betty !

pairing ۶ৎ erik lensherr x mutant!reader. summary ۶ৎ in which, accepting your mutation has been a rocky journey, but erik’s willing to smooth out the path for you. warnings ۶ৎ reader’s mutation: hydrokinesis, fluff, no use of y/n. prompt ۶ৎ praying / kesha ( swapped ) - june 26th entry for june jukebox scribbles, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles word count ۶ৎ 299 | divider creds @/bbg4rlhelps

Mutants who’ve bartered with themselves, tormented by the crippling incongruousness amongst individual’s normality, find refuge on the island. It’s shaped into a haven for them, one where the air doesn’t compress their lungs and the ground dissents humanity’s heavy-armed warnings.

pairing ۶ৎ lighthouse keeper!bucky barnes x ghost!reader. prompt ۶ৎ right place wrong time / dr john — june 4th entry for june jukebox scribbles, hosted by @societynsoelsscribbles ! summary ۶ৎ in which, two ghost stories overlap and become a salt-air, liberating haunting. a/n ۶ৎ i was rewatching ‘the light between oceans’ when this idea swam to the surface of my mind, and i’m hoping one day i’ll explore more of this!! word count ۶ৎ 299 | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide

Ocean waves briskly sweep across each other, celebrating the vastness of the heavens parting and gifting the water a glimpse of sunlight.

The lighthouse skims the wisps of heaven’s entrance—a place Bucky is forbidden from entering. Yet, being far away from the ground that’s tried burying him on numerous occasions is serenity itself.

‘i miss you, i’m sorry.’

summary ۶ৎ in which, reflecting on the past only causes more heartache.

warnings ۶ৎ 18+ content/minors dni, grief, whole load of sad writing, dead!joel, nightmares, mentions of violence, fluff and slight steaminess ( in flashbacks ).

word count ۶ৎ 2.8k

𝓐/n ۶ৎ first time writing for joel so ofc i had to make it depressing. please don't copy, translate or repost my work to any other platforms. and please be kind; if you don't like it, simply move on. thank you for taking the time to read this ♡

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

‘everywhere i go leads me back to you.’

grief is an excruciating way of showing you loved someone.

you’ve experienced it before on numerous occasions, but none have ever so profoundly affected you until now. you wear it like a second coat. your limbs are limp as if there’s no life in them anymore. it’s like you were a puppet, but suddenly you’re strings have been ruptured. now, you’re falling into an endless abyss, and he isn’t there to catch you this time.

each step you take against the cold, wooden floors is forced, your cerebellum clouded by an overwhelming darkness that’s ready to die out and reunite with your soulmate in another life.

yet, you keep moving. your movements are light and unimposing. you’re a ghost in your own home, drifting through and reliving what was. the warmth of the miller’s home is no longer present. a coldness is replaced, the light of the sky shining through the windows gloomy and dull, as though the world is wallowing in regret, knowing it stole someone too soon.

the door to you and your husband’s bedroom creaks as you slowly open it, but you remain frozen in place. you can’t enter. you won’t allow yourself to. the last time you inhabited it, you weren’t alone. you were safe in his arms. you were happy under his gaze. you were loved.

now, there’s nothing but emptiness.

that safe haven disappeared when his arms fell to his sides. that happiness was crushed at the same time his head was. that love…that unconditional, pure love, which you only thought people experienced in romance novels, followed him into the afterlife and left an aching void behind.

taking a deep breath, you enter, and something so raw and and powerful claws at your chest, ripping out a quiet sob. your eyes, once full of ardour, now glisten with unshed tears as they land on his guitar.

your heart guides you, your feet following. quivering fingertips trace the sapili wood, the same way you’d touch the lines on his forehead. there’s a small, fleeting curve of your lips, one no one would notice unless studying you like you’re art.

art.

when joel played, it was art.

the gentle breeze washes over you, wisps of your hair dancing under the sunrise. the fresh brew of coffee sitting in your mug flows into your senses, heating your palms up. you never take your mornings in jackson for granted, allowing yourself to feel and notice every little thing. the peacefulness is a welcoming contrast to the fight for survival outside those walls, and the company is greater too. instead of those monstrous beings, beside you on the porch, in his own respective rocking chair, is joel.

you wake up earlier than most, bad omens sprouting into your sleep like a drug spreading and jolting you back to reality when it’s faded. he never lets you bear it alone, nor does he fall back asleep. he starts the day when you do.

he cradles the instrument the same way he does you, with a caring and gentleness others wouldn’t assume a grumpy man can harbour.

shifting so his body is in your direction, joel glances up from his guitar to you. without fail, he makes you feel seen, as though your soul is laid bare and he’s worshiping every single part. “y’know, i was thinkin’ about this song earlier. reminded me of you.” he speaks, his texan drawl softened a smidge from the lingering morning voice.

joel’s never been good with words. he’s more of an action man: ensuring you have your hat, gloves and scarf on a winter’s day so you have protection against the bitter nature, or returning on a patrol with a new book for you to get lost in then he’ll intently and admirably listen as you analyse and rave about it later on.

with music, however, he discovers the perfect words to explain how deeply he feels for you.

“are you going to sing it for me or be frustratingly vague about it?” you tease, earning a roll of his eyes and a nudge of his boot against your own foot.

clearing his throat, he exhales a breath, and his calloused fingers begin playing against the chords. it’s a gentle dance, the movements careful yet in-sync, and it reminds you of how he danced with you inside town hall during a christmas celebration.

it’s then you realise you’re the music to his life.

the tune is pulchritudinous, and the way he plays could’ve risen him to fame before the outbreak, but it’s when he hums, working up to vocals, that every other noise fades. the rustling of leaves in the nearby trees have ceased to listen, the noise of people starting their day paling. nothing else matters now except him, and if you had the choice to hear only one thing on earth, his voice, deep and rugged, but reverent and tender, would be the winner.

“the smile on your face lets me know that you need me.”

“there's a truth in your eyes sayin’ you'll never leave me.”

“the touch of your hand says you'll catch me wherever i fall.”

the strongly-felt lyrics wrap around you like the warmest hug. you relax into your chair, admiring everything about him; to the lilt of his voice, and to the way his salt and pepper curls sway to the song.

you’ve never felt this before with anyone. never been an artist’s muse. but, as his eyes occasionally flicker upwards, consuming your smile that lets any remaining tension in his bones melt away, your heartbeat mirrors the cadence, and one thought remains front and centre of your mind: you’re the luckiest person in the world.

silence.

your mind, a blank room, is silent.

there’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow down or around, so it just sits there as you retreat from the object, not wishing to poison the adoration seeped into its make with your anguish.

you move on, but not in the sense where people expect you to do so after loss. they expect you to grieve then continue with life like how the world keeps spinning.

instead, you visit the past, because he won’t be in your future.

his work station, full of talented crafts and unfinished projects, is calling you. the chair he’d sit in during late evenings with you nestled upon his lap awaits to be used again, but it never will. then, a groan in the floorboards guides you towards the walk-in closet instead.

the left side yours. the right side his.

you were pinned to the ground on the left, while breath was leaving him on the right.

a shiver crawls down your spine, as if spider leg’s have tickled you. your skin pricks with goosebumps, blades embedded under your skin, ready to cut at the slightest chance. the darkness is enclosing you in at all sides. there is no light anymore. even when you turn the light switch on, you’re still lost.

yet, you bury that feeling down. because all you feel now is joel’s flannel shirt against your cheek, rubbing the fabric against your skin like a cat in need of affection, acting as if it’s his chest when you’d grow sleepy in his arms.

it still smells like him. earthy woods and spice. your shoulders slowly fall, the invisible weight you’ve been carrying momentarily lifted. the fabric is soft, with the edges rough and threadbare.

sounds like someone you knew.

you never thought you’d use a knife like this again. instead of using it to protect yourself, you’re chopping it into carrots.

it’s domestic; cooking dinner for your husband and ellie, who’s the closest thing you have to a daughter. the warm lighting of the kitchen. the quiet bubbling of the pot on the stove. the aroma of fresh food recently cropped from the fields.

then, strong arms encircle your waist from behind. a heartbeat, one you’ve claimed, is a steady thump against your back. “smells nice, darlin’.” joel murmurs, resting his chin upon your shoulder.

you relax against him, exhaling a soft breath. you know that whatever happens, you can always lean against him. he hums appreciatively and glides his hand down your side, tugging the edge of the flannel you’re wearing. “this mine?”

tilting your chin up, catching his gaze, you smile slyly, “technically, what’s yours is mine and vice versa.”

“that right?”

heat rushes to your cheeks at his voice, rose petals blooming on your skin. it’s like whiskey: smooth, but burns you in the most delicious way.

“y’look good in it. how long you plannin’ on borrowing it for?”

his large hand encompasses yours, taking the cutlery away so he has your full attention, and slots his fingers through yours against the countertop.

“until you take it off me.” you smirk.

the air in the kitchen, one that was light and homely, twists into a heavy tension that needs release. a groan tumbles out of his mouth, and he slowly tugs down the collar of the flannel with his free hand. his fingertips brush against your skin, featherlight yet enough to make your breath hitch.

his lips press open-mouthed kisses against each patch of tepid skin that’s revealed, his knee sliding between your legs. your mind grows fuzzy, embers re-sparking throughout your veins.

“god, yer so beautiful. wanna worship this pretty body of yours forever.”

you’re about to speak, an order for him to whisk you away to your room on the tip of your tongue, but another voice, one that widens your eyes, is heard.

“eww! get a room, guys. need to scrub my eyes with bleach now.” ellie exclaims, dramatically, from the archway.

joel sighs, dropping his forehead to yours. you cover your mouth, halting yourself from giggling, and in unison, his chest rumbles against your back, stifling a chuckle.

“it’s not funny! i’m traumatised now.”

the warmth of his body heat lingers as he backs away, planting a kiss on your cheek before crossing his arms and facing ellie. you force yourself to ignore his biceps pulling taut against his shirt, and how he still towers over you while leaning against the counter, crossing his leg over the other. “you’re traumatised? how ‘bout that time i caught you with—”

“you said you wouldn’t bring that up again!” she groans, throwing her head back in feigned annoyance. she moves to your side and wraps her arms around your waist. “this is why you’re my favourite.”

you grin, patting her back and glancing at joel. his deadpanned expression is the opposite to your cheeky demeanour. “hear that? i’m the favourite.” you tease.

he shakes his head, amusement dancing in a subtle smile, but there’s a dark glint leftover swimming within his chocolate eyes which points towards you, and you’re aware he’s not finished with you.

you don’t ever want him to be.

loneliness comes crashing into you like a harsh tidal wave meeting the shore. you slip the flannel off the hanger and wear it, the memories sewn in each thread covering the crawl in your bones.

you sniffle, but that only worsens your stuffy nose. you want his scent to consume you again, but your body, exhausted and depleted, has other plans.

deciding to lay down, you embark towards the large bed. yet, instead of choosing the side you usually sleep on, you rest your head upon joel’s pillow.

it’s cold. unused in days. you’ve been slumbering on the couch since he passed. the neck pain is bearable compared to the suffocating reminder of your loss.

you can almost feel his arms around you. you yearn for it, so desperately you hug yourself. but it’s not enough. nothing will ever be enough anymore. the last memory of him holding you is like smoke. you reach for it, for him, but it slips from your grasp.

your bottom lip quivers, your mind conjuring flashes of his bloodied body on the floor instead of his clean body curled around you.

you don’t know what to do. you’re unsure of how to be okay again. but, you inhale deeply, just how joel taught you too when it felt like your ribs dug into your lungs and your oxygen was thinning, and exhale a shaky breath.

even in death, he’s still guiding you.

when you jolt awake, the moonlight glowing through the thin curtains nor the rustling of the duvet as your legs thrash against an invisible shackle is what you comprehend. it’s a pair of arms wrapping around you, guiding you back to the moment and not the ghastly nightmare is what you notice first.

“hey, hey. shh.”

your eyes dart around, wide and frantic, until they land on your home. the rays of silver accentuate his worried features, and he already appears awake and alert, as if knowing this would happen. your heart hammers against your ribcage like a drum, your breathing is laboured and uneven, and you’re trembling can almost rival an earthquake occurring.

“joel…” you choke out, and he immediately guides your head against his chest, rubbing your back gently.

“it’s okay, sweet girl, it’s okay. you just focus on my heart beatin’, alright?” he murmurs and kisses the crown of your head.

the steady thump of his heartbeat is a lullaby, soothing you into a tranquil state. his arms are a protective bubble that you never wish to pop. you listen to the proof he’s alive, your body melting into his embrace while your breathing aligns with his.

“that’s it, atta girl.” he praises softly, and you soak in the warmth he radiates, the brush of his salt and pepper beard against your forehead, the circles he traces on the ridges of your spine.

when you’re lost in a ravaging storm at sea, he’ll always be your anchor.

a silence settles, comforting and cosy. it’s one that doesn’t need to be filled, enough being spoken by actions. the remnants of your nightmare still lingers, stalking you in the shadows, but joel is the light pulling you away from it, because you’re reality isn’t clouded with darkness, but enthralled with glowing moments angels are jealous of.

he doesn’t delve into what happened in that beautiful brain of yours. you stubbornly won’t let it leave your tongue, so it dies there, only returning to haunt you when night falls.

“i’m sorry.” your voice, no longer carrying it’s usual teasing undertone, gently breaks the silence. “you must be losing sleep because of me.”

pulling back slightly, he tilts his chin down, his thumb and forefinger lifting yours up to meet his gaze. you see the soft furrow in his brows, the meagre downturn of his kissable lips. his thumb caressing your cheekbone is a relief compared to the agony you experienced in that dream.

“you ain't the reason why i’m losing sleep, baby. i ain't upset at you because of a nightmare you have no control over. hell, i’d lose a thousand hours of sleep just to make sure you're okay after one.”

“promise?”

he seals his promise by brushing his lips against yours. the kiss is slow and soft. you can taste his love—a love you’re so thankful to receive. it plants in every corner of yourself and grows wonderful, flourishing flowers. he waters them by showing his devotion, and the light they seek shines when you grace his presence.

your warm and delicate breaths mingle as the kiss parts, and he presses an everlasting one your forehead. turning over, your back meeting his chest, his arm encircles your waist and pulls you close with your legs entangling.

there’s the saying ‘the calm before the storm’, but no one talks about the calm after.

this is what it feels like.

you’re unsure of how much time has vanished, enough for the owls to hoot and the sky to grow darker, but words, so soft that they’re almost inaudible, flow into your ears.

“i love you.” joel confesses. “i ain’t never known love like i do with you.”

your smile growing mirrors your heart expanding. your smaller hand rests upon his that’s stroking your stomach. “i love you too.”

his movement falters. he must not have expected you to still be awake. his cheek nuzzles in your hair. “you hear all that sappy talk i was whispering?” he asks lightly.

you nod.

a beat passes.

“good. i was just bein’ honest.” he whispers, his hand moving once more in a tender touch. “get some sleep, honey. you’re safe. ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you while i’m around.”

and he was right. now he’s gone, everything hurts.

tears trickle down your face, seeping into the pillow and will forever be there. you never discussed your tormented dreams with him because you worried it’d come true if you voiced it aloud.

pairing ۶ৎ dead!joel x widow!reader.

summary ۶ৎ in which, reflecting on the past only causes more heartache.

warnings ۶ৎ grief, nightmares, mentions of violence, fluff and slight steaminess ( in flashbacks ).

a/n ۶ৎ first time writing for joel so of course i had to make it depressing !

word count ۶ৎ 2.8k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/enchanthings

Grief is an excruciating way of showing you loved someone.

You’ve experienced it before on numerous occasions, but none have ever so profoundly affected you until now. You wear it like a second coat. Your limbs are limp as if there’s no life in them anymore. It’s like you were a puppet, but suddenly you’re strings have been ruptured. Now, you’re falling into an endless abyss, and he isn’t there to catch you this time.

‘i miss you, i’m sorry.’

summary ۶ৎ in which, reflecting on the past only causes more heartache.

warnings ۶ৎ 18+ content/minors dni, grief, whole load of sad writing, dead!joel, nightmares, mentions of violence, fluff and slight steaminess ( in flashbacks ).

word count ۶ৎ 2.8k

𝓐/n ۶ৎ first time writing for joel so ofc i had to make it depressing. please don't copy, translate or repost my work to any other platforms. and please be kind; if you don't like it, simply move on. thank you for taking the time to read this ♡

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

‘everywhere i go leads me back to you.’

grief is an excruciating way of showing you loved someone.

you’ve experienced it before on numerous occasions, but none have ever so profoundly affected you until now. you wear it like a second coat. your limbs are limp as if there’s no life in them anymore. it’s like you were a puppet, but suddenly you’re strings have been ruptured. now, you’re falling into an endless abyss, and he isn’t there to catch you this time.

each step you take against the cold, wooden floors is forced, your cerebellum clouded by an overwhelming darkness that’s ready to die out and reunite with your soulmate in another life.

yet, you keep moving. your movements are light and unimposing. you’re a ghost in your own home, drifting through and reliving what was. the warmth of the miller’s home is no longer present. a coldness is replaced, the light of the sky shining through the windows gloomy and dull, as though the world is wallowing in regret, knowing it stole someone too soon.

the door to you and your husband’s bedroom creaks as you slowly open it, but you remain frozen in place. you can’t enter. you won’t allow yourself to. the last time you inhabited it, you weren’t alone. you were safe in his arms. you were happy under his gaze. you were loved.

now, there’s nothing but emptiness.

that safe haven disappeared when his arms fell to his sides. that happiness was crushed at the same time his head was. that love…that unconditional, pure love, which you only thought people experienced in romance novels, followed him into the afterlife and left an aching void behind.

taking a deep breath, you enter, and something so raw and and powerful claws at your chest, ripping out a quiet sob. your eyes, once full of ardour, now glisten with unshed tears as they land on his guitar.

your heart guides you, your feet following. quivering fingertips trace the sapili wood, the same way you’d touch the lines on his forehead. there’s a small, fleeting curve of your lips, one no one would notice unless studying you like you’re art.

art.

when joel played, it was art.

the gentle breeze washes over you, wisps of your hair dancing under the sunrise. the fresh brew of coffee sitting in your mug flows into your senses, heating your palms up. you never take your mornings in jackson for granted, allowing yourself to feel and notice every little thing. the peacefulness is a welcoming contrast to the fight for survival outside those walls, and the company is greater too. instead of those monstrous beings, beside you on the porch, in his own respective rocking chair, is joel.

you wake up earlier than most, bad omens sprouting into your sleep like a drug spreading and jolting you back to reality when it’s faded. he never lets you bear it alone, nor does he fall back asleep. he starts the day when you do.

he cradles the instrument the same way he does you, with a caring and gentleness others wouldn’t assume a grumpy man can harbour.

shifting so his body is in your direction, joel glances up from his guitar to you. without fail, he makes you feel seen, as though your soul is laid bare and he’s worshiping every single part. “y’know, i was thinkin’ about this song earlier. reminded me of you.” he speaks, his texan drawl softened a smidge from the lingering morning voice.

joel’s never been good with words. he’s more of an action man: ensuring you have your hat, gloves and scarf on a winter’s day so you have protection against the bitter nature, or returning on a patrol with a new book for you to get lost in then he’ll intently and admirably listen as you analyse and rave about it later on.

with music, however, he discovers the perfect words to explain how deeply he feels for you.

“are you going to sing it for me or be frustratingly vague about it?” you tease, earning a roll of his eyes and a nudge of his boot against your own foot.

clearing his throat, he exhales a breath, and his calloused fingers begin playing against the chords. it’s a gentle dance, the movements careful yet in-sync, and it reminds you of how he danced with you inside town hall during a christmas celebration.

it’s then you realise you’re the music to his life.

the tune is pulchritudinous, and the way he plays could’ve risen him to fame before the outbreak, but it’s when he hums, working up to vocals, that every other noise fades. the rustling of leaves in the nearby trees have ceased to listen, the noise of people starting their day paling. nothing else matters now except him, and if you had the choice to hear only one thing on earth, his voice, deep and rugged, but reverent and tender, would be the winner.

“the smile on your face lets me know that you need me.”

“there's a truth in your eyes sayin’ you'll never leave me.”

“the touch of your hand says you'll catch me wherever i fall.”

the strongly-felt lyrics wrap around you like the warmest hug. you relax into your chair, admiring everything about him; to the lilt of his voice, and to the way his salt and pepper curls sway to the song.

you’ve never felt this before with anyone. never been an artist’s muse. but, as his eyes occasionally flicker upwards, consuming your smile that lets any remaining tension in his bones melt away, your heartbeat mirrors the cadence, and one thought remains front and centre of your mind: you’re the luckiest person in the world.

silence.

your mind, a blank room, is silent.

there’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow down or around, so it just sits there as you retreat from the object, not wishing to poison the adoration seeped into its make with your anguish.

you move on, but not in the sense where people expect you to do so after loss. they expect you to grieve then continue with life like how the world keeps spinning.

instead, you visit the past, because he won’t be in your future.

his work station, full of talented crafts and unfinished projects, is calling you. the chair he’d sit in during late evenings with you nestled upon his lap awaits to be used again, but it never will. then, a groan in the floorboards guides you towards the walk-in closet instead.

the left side yours. the right side his.

you were pinned to the ground on the left, while breath was leaving him on the right.

a shiver crawls down your spine, as if spider leg’s have tickled you. your skin pricks with goosebumps, blades embedded under your skin, ready to cut at the slightest chance. the darkness is enclosing you in at all sides. there is no light anymore. even when you turn the light switch on, you’re still lost.

yet, you bury that feeling down. because all you feel now is joel’s flannel shirt against your cheek, rubbing the fabric against your skin like a cat in need of affection, acting as if it’s his chest when you’d grow sleepy in his arms.

it still smells like him. earthy woods and spice. your shoulders slowly fall, the invisible weight you’ve been carrying momentarily lifted. the fabric is soft, with the edges rough and threadbare.

sounds like someone you knew.

you never thought you’d use a knife like this again. instead of using it to protect yourself, you’re chopping it into carrots.

it’s domestic; cooking dinner for your husband and ellie, who’s the closest thing you have to a daughter. the warm lighting of the kitchen. the quiet bubbling of the pot on the stove. the aroma of fresh food recently cropped from the fields.

then, strong arms encircle your waist from behind. a heartbeat, one you’ve claimed, is a steady thump against your back. “smells nice, darlin’.” joel murmurs, resting his chin upon your shoulder.

you relax against him, exhaling a soft breath. you know that whatever happens, you can always lean against him. he hums appreciatively and glides his hand down your side, tugging the edge of the flannel you’re wearing. “this mine?”

tilting your chin up, catching his gaze, you smile slyly, “technically, what’s yours is mine and vice versa.”

“that right?”

heat rushes to your cheeks at his voice, rose petals blooming on your skin. it’s like whiskey: smooth, but burns you in the most delicious way.

“y’look good in it. how long you plannin’ on borrowing it for?”

his large hand encompasses yours, taking the cutlery away so he has your full attention, and slots his fingers through yours against the countertop.

“until you take it off me.” you smirk.

the air in the kitchen, one that was light and homely, twists into a heavy tension that needs release. a groan tumbles out of his mouth, and he slowly tugs down the collar of the flannel with his free hand. his fingertips brush against your skin, featherlight yet enough to make your breath hitch.

his lips press open-mouthed kisses against each patch of tepid skin that’s revealed, his knee sliding between your legs. your mind grows fuzzy, embers re-sparking throughout your veins.

“god, yer so beautiful. wanna worship this pretty body of yours forever.”

you’re about to speak, an order for him to whisk you away to your room on the tip of your tongue, but another voice, one that widens your eyes, is heard.

“eww! get a room, guys. need to scrub my eyes with bleach now.” ellie exclaims, dramatically, from the archway.

joel sighs, dropping his forehead to yours. you cover your mouth, halting yourself from giggling, and in unison, his chest rumbles against your back, stifling a chuckle.

“it’s not funny! i’m traumatised now.”

the warmth of his body heat lingers as he backs away, planting a kiss on your cheek before crossing his arms and facing ellie. you force yourself to ignore his biceps pulling taut against his shirt, and how he still towers over you while leaning against the counter, crossing his leg over the other. “you’re traumatised? how ‘bout that time i caught you with—”

“you said you wouldn’t bring that up again!” she groans, throwing her head back in feigned annoyance. she moves to your side and wraps her arms around your waist. “this is why you’re my favourite.”

you grin, patting her back and glancing at joel. his deadpanned expression is the opposite to your cheeky demeanour. “hear that? i’m the favourite.” you tease.

he shakes his head, amusement dancing in a subtle smile, but there’s a dark glint leftover swimming within his chocolate eyes which points towards you, and you’re aware he’s not finished with you.

you don’t ever want him to be.

loneliness comes crashing into you like a harsh tidal wave meeting the shore. you slip the flannel off the hanger and wear it, the memories sewn in each thread covering the crawl in your bones.

you sniffle, but that only worsens your stuffy nose. you want his scent to consume you again, but your body, exhausted and depleted, has other plans.

deciding to lay down, you embark towards the large bed. yet, instead of choosing the side you usually sleep on, you rest your head upon joel’s pillow.

it’s cold. unused in days. you’ve been slumbering on the couch since he passed. the neck pain is bearable compared to the suffocating reminder of your loss.

you can almost feel his arms around you. you yearn for it, so desperately you hug yourself. but it’s not enough. nothing will ever be enough anymore. the last memory of him holding you is like smoke. you reach for it, for him, but it slips from your grasp.

your bottom lip quivers, your mind conjuring flashes of his bloodied body on the floor instead of his clean body curled around you.

you don’t know what to do. you’re unsure of how to be okay again. but, you inhale deeply, just how joel taught you too when it felt like your ribs dug into your lungs and your oxygen was thinning, and exhale a shaky breath.

even in death, he’s still guiding you.

when you jolt awake, the moonlight glowing through the thin curtains nor the rustling of the duvet as your legs thrash against an invisible shackle is what you comprehend. it’s a pair of arms wrapping around you, guiding you back to the moment and not the ghastly nightmare is what you notice first.

“hey, hey. shh.”

your eyes dart around, wide and frantic, until they land on your home. the rays of silver accentuate his worried features, and he already appears awake and alert, as if knowing this would happen. your heart hammers against your ribcage like a drum, your breathing is laboured and uneven, and you’re trembling can almost rival an earthquake occurring.

“joel…” you choke out, and he immediately guides your head against his chest, rubbing your back gently.

“it’s okay, sweet girl, it’s okay. you just focus on my heart beatin’, alright?” he murmurs and kisses the crown of your head.

the steady thump of his heartbeat is a lullaby, soothing you into a tranquil state. his arms are a protective bubble that you never wish to pop. you listen to the proof he’s alive, your body melting into his embrace while your breathing aligns with his.

“that’s it, atta girl.” he praises softly, and you soak in the warmth he radiates, the brush of his salt and pepper beard against your forehead, the circles he traces on the ridges of your spine.

when you’re lost in a ravaging storm at sea, he’ll always be your anchor.

a silence settles, comforting and cosy. it’s one that doesn’t need to be filled, enough being spoken by actions. the remnants of your nightmare still lingers, stalking you in the shadows, but joel is the light pulling you away from it, because you’re reality isn’t clouded with darkness, but enthralled with glowing moments angels are jealous of.

he doesn’t delve into what happened in that beautiful brain of yours. you stubbornly won’t let it leave your tongue, so it dies there, only returning to haunt you when night falls.

“i’m sorry.” your voice, no longer carrying it’s usual teasing undertone, gently breaks the silence. “you must be losing sleep because of me.”

pulling back slightly, he tilts his chin down, his thumb and forefinger lifting yours up to meet his gaze. you see the soft furrow in his brows, the meagre downturn of his kissable lips. his thumb caressing your cheekbone is a relief compared to the agony you experienced in that dream.

“you ain't the reason why i’m losing sleep, baby. i ain't upset at you because of a nightmare you have no control over. hell, i’d lose a thousand hours of sleep just to make sure you're okay after one.”

“promise?”

he seals his promise by brushing his lips against yours. the kiss is slow and soft. you can taste his love—a love you’re so thankful to receive. it plants in every corner of yourself and grows wonderful, flourishing flowers. he waters them by showing his devotion, and the light they seek shines when you grace his presence.

your warm and delicate breaths mingle as the kiss parts, and he presses an everlasting one your forehead. turning over, your back meeting his chest, his arm encircles your waist and pulls you close with your legs entangling.

there’s the saying ‘the calm before the storm’, but no one talks about the calm after.

this is what it feels like.

you’re unsure of how much time has vanished, enough for the owls to hoot and the sky to grow darker, but words, so soft that they’re almost inaudible, flow into your ears.

“i love you.” joel confesses. “i ain’t never known love like i do with you.”

your smile growing mirrors your heart expanding. your smaller hand rests upon his that’s stroking your stomach. “i love you too.”

his movement falters. he must not have expected you to still be awake. his cheek nuzzles in your hair. “you hear all that sappy talk i was whispering?” he asks lightly.

you nod.

a beat passes.

“good. i was just bein’ honest.” he whispers, his hand moving once more in a tender touch. “get some sleep, honey. you’re safe. ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you while i’m around.”

and he was right. now he’s gone, everything hurts.

tears trickle down your face, seeping into the pillow and will forever be there. you never discussed your tormented dreams with him because you worried it’d come true if you voiced it aloud.

this was perfection. genuinely a perfect, beautiful depiction of the grief she's feeling for Joel. the way you wrote this... your talent is genuinely so effortless. perfect.

"it’s then you realise you’re the music to his life." this is so sweet and makes the hurt that much worse 😭

"even in death, he’s still guiding you." this is so representative of their love and how much they meant to each other. especially in such a world where there is no guidance, and trust is hardly a concept... they found that in each other, which makes it even more special.

pairing ۶ৎ clark kent x reader , ft reader’s!daughter. warnings ۶ৎ fluff, established relationship, no use of y/n, pet name ( honey ). word count ۶ৎ 0.8k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide

Clark Kent tries his best at being a step-father to your daughter.

Some days, his writing consists of dad jokes he’s engraved into his mind like ‘why did the cookie go to the hospital? Because it felt crummy.’ On gentler days, he writes how proud he is of her for simply venturing into school, accompanied by a smiley-face drawing.

pairing ۶ৎ clark kent x reader , ft reader’s!daughter. warnings ۶ৎ fluff, established relationship, no use of y/n, pet name ( honey ). word count ۶ৎ 0.8k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide

Clark Kent tries his best at being a step-father to your daughter.

pairing ۶ৎ clark kent x reader , ft reader’s!daughter. warnings ۶ৎ fluff, established relationship, no use of y/n, pet name ( honey ). word count ۶ৎ 0.8k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide

Clark Kent tries his best at being a step-father to your daughter.

pairing ۶ৎ clark kent x reader , ft reader’s!daughter. warnings ۶ৎ fluff, established relationship, no use of y/n, pet name ( honey ). word count ۶ৎ 0.8k | divider creds ۶ৎ @/angeliicide

Clark Kent tries his best at being a step-father to your daughter.