that wouldn’t leave you running in the morning; for a brief moment you figured this town would do the trick. You could hide out until the sun came up and finally find a few peaceful hours of sleep. There was no one around for miles (at least you assumed as much) and what few infected were around you could handle yourself. You weren’t the best with a gun, but you could protect yourself when your life was on the line.

If only you had kept going, then maybe you wouldn’t be in this fucked situation.

The scent of gunpowder burned in the air, the potent bitterness of blood mixed with it—creating a lethal combination. You ran out of bullets two dead bodies ago—reaching for the fallen weapon by your side when three more men came out of the darkness. Their faces were covered by dirty worn-in bandanas with only their eyes showing, illuminated by the dim lights of the moon, but it was in their eyes that you saw the truth. They were hollow. Just like the other three men who thought they could come after you. Their souls disappeared a long time ago, only to leave the remnant of a human shell that was forced to do things in order to survive.

This particular sight wasn't unusual to you in the slightest.

You’d seen the best of people become tainted, broken. After all, you were one of them. The consequences of this fucking virus reached you as well; tearing the life you built up to pieces. Leaving you to watch the ashes of what came before float in the air.

You were the veteran of a war without end. A survivor of the life that only wished to see you gone and buried. The longer you looked at them—the man you figured to be the leader stepping forward—the more you understood why humans did what they did.

They were an idiotic group of people that let things fester; that would watch the world burn ten times over before helping those around them.

He gripped your hair, yanking it until your hoarse scream of pain echoed in the night air. The barrel of the gun was shoved beneath your chin, his dark eyes watching in glee as you struggled. He loved to feel the rush of power, watching as people grew helpless to his actions. You understood that just from looking at him. Yet another pathetic man that believed he could take what he wanted from someone traveling alone. So you stopped fighting. You froze in his hold, fixing him with a smile so sweet he could have sworn it was made of sugar cane.

“You’re afraid to die,” you said softly, wincing when his hold tightened.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spit, his voice was deep yet ingrained with the hesitation of a man who didn’t like that you touched so close to the truth.

You knew this game. A sick and twisted version of a power play in order to believe that they held the upper hand in this situation. When in fact that remained far from the truth. Though you held no weapon, no more chances of survival—you had something they didn't. You didn't fear what came next. It was a better deal than this shit one right here.

Your heart slowed to a steady beat; the welcoming hope re-entering your heart with each baited breath you took. When would he finally pull the trigger? When would you finally have peace? When would the pain—the torture—finally cease? You hoped the lingering questions all came with the same answer. Soon.

"Go ahead," you prompted, going so far as to tilt your chin in his direction—feeling the press of the gun's barrel dig deeper into your skin.

His finger hovered over the trigger, before—much to your dismay—he pulled it away. "You're feisty." You heard the jeering laughter of his friends in the background. "How about we just bring you with us?"

Your stomach dropped. A new unlocked fear sending a chill down your spine. There was always something worse than being turned into a monster, always something far more horrific than not dying by your own hands. It was being trapped in a cage with no lock and no key to get you out.

Fighting against his hold, you tried to grab the gun on the ground, but he yanked you back—the disgusting scent of his breath washing over your face. "Looks like I found what you're afraid of."

"Fuck you,” you spit in his face, struggling against his hold. You refused to be taken, to be treated like an animal put up for slaughter.

He merely laughed, his hold on you tightening with each twist of your body. Dropping your weight, you waited for him to jeer at his friends before slamming the heel of your boot into his foot. As expected, his arms fell away from your body, a howl of pain splintering through the night air. It was enough for you though. He may look tough, but he didn’t seem to be able to handle pain so easily. Yanking yourself free, you felt a cold chill wash over your body as the adrenaline spiked in your body—telling you to keep going. To fight until you were finally free.

Three against one wasn’t entirely in your favor, but you held one thing close to your heart—a belief that would keep you going till your last breath. If there was nothing else to fight for—no one else—then you would fight for yourself. For the past you that used to be desperate for a life, for meaning and purpose. Those two words didn’t mean jackshit anymore in this fucked up world, but to you it meant everything.

Grabbing the metal pipe that looked like it was torn off of a plumbing system, you put what little skill you had in your swing. Really it extended to one softball game in highschool, where you ended up with a ball to the face and a measly participation trophy. You barely had time to even swing the bat before chaos ensued. But it was enough for you.

Lining up your hit you swung.

The pipe hit with a sickening crack against his face, a splatter of red falling to the floor as he fell to one knee. You were pretty sure that you loosened a tooth in his rotten mouth and had half a mind to tear the rest out with your bare hands. His buddies began to advance, their makeshift weapons being pulled from their sides as they spit curses your way. The words of your father echoed in your mind as you took another swing, hitting against one’s side, jamming your elbow into his throat when he curled in on himself.

If you find yourself in a fight, you never let them take you out first.

“Piece of shit,” you snarled, your already bloody and raw fist slamming against the side of his face.

“Grab her arms dumbass!”

Ducking under their outstretched arms, you fumbled with the small screwdriver you found on a trek through one of the houses. With a huffed out breath, you jabbed it into the third guy's armpit, grinning at his cries of agony. He fell to his knees, trying very carefully to take it out without killing himself. Giving you enough to run outside.

The cold air was sharp in your lungs, the anxiety of the situation now rushing through your veins and causing your heart to beat erratically. But you were free.

“You fucking bitch!” The main man roared, his boots thumping harshly against the cracked cement.

Sprinting, you tried to keep a quick pace down the empty street, but the fear of running into anything overlapped the fear of dealing with an already injured man. So, like an idiot you stopped. He was limping, a gash stretching across his cheek and turning his pale skin red. A feral anger flashed in his eyes like an animal hunting its prey; coming in for the final kill. You knew he could practically taste your blood on his tongue.

Your chest heaved, the breath leaving you faster than you could keep it in your lungs, but you wouldn’t go quietly. That was a death you would not accept. No, he’d take you down fighting until you eventually dragged him down to hell right alongside you. If you couldn’t survive, you’d leave behind something to remember. Your hands curled into fists, teeth baring as you watched him approach slowly. The energy in your body was beginning to wane, exhaustion seeping in, but you kept your stance.

Forever choosing to be stubborn.

You never expected the loud bang of a shotgun to go off behind you. The man fell back, his head hitting the sidewalk with another crack—turning the asphalt a darker shade of black. Fear shot down your spine, the realization that you couldn’t fight against someone with a gun while you stood with nothing. You remained still, frozen and watching in horror as the man who nearly ended your life was wiped from this planet entirely. In a way you were relieved, but the knowledge that someone else was walking up to you quickly dampened that feeling instantly.

“You okay?”

The man’s voice was deep, gruff, with a southern drawl you’d heard once before in college. You couldn’t respond—your heart still lodged in your throat. If you were in the right state of mind, you’d say your body was going into shock. His boots stopped a foot away from you, calling your attention as he stood, the shotgun still gripped tightly in his hands.

For a brief moment you allowed your eyes to trail up his figure. Taking in the dirty brown leather jacket that looked like it’d seen better days, jeans with a sewn up hole in the knee, and a black t-shirt. You barely skimmed his face, drinking in his slightly graying dark hair and scruff before he was asking you another question.

“Did he hurt you?” His eyes were focused on the blood that stained your once clean shirt.

“It’s not mine,” you said softly, the panic now wearing off—relinquishing its hold over your body.

He nodded, his brown eyes fixing back on yours. “Are there more?”

“Not anymore,” you replied, staring at the house in the distance.

Oblivious to the slight hint of surprise in his eyes, you felt him step closer. To which you responded by stepping back, keeping the distance as much as possible. You didn’t need to fight another man tonight, who’s weapons far outweighed your own fighting capability. But then he raised his hands as if in surrender. He held his ground, waiting for you to come back to the present, before trying once more to take a small step in your direction.

This time…you let him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

How could you be so sure that his words were the truth? There was a small voice in the back of your head that told you to keep running. Run until you had no choice but to stop. Till you were finally safe from the dangers of this world. Yet you knew that danger was everywhere, plaguing the very ground you walked on and this man…had just saved your life.

Rarely did you find people who wished to help you. Who were simply there as a stroke of luck in your seemingly endless string of awful situations. Once you used to run with people, be a part of a group that watched your back as intently as you watched theirs. But pain and grief seemed to follow you like a ghost. Haunting every turn you made on this never ending journey.

Voicing your thoughts, you fought back against the urge to flee. “You just shot a man and you’re telling me you won’t hurt me?”

“A man who was trying to kill you.”

He had you there.

“What’s your name?” you asked, quickly glancing in the distance—wary that something would come from the darkness.

“Joel.”

You met his brown eyes again. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged, turning away from your scrutinizing gaze. You made his skin itch with just that single look, but he could recognize the underlying fear that flared every now and then in your eyes. A look he once wore when all this shit started. Joel didn’t get scared very often anymore, having seen his fair share of horrors. But seeing you stand there helpless, yet ready to die fighting tooth and nail, made his heart lurch in a way it hadn’t in sometime.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder, catching the way the fading sunlight began to dip below the houses. Casting the both of you in darkness. “Why were you running?”

Scoffing, you crossed your arms against your chest. “Usually when people try to kill me I run.”

Thankfully he didn’t question what was the motive behind their intentions. Already understanding most of it. Once again he glanced at the sky, knowing that if you didn’t find shelter soon you’d be knee deep in shit. He didn’t want that to be how either of you ended. So, he turned away from you, gesturing for you to follow him. If you were smart you’d do it without question, but Joel had a feeling you were stubborn down to your core.

“Where are you going?” you called out, confirming his suspicions with only a few words.

He nearly chuckled. “Finding shelter for the night.”

Catching up, you fell into step beside him. “You won’t kill me right?”

That time he chuckled; the sound striking you in your heart unexpectedly. “You sure are untrustworthy aren’t you?”

“Yeah well…” You fiddled with the strap on your nearly torn backpack. “I haven’t trusted anyone in a while.”

Neither had he.

He didn’t say it outloud though. Joel already knew what came upon those that dared to open themselves up in the midst of anguish. He’d been on the receiving end of that pain and chose to close himself off to it. It would help him more in the long run, than letting the feeling dig its way into his heart. Gnawing away at his insides like a meal.

What he was doing now…keeping you close when in fact you may very well kill him, wasn’t like him. He had half a mind to keep going—leave you here to fend for yourself. But then his eyes met yours, and there was that look. That pain he knew too well. Back when he thought he was going to die without a way to save himself.

He saw himself in you and maybe that’s why he allowed you to traipse along beside him.

You didn’t take kindly to people very often. Preferring to go it alone after what happened with the people you once knew, and this was no different. Staying with him for one night before parting ways would mean nothing to you in the long run. Just another stranger you passed by in the hopes of finding somewhere safe to land. You hoped that this town would be it; that you wouldn’t have to go anywhere for a long time. But the blood on your shirt continued to prove you wrong.

“There’s a two story house about a block away with a fence going around the property.”

He nodded, changing directions and heading towards the old brown building that had seen better days. The windows were broken, the front yard overgrown with weeds, and you weren’t sure if the door worked. It would have to do for the night. You couldn’t risk staying out in the open. Not when those men had found you so easily as they were passing through.

The scent of pine filled your nose as you stepped towards the black gate covered in dead vines. A large tree stood in the center of the yard—beautiful amidst the destruction caused by the world falling to pieces. You wondered what it used to look like—who lived here—before you pushed open the gate. The loud creak echoing in the night air, sent chills down your spine. Perhaps the ghosts of the owners still resided here. Wandering the halls of their former home in the hopes of finding some serenity in the chaos.

Or perhaps…they were infected.

That thought alone nearly made you back away from the property, but Joel walked right in. He seemed to hold no qualms about the building or its past. To him it was just a place to stay until he had to move right along to the next one. He held no permanency in this world—not anymore—and it had been a long time since he hoped for some.

Staying somewhere permanent always ended in death. Or at least that’s what he believed.

“You never answered my question,” you said, following him slowly up the path and to the front porch that was caved in at one spot.

The door opened with a similar haunting creak, similar to the gate; filling your senses with a musty scent of old furniture and molding wood. He crossed the threshold without another word, his hand still gripping the shotgun’s strap on his shoulder. If you were smart, you’d part ways with him right here. You would find a different house to stay in for the night before leaving this place behind when the sun rose. Yet the lingering feeling from earlier still remained in your chest.

If he wanted to kill you, he wouldn’t have saved you.

“Looks old,” you noted, staring at the furniture in what once was a put together living room. Now the couches were torn up, most likely by animals, and the floorboards had water damage to them.

A ripped painting hung above the mantle on the fireplace, small pieces of the original owners coming through strokes of a brush. You caught a glimpse of a girl with red hair and blue eyes. A woman with the exact same features on the other side. A tear went through the middle, severing the young boy and man. Turning the painting into something else entirely.

The sound of his footsteps bounced off the wooden walls as he came downstairs again. Catching you staring at the painting with an intensity in your eyes that he’d never seen before. For a moment he left you alone. Gave you this time to linger in the space of what once was—what would never be again. He used to be torn up about things like this, but eventually he learned that the past would never change, and the future was nothing but a continuous fight for survival.

Eventually he cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him. “There’s a bedroom upstairs still in pretty good shape.”

You nodded, moving away towards the stairs. “What are the chances of this house still having running water?”

“Slim.”

Something about that response made you smile. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you took it for what it was.

The bedroom still looked relatively normal, despite the torn comforter and water stained ceilings. The musty smell still remained—the copper scent from blood on your shirt not helping. You wondered if you’d get lucky and find clothes in the closet. Or at least a shirt that could act as a replacement. You made sure to make a mental note to check for that later.

“You can uh—you can take the bed.”

Once again your lips twisted up into somewhat of a grin. “Thank you,” you replied softly, glancing his way briefly.

You’d remember him for his kindness.

That was evident in your mind as you moved towards the bathroom. In all your years of surviving, you’d never taken so quickly to a person. For some unknown reason it felt like you’d known each other for some time—already acting like you’d been on the same journey together. When in fact he would leave tomorrow (as would you) and you’d be lucky if you came across each other again.

Maybe in another life, you mused.

Sure enough, no water came from the sink. You sighed, dropping your head forward as an ache began to spread through your forehead. What you wouldn’t give for an aspirin right about now. Shit, what you wouldn’t give for a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep. They were luxuries you hadn’t partaken in since the world was normal. When you were younger and life still had a bright hue of color about it.

You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face before exiting back to the bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bag on the ground by his feet and shotgun across his lap. The single sight made you think about a sculpture you’d seen in a class you’d taken before the world fell apart. Of a man sitting in the hand of god, his body curling in on itself—the weight of the world crushing him down.

Even now in the horror that became this world, life imitated art.

“Any water?” he asked, breaking your focus.

“Huh?” You glanced at the sink behind you. “Oh…no it’s dry.”

He nodded. “I’ll take the blanket.”

Standing, he winced slightly before gathering what remained of the blanket at the bottom of the bed. Just the sight caused your heart to twist. You damned yourself, wishing that you could be like everyone else. Able to watch someone else suffer on the sidelines while you protected yourself. Except you couldn’t. Not when you were taught your entire life to care for those in need; to share what you could with others.

“You already said you weren’t going to kill me,” you began, saying it with a slight smile. “So I don’t see why you should take the floor.”

For a brief moment his whole body stiffened, causing you to wonder if you’d stepped over a line. A boundary that he didn’t want to cross with strangers he just met.

“Why?” he asked, turning to face you with an unreadable expression on his face.

You shrugged. “The bed’s too big for me.”

It was partially true. The mattress looked like it would swallow you whole if you let it, but you knew the truth. And something told you he knew as well. He saved your life—this was the least you could do in return. A thank you without actually saying the words. An act of kindness that left a lingering warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt since before the outbreak.

He hesitated, staring at the soft plush bed that would no doubt give his back some relief for the night. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you said without a semblance of doubt in your voice.

Trusting someone this much may wind up to be a mistake on your part, but you pushed that thought aside for the moment. He would most likely be gone before you woke up. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Sitting on the opposite side of the bed, you allowed your fingers to dig into what remained of the sheets. They were yellowed with age, stained by time, but still soft enough to nearly startle you.

You felt the bed dip on the other side when he sat down.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighed, the sound deep and ragged. “Not someone to give up easily are you?”

Once again your lips curved into a slight grin. “Nope.”

“I’m heading to Boston. Happened to be passing through on my way here.”

A sensation akin to fear streaked down your spine so quickly, you barely had any time to react. The name sent chills through your whole body. Boston. A city you hadn’t heard about since you left it. You could remember the day vividly; could practically taste the difference in the air as you exited your dorm room. You hadn’t known it then, but your entire world would shift in only a few hours.

You were barely nineteen at the time of the outbreak. Still a kid starting your second year of college with nothing ahead of you but time. Until the campus fell into chaos. You could still remember the screams; the agony of people losing the ones they cared about, to something worse than death.

“You know…” The memories still replayed in your mind on an endless loop. Like a movie with no end. “I went to school in Boston.”

That small detail seemed to catch his attention, because he angled his body slightly to see you better. “You did?”

You nodded, doing your best to breathe evenly in order to stave off the anxiety filling your body. “I was majoring in art history. I wanted to work in a museum one day.”

“Yeah?” He watched you turn slowly, the tension in your muscles dropping slightly the more you told him. “Which one?”

“The Met was my dream job before…”

He sighed, expression shifting to one of understanding. There were plans he had for himself, goals for his life for his family, but now that he could see the bleakness of what his future held, he’d given up the simple act of dreaming. What was there to dream about anyways? But he could see it in you. The hope that remained just beneath the surface of your sorrowful gaze. You were too young when it happened, too young to lose your life that quickly.

“I’ve been there.”

The grief faded slightly, a light returning to your face. “Really?”

He nodded, shifting until he was sitting with his leg extended on the mattress, back pressed to the headboard. “Back when I was in high school, we took a trip up there.”

Mimicking him, you felt the relief in your spine as you finally moved to a comfortable position. “What did you think?”

“Well I’m no expert in art, but I liked it.”

If you weren’t careful you would wind up falling asleep in the middle of speaking. But you fought against the exhaustion that seeped into your bones. Adamant on remaining awake, just to talk to him for a bit longer. His brown eyes watched you settle into a laying down position, your hands clasped together against your stomach. The blood on your shirt had dried to a deep brown color—until you could hardly tell it was there anymore.

“No one has to be an expert in art to appreciate its beauty,” you said softly, staring at the light brown stain in the ceiling that formed rings. It reminded you of what the inside of trees looked like. “I think all you have to do is see it and that’s enough.”

Joel settled in beside you, his back practically screaming in joy at having such a plush bed beneath him.

“Take the portrait downstairs,” you continued, unaware that he had turned his head to watch you. “Anyone can tell it used to be a well painted piece of art, but now it’s torn, severing the image of the family entirely. I think it’s poetic.”

He hummed, catching your attention and causing you to turn your head until your nose practically brushed his. “Poetic huh?”

“It reminds me of my past,” you whispered, taking in the soft lines that were beginning to form on his face. “Tells you a lot about what might have happened here.”

Joel didn’t respond, letting your words settle in his mind. Oblivious to the way they sunk into his heart as well, breaking down a small minuscule piece of the walls he’d placed there. The sound of the crickets outside rang through the open windows, filling the silent spaces between the two of you. He wondered what came before this for you—what would come after this.

“Do you have a place to go after this?” he asked, seeing your eyes grow heavy.

You shook your head. “I haven’t had a place to go in a long time.”

A part of your mind wanted to tell him that you did in fact have somewhere to go, but you couldn’t get the words out. You found that you liked his company; that you didn’t mind who he was as a person. Even though you knew nothing but his name and his path. Except to you…that was enough.

“I hear there’s a quarantine zone down in Boston.” He couldn’t get the question out, letting its implication hang in the air between you in the hopes that you’d understand. Thankfully, you did.

The breath caught in your lungs as you considered it. Returning to the place where it all began for you. The place where your future was meant to start. Just like the painting, you found it poetic in the most gruesome way. But something sour built in your chest. A feeling that told you to stay here; that if you left you’d find your way to even more destruction.

You chose to ignore it in the end.

“Okay,” you breathed, attempting a half-hearted sleepy smile before your eyes fell shut against your own will.

When you woke up, you’d deal with what this meant and how it would work, but you refused to let sleep elude you this time. Whether or not he fell asleep slipped past your mind—your body giving up after hours of strain. The ache would begin in the morning; pain you were familiar with and even welcomed. However for that moment, you were free of it; of the grief that was burrowed so deep in your heart you were afraid it’d never leave.

Unbound from the horrors that awaited you in the early hours of dawn.

You heard the birds first, chirping in the pine tree as they let the rest of the world know that the early morning hours of the day had finally arrived. You felt his arm around your waist, second. Sometime in the night you’d gone from lying side by side, barely touching shoulders, to him pressed firmly against your back. His breath hit the back of your neck, warm and accompanied with the odd snore here and there. It sent shivers down your spine.

Though you both wore several layers of clothing to stay warm during the night, you could still feel the heat of his palm seeping into your stomach. He was still asleep and while you might have agreed to go with him last night, you knew that it was better to leave and go it alone. After all, that’s what you’d been doing.

Holding your breath so as not to make any more noise, you began to shift away from him. Unfortunately for you, his grip on you was a bit too tight for you to remove. You didn’t want to disturb him. What with everything that happened last night. The fear was still a bitter taste on your tongue—reminding you that you could have died last night. That you had him to thank for why you were here in the first place.

Suddenly leaving didn’t sound like the better option anymore.

“You move a lot,” he grumbled. Your heart stopped in your chest for a brief moment.

“I–I’m sorry.” The words caught in your throat when he shifted, something pressing briefly to your lower back before he turned away. He grunted when he sat up, the sound shooting right through you. “We better get a move on.”

He still wanted you to go.

Sitting, you felt the fear begin to dissipate somewhat. “Oh…right,” you said, choosing to do what he did. Ignore that what you felt against your back was in fact what you thought.

The choice might prove better in the long run as you two traveled together. You’d been there before and in the end, it got messier than you wanted. Staying simple—alone but together—would be the easiest option. It would save you from dealing with another loss if something were to happen to him, and you hoped he felt the exact same way. Torment, heartache, they were all things you carried with you at the end of the day. A side effect of the fucking sickness that plagued the earth.

A disease that could never be reversed.

“Do you know how to get to Boston from here?” you asked, reaching for your bag.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” he replied, stopping in front of you, a black piece of clothing in his hands. “Here.”

You must have looked confused, taking what you figured out to be a shirt. A man’s shirt if you looked close enough. “Where did you find this?”

“Went digging through the drawers in the other room.” He turned away, heading out the door before you could give him a real response.

Except you couldn’t find the right words to actually say to him. He was a man of few words. You could tell that right off the bat. Yet his actions seemed to speak volumes, telling you all the things you imagined he’d say. Or maybe…you were on the precipice of losing your mind due to constant stress and pressure. You remember watching movies about the apocalypse and insanity always played a part—the end usually resulting in death.

You figured believing the latter was far better than assuming something about a man you just met last night. While he said he wasn’t here to kill you, the uncertainty in your veins still stuck to the instinct that told you trust had to be earned.

Heading downstairs, you found him in the exact position you were in yesterday. Standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the portrait. He met your gaze when you entered, the shotgun back where it was yesterday, bag still in place.

“Ready?” he asked, watching you adjust your bag and fix your jacket in place. The black t-shirt now underneath it. You left the ruined one in the sink.

“Ready,” you confirmed, following him outside and into the sunlight.

You wondered if there would be others after you and him inside the house; if people were looking for a safe place to stay for the night. Would they see the painting and think of its origin like you had? Or would this just be another place. A hollow building with no life anymore—a corpse that stood against the destruction around it. You smiled bitterly at that thought, knowing that if you were a building…you would be that. A walking ghost amidst nature’s final painting.

Joel walked beside you, his stroll measured and assured. He knew where he was going with each step—unafraid of what he’d find in the distance. So, you fell into step with him, your eyes focused on the horizon as you both walked along the empty street. Leaving the house behind.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller #joel miller fic #the last of us #the last of us fic #my writing

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