endure & survive.

cass. 28. canadian as fuck, eh? @casstheass on AO3

[crazywolf828]

To all my writers who have a tough time with smut terms and not knowing which ones to use, I have found the holy grail for us.

This reddit user, who I've recently found out is @kjscottwrites here on tumblr, took a poll of 3,500 people and went really in depth with asking their favorite terminology, along with actual pie charts on what the readers preferred to see in their smut.

Check out their post with the link to the Google doc here!

[casstheasswrites]

SAVE WHO YOU CAN SAVE (7)

pairing: joel miller x reader (female)

summary: you weren’t supposed to make it this far. dragged half-dead through jackson’s gates, you enter into a world still spinning— slower, quieter, but not much safer. the man who carried you there says little, watches too closely, and keeps his distance like it’s for your own good. but he keeps showing up, again and again. and you’re starting to wonder who’s saving who.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. joel is a sweet southern gentleman, just sort of tucked behind a few very thick layers. reader is a bit of a troll who uses humour to cope <3

chapter length: 3.3k

authors note:  shorter one but things are reaching a boiling point here soon. hope you enjoy! please interact if you do <3 and feel free to send me a message or comment if you want to be added to the taglist.

tag list: @ivuravix / @peelieblue / @cowboylikelil / @l0v3rgirl13 / @libraryofneith / @armandispunk / @ghostytoasty17 / @sohaaa6 / @millersrevolver / @anoverwhelmingdin / @chewie-bars

The walk was short, though it felt stretched thin with every step, each one carrying more weight than you wanted to admit. Joel didn’t look back to check if you were following— he hadn’t needed to. He moved ahead with that same sure-footed certainty he always carried, like the world bent around the fact of him.

His porch came into view eventually, the light above the door burning soft and amber against the dark. The windows glowed faintly, fogged with warmth from inside, and for a moment you hesitated at the bottom of the steps. It looked lived-in. Claimed. A place with edges and stories, not a waypoint or shelter. He pushed the door open without pause, the creak of the hinges familiar to him in a way that tightened something low in your chest.

The air inside wrapped around you, warmer than you expected. Woodsmoke clung faint beneath the heavier scent of leather, old paper, and coffee grounds long since brewed. It smelled like him, you realized, though you hated the thought for how it lodged itself inside of you, too deep to pry free with trembling fingertips.

Crossing the threshold felt like stepping into something private, a boundary he hadn’t invited many through.

“Sit down,” Joel said, his voice carrying low from the hall as he angled toward the kitchen. He didn’t remove his coat or kick off his shoes, and neither did you. A vague flick of his hand marked the living room, his back never turning. “I’ll get the coffee.”

You didn’t sit. Not right away.

The room was dim, a single lamp casting a warm pool of light over the couch and the worn rug beneath it. Shelves lined the walls, dust-free and carefully kept. A stack of books slouched on the side table, their spines creased and softened by more than one read.

You caught yourself moving slowly through the space, fingers sliding along the wooden mantle as though to anchor yourself in the reality of it.

That’s when you noticed the frames.

Tommy’s face grinned back at you from one, Maria’s steady gaze beside him. In another, there was a younger girl, her dark hair tied back in a rough ponytail, smile wide and sharp-edged, one arm slung carelessly across Joel’s shoulder.

You blinked, unsettled by the casual closeness, by the joy caught mid-moment in a way that didn’t seem to belong to the man you knew.

And then there was another. A different girl, younger still. Her hair was loose, her curls dark and shining, her features softer, almost delicate. She was laughing at something just outside the frame, caught mid-motion, eyes bright with a lightness you didn’t have a name for. It was an older photo, one that had been marked by time. The edges were yellowing and there were scratches across the girl’s face, as if it had been passed through many sets of hands.

You had just begun to reach toward the glass of the frame when his voice came from behind you, rougher for how close it was. “You snoopin’?”

You startled, spinning halfway to face him, the heat of embarrassment rushing up your neck. In his hands he held two mugs, steam curling up from their rims.

You didn’t bother denying it. “Maybe.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, and crossed the room to set one mug down on the table. Then he sank onto the couch with the kind of ease that spoke of habit, his body settling heavy into the cushions.

You hesitated only a moment longer before lowering yourself beside him. The cushion dipped under your weight, tilting you subtly toward him, until the space between your thighs was barely more than a breath. The heat of him radiated toward you, humming through the narrow divide, and all you could think about was how little it would take to close it.

One of his arms lifted and stretched along the backrest of the couch, wide and casual, but when he stilled, it framed the line of your shoulders. He was close enough, now, that if you shifted even slightly, his knuckles might graze the curve of your shoulder.

Joel held his mug in his left hand, his gaze flicking to you in the low light. “Figured you’ve got some questions for me.”

You shrugged, leaning forward in your seat to reach for your coffee. “And I figured you wouldn’t answer them.”

That earned the faintest curve of his mouth, something between a smirk and a grimace. He didn’t correct you.

For a while, the only sound was the soft clink of ceramic when he set his mug down.

You traced the rim of yours with your thumb, then let the words slip before you could lose your nerve. “Who was the girl? The younger one. In the older photo.”

Joel’s head tilted, just enough that the shadows shifted across his face. For a moment he didn’t speak, and you wondered if you’d overstepped, if you’d pried into something he’d never meant you to see.

He’d invited you here, though. He had to have known you’d see.

But then, low and even, he said, “My daughter. Sarah.”

The name settled between you like a stone tossed into still water, rippling outward. You felt it in your chest, the way it hollowed the air.

Joel, who carried himself like stone, like steel— he was someone’s father. The thought was startling, almost disorienting. You couldn’t picture him that way, not entirely: tucking a child’s hair behind her ear, steadying small hands as they learned, standing watch over someone whose world had revolved around him. And yet, the word daughter peeled something back, showed you a truth so intimate it left you unsteady.

Your throat tightened. “She’s beautiful.”

He nodded once, the movement stiff, his gaze fixed on a point far beyond the lamplight, his voice rasping low. “Yeah. She was.”

The past tense struck harder than anything else could have. Was. It lashed through you like a whip, sharp and merciless, cutting deeper than you had any right to let it. Joel had lost her— his daughter— and somehow he was still here, still breathing, still carrying the weight of that truth inside his silence.

Your chest clenched so tight it hurt. The ache spread outward in ways you didn’t expect, sharp behind your ribs, crawling up the line of your throat until your eyes pressed shut against the sting. You could feel it in your hands too, the tremor of it, your grip tightening around the mug until the heat threatened to burn. You thought of your own loss, of how it hollowed you, and in that instant it was unbearable to imagine Joel had been carved open in the same way— that he, too, knew the particular cruelty of love that ended in ruin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered at last, the words small, fragile, wholly inadequate against the vastness of what he’d confessed.

Your eyes opened and you turned towards him, watching him in the dim light.

Joel’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He gave the smallest shake of his head, as though to dismiss the apology. “Happened a long time ago.”

The silence stretched, brittle with the weight of what hadn’t been said. You wanted to ask more, but the grief in his profile— etched deep and immovable— kept you still.

So instead, your gaze flicked back toward the mantle, and you asked the other question pressing against your ribs. “And the other girl? The one with you, with the ponytail.”

This time, his lips twitched, something softer flickering across his face— something like the ghost of a smile, though it never reached his eyes. “Ellie.” He paused, the name lingering in the space between you. “She’s… complicated. Family.” 

You nodded slowly, though the words tangled in ways you couldn’t quite tear free. You didn’t understand, not fully, but the weight in his tone made you certain it wasn’t something he said lightly.

“She lives here, in Jackson. Her rooms upstairs. You’ll meet her at some point.”

You blinked, surprised by the casual certainty in his tone, the suggestion of a future where your paths might cross.

Before you could puzzle through what that meant, the corner of his mouth curved in a wry, almost fond sort of way. “She’d like you. She’s a smartass, too.”

A startled laugh caught in your throat, softer than you intended. The idea of Joel tolerating not one but two sharp tongues in his life felt almost absurd. You glanced sideways, searching his expression for a trace of exaggeration, but the faint glimmer in his eyes told you he meant it.

The heaviness between you shifted, not gone, but lighter for the first time. You sipped your coffee to hide the way your lips wanted to curve into something you weren’t ready to name.

That was all he offered, but it was more than you expected. You studied him in the quiet, the way his shoulders stayed tight, the way his arm still framed your back though he hadn’t seemed to notice.

“You don’t talk about them much, do you?”

Joel’s gaze cut to you at last, sharp and unblinking. For a beat, you thought he might shut down, retreat into that wall of silence he carried so well.

Instead, he cleared his throat, letting out a low breath. “Don’t mean I don’t think about ’em.”

The words landed in you like an echo, because you knew what it was to carry the dead everywhere you went. Knew what it was to breathe around ghosts. You didn’t say it aloud, but the truth of it sat heavy in your chest all the same.

Joel’s words lingered in the quiet, the weight of them circling you both. You held onto your mug a little tighter, letting the steam curl against your face, unsure if you were meant to respond or simply carry the silence with him.

“What about you?”

The question was simple, but the way he asked it made your pulse stumble.

You blinked. “What about me?”

Joel’s brow furrowed faintly, like he wasn’t about to let you wriggle out of it. “Before I found you down in that basement.” He paused, his voice lowering, roughened not with judgment but with something closer to curiousity. “What was your life like, before?”

Your mouth curved into a half-smile, brittle around the edges. “Define life.”

That earned a huff from him, a puff of air through his nose that might’ve been amusement, though it didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Ya know what I mean.”

You looked away, eyes tracing the curve of your mug, the faint ring it had left on the table. The urge to deflect pressed sharp against your chest, to shrug it off, to say it didn’t matter. To keep the ghosts locked tight where they belonged. But Joel’s gaze held steady, unrelenting in its quiet, and the pressure in your ribs made it hard to breathe.

For once, you didn’t have the strength to wall it off completely. He’d offered some of his own ghosts up to you, let you glimpse the fractures in him. It felt only fair that you tried to do the same.

“I had…” The words scraped jagged in your throat. You cleared it and tried again, each syllable a stone dragged over gravel. “I had a sister. Alice.”

Her name slipped out before you could stop it. It hung there fragile and sharp, a blade balanced in the air.

Joel didn’t say anything right away. He only leaned back a fraction, his arm still braced along the back of the couch, his expression unreadable but not unkind. Waiting. Not prying, not pushing— just holding the space you’d given him. Your chest ached as though your ribs were bound too tightly.

You exhaled, shaky, the sound betraying you. “She—” The word crumbled. You shook your head, unable to force the rest through the knot in your throat. The memories of her pressed against your temples and clawed at the back of your throat, begging to be released.

You lifted the mug to your lips, using the burn of the coffee to ground yourself, to scald down anything that lingered. “She’s gone now,” you managed, your voice brittle, shaky. “It doesn’t matter.”

The stove cracked softly somewhere behind you, the wind sighing at the windows.

Then Joel’s voice cut through, low and steady. “Reckon it does.”

The quiet insistence pressed against you, pried at the seam you’d left open. Your hand trembled where it cupped the mug, the reflection of your face breaking into ripples with every shake.

“She was younger than me,” you whispered, your voice thin. “Bright. Loud. The kind of loud that made people forgive her for everything else. She could… she could light up a room, just by being in it. Even after everything.”

The images rose, too sharp to fight back— her tilted head, the warmth of her gaze, that laugh always too big for the walls that tried to contain it. Your chest throbbed with the ache of it, your eyes stung with heat you refused to let fall. You blinked hard, willing it down, but it pressed and pressed until you felt your breath snag shallow in your lungs.

“She didn’t deserve—” The words snagged, splintering apart, cutting you open from the inside. You tried to stop them before they hollowed you completely, but they spilled free in ragged pieces. “I didn’t save her. I tried, I really tried, but it didn’t matter in the end.”

The confession bled into the quiet, a wound laid bare. You braced for questions, for him to press until it broke you open further. That was how it always went— people prying, demanding explanations you couldn’t give. People seeing your darkest parts and turning away.

But Joel didn’t.

When you finally lifted your head, his eyes were already on you, his jaw set, grief etched in the lamplight. He didn’t look away. He didn’t flinch.

“It matters,” he said. “You tried and that matters.” The words were rough, dragged raw from somewhere deep in him, but quiet— quiet like he knew that if he gave them more weight, you’d shatter.

His arm shifted on the couch behind you, the fabric creaking softly. And his fingers moved, just enough to brush the top of your shoulder. It was the barest touch, deliberate in its restraint, yet it reached through the armour you’d wrapped around yourself, steadying and undoing you all at once.

For a heartbeat neither of you moved… but something in the air bent and drew taut like a thread stretched to the point of breaking.

The space between you began to fold in on itself, collapsing until there was barely any left. You felt the solid heat of his thigh pressed against yours, his fingers shifting more firmly on your shoulder, anchoring you in place. His breath ghosted across your skin, uneven, carrying the faintest tremor of something that made your pulse stutter.

Your gaze betrayed you, sliding down to his mouth. The line of his lips was rough, set hard, but then he let out a soft exhale, startled, as though the nearness caught him off guard too.

And still, he leaned closer.

Your pulse surged—

The front door burst open with a rush of cold air, Tommy’s voice tumbling in ahead of him.

“There you are, I’ve been lookin’ all over— figured you’d be holed up instead of—”

The door slammed against the frame, rattling the walls, his boots thudding heavy across the threshold. He barreled down the hall, words rolling unchecked in that familiar drawl that always seemed too big for the space.

You jolted upright, coffee sloshing over the rim of your mug and scalding the back of your hand. The sting shot sharp through you as you hissed under your breath, setting the cup down on the table with more force than you meant.

By the time Tommy rounded the archway into the living room, you were already standing, breath unsteady, your hands clenched tight at your sides. Joel hadn’t moved, not really, but the sudden absence of his arm behind you felt louder than the slam of the door.

Tommy faltered, his stride hitching when his eyes flicked between the two of you— your flushed face, Joel sinking back into his seat like the couch might swallow him whole.

He cleared his throat, awkward now in a way you hadn’t seen him before. “Uh, well, I was just— I thought I’d drag you along to the Christmas Eve thing before Maria sends a search party.”

“I was just leaving,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before anyone could speak. Your hand still smarted from the coffee, but you ignored it, already darting across the living room like you were being chased from the space. “Thanks for the coffee, Joel.”

You didn’t wait for a reply. The space suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in, your own pulse a roar in your ears. In three quick strides you were out into the hall, fumbling with the zipper of your coat, desperate for cold air and distance.

Behind you, you thought you heard Tommy’s voice again— half confusion, half amusement— but you didn’t stop long enough to listen.

The night air hit you like a shock, sharp and biting, your breath curling white as you tugged your coat tight. Still, it wasn’t enough to cool the fire burning under your skin. Every step away from Joel’s door only seemed to stoke it higher, the echo of his voice, his eyes, the touch of his hand replaying in the dark.

Desire pooled low in your stomach, a heat you didn’t want to name, didn’t want to admit— not to yourself, not to anyone. It tangled with something else, something sharper. The way your chest had clenched when his gaze caught yours. The way the space between you had folded in like it was meant to disappear. You didn’t know what to call it, but it scared you.

Your boots crunched against the frozen ground, carrying you without thought toward the sound that rose from the heart of Jackson. Music floated on the air, laughter too, spilling warmth and light into the snow-choked streets. Lanterns glowed along the eaves, garlands strung overhead, and for the first time since you’d arrived, you realized how loud the town could be when it wanted to.

You slowed, heart still pounding, eyes sweeping the square. The mess hall had opened wide to the night, doors thrown back to let the glow spill into the street. Inside, the long rows of tables and chairs had been cleared away, a band set up along one wall with their instruments cutting sharp and bright through the din. Strings of lights hung low across the ceiling, swaying gently whenever the door shut hard against the cold.

People pressed shoulder to shoulder, some spilling into the square outside, mugs lifted high. Their voices rose in a ragged chorus, laughter slipping loose between the words, the air alive with the hum of it. The sharper tang of whiskey cut through the sweetness of mulled wine and spiced cider, heady enough to draw you closer before you even realized you’d been moving.

You hadn’t meant to come here, hadn’t meant to walk straight into the center of it all. But as soon as someone caught sight of you— a woman flushed pink from drink— she waved you in like you belonged. Another pressed a steaming mug into your hand before you could form a protest.

And just like that, you were swallowed into the fold, the town closing around you with a warmth you hadn’t expected, hadn’t even realized you’d been aching for.

[casstheasswrites]

SAVE WHO YOU CAN SAVE (6)

pairing: joel miller x reader (female)

summary: you weren’t supposed to make it this far. dragged half-dead through jackson’s gates, you enter into a world still spinning— slower, quieter, but not much safer. the man who carried you there says little, watches too closely, and keeps his distance like it’s for your own good. but he keeps showing up, again and again. and you’re starting to wonder who’s saving who.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. joel is a sweet southern gentleman, just sort of tucked behind a few very thick layers. reader is a bit of a troll who uses humour to cope <3

chapter length: 4.1k

authors note: feel free to send me a message or comment if you want to be added to the taglist <3

tag list: @ivuravix / @peelieblue / @cowboylikelil / @l0v3rgirl13 / @libraryofneith / @armandispunk / @ghostytoasty17 / @sohaaa6 / @millersrevolver / @anoverwhelmingdin / @chewie-bars

You escaped into the familiar, antiseptic-coated walls of the clinic with ease.

The work was quiet, and steady, and kept your mind busy. Even as the walls of your chest threatened to cave in.

The air inside carried that sharp sting of rubbing alcohol and boiled water, threaded with the faint musk of smoke from the iron stove in the corner. The cot nearest the window sagged at the center, its wool blanket patterned with small, uneven stitches, evidence of hands that mended what they could.

You exhaled a long, held breath, letting the cold outside fall away. The quiet here wasn’t silence, exactly— it was filled with the soft rasp of paper when Holly turned a page on her clipboard, the clink of metal basins, the bubbling hiss of water set to sterilize. All of it came together into something steady, a rhythm you could anchor yourself to when your thoughts grew too sharp.

Your chest tightened anyway. Always did, when the noise in your head tried to creep in. But here you had things to do, things that asked for your focus. Press this clean cloth to a scrape, measure out drops of tincture, tie the knot tight enough to hold but loose enough not to cut. Simple, repeatable motions, each one giving you a brief reprieve from the corners of your mind darkened by shadow.

Holly stood a few feet away, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, forearms smudged with ink and iodine alike. She worked with a kind of brisk certainty that you envied. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Her sharp eyes flicked to your hands as you mimicked the motion she’d just demonstrated. You fumbled at first, the gauze slipping from your grip, your knot coming out crooked. Heat flared at the back of your neck.

“Not like that,” she said, voice clipped but not unkind. She stepped in, her fingers brushing yours only long enough to reposition them, the faint tang of soap clinging to her skin. “There. Try again.”

You swallowed, pulled the cloth taut, and started over, slower this time. Steadier. When you finished, the knot held, neat enough that even Holly’s critical gaze lingered on it for a breath longer than usual.

“Better,” she muttered, then added, almost like an afterthought, “Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good. We’re not going for pretty— we’re going for practical.”

The words hung in the air, as sharp as the smell of antiseptic, and lodged deep in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, so you only nodded, your throat tight, your hands already reaching for the next task.

You worked in silence, hands moving where Holly directed them, trying to let the steadiness of the task settle into your bones. Press. Tie. Cut. Repeat. The rhythm should have soothed you, should have anchored you.

But the silence wasn’t safe, not really. It left space for memory to creep in.

Your gaze fixed on the pale strip of gauze in your palm and suddenly it wasn’t fabric at all, but firelight catching on the torn hem of a shirt. The hiss of boiling water blurred into the remembered crackle of flames devouring wood. The sharp sting in your nose twisted into something harsher— smoke as thick as tar, searing your throat as you ran.

The past came not in whole scenes, but in shards, jagged and disjointed. The beam of a flashlight sweeping across the dark, catching on faces and bodies, eyes open but unseeing, blood pooling black along the river stones. Boots crushing down into the earth, hands closing around your arms, yanking you off balance, throwing you to the dirt.

A scream tore free, though it wasn’t yours.

It was your sister’s. Alice’s. High, sharp, and raw.

Terror lashed through you, back then and now, a cold drip of agony slicing down your spine.

You saw her eyes, then— bluer than the river beneath the moon, wide with fear and slick with tears. She looked at you as though you could stop it, as though you alone could be enough, and all you could do was watch as they took and took and took, until the night itself seemed to split open around you.

Your stomach lurched. The gauze slipped from your fingers. Somewhere in the haze, your elbow knocked into a metal basin perched at the table’s edge.

It hit the floor with a shattering clang. Water sloshed out in a shining sheet, soaking into your boots, splashing cold against your calves. The shock of it dragged you back, sudden and violent.

“Oh— fuck.” The words scraped out of your throat raw. You dropped to your knees, scrambling for a rag, your fingers clumsy and wet as you pressed it against the spreading pool. The linoleum gleamed with water, slick under your palms, threatening to send you sliding. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Your voice cracked, too loud in the sterile quiet. “I’ll clean it up. I’ll—”

The towel soaked heavy in your hands, your breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up, couldn’t face the weight of eyes on you.

When you finally managed to look up, Holly stood across the room, unmoved. Her hands were still, her clipboard forgotten at her side. She stood rooted, gaze fixed on you, something unreadable widening her dark eyes as the silence stretched.

You stayed crouched low, shoulders hunched, towel dragging across the wet floor until it was mostly dry. The silence pressed in, unbearable, until the sound of Holly clearing her throat broke it.

“That’s enough for today.”

Her tone wasn’t sharp, not like it had been when she corrected you earlier. It was even, almost quiet, but it struck like a blow all the same. You froze with the rag in your hand, the words echoing in your chest. Enough. You’d been dismissed, no longer needed.

No longer worth having around.

“Go on and get yourself something to eat,” Holly added after a beat, shifting her clipboard beneath her arm. “I’ll see you in a couple days.”

You couldn’t quite lift your head, couldn’t quite meet her eyes. There was no edge in her voice, no anger, but the weight of your own embarrassment filled in the spaces where kindness might have lived.

Your throat burned as though smoke still lingered there, and you forced a jerky nod, muttering a strangled, “Alright,” as you shoved the damp towel onto the basin’s rim.

The antiseptic smell clawed at you as you rose, clumsy on legs that still trembled from the shock of memory. You reached for your coat where it hung by the door, fingers fumbling with the worn fabric as you pulled it from the hook. The air in the clinic was warm, but you shoved your arms through the sleeves anyway, the motion hurried, desperate to cover yourself, to do something with your hands. Tugging it closed around you, you moved for the door before Holly could say anything else— before she could watch you unravel any further.

The cold outside hit hard but it didn’t burn the way the inside did.

The door shut behind you with a hollow thud. For a moment you just stood there, breath spilling white into the night air. Cold gnawed at your cheeks, sharper for the heat you’d left behind, but you welcomed it. It steadied you. It gave you something to feel that wasn’t shame pressing down like a stone on your chest.

Snow crunched faintly underfoot as you stepped off the stoop. The street was quiet this late, lanterns strung between the buildings swaying in the wind. Their glow painted soft gold across the frost-tipped edges of roofs and fences, the light catching in brief, glimmering fragments before the dark swallowed it whole.

You pulled your coat tighter, shoulders hunched against the night, and let your gaze fix on the frozen ridges of the road. The echo of Holly’s words followed you out, circling. That’s enough for today. It had been said without malice, but in your head it sounded like failure.

Your hands curled into your sleeves, the damp at your cuffs chilling your wrists, and you quickened your pace. You wanted only to disappear into the dark, to find a corner where the noise in your head couldn’t reach you.

“Hey.”

The voice was soft, lilting, and tugged you out of your spiral. You startled, head snapping up as you turned towards the sound.

Meredith leaned against the porch rail just beside the clinic door, bundled in a wool coat that looked too big for her narrow shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, curls escaping her hat in loose spirals that framed her face. She straightened when your eyes met hers, a small, warm smile rising to her lips.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” Her smile tilted, apologetic but playful. She tipped her chin toward the door you’d just come from. “I was waiting on you. Figured you couldn’t spend all your nights holed up in there with Holly barking orders.”

The corner of your mouth tugged, a brittle twitch that you smoothed into something more like a smirk. “Oh, you don’t know. That’s my idea of a good time— getting yelled at while elbow-deep in gauze. Really does wonders for the soul.”

Meredith laughed, quick and genuine, the sound puffing white in the air between you. “And here I thought I was the masochist, pulling double shifts all the time.”

“I was just heading to get something to eat,” you said, the words slipping out before you could talk yourself out of them. Your gaze flicked sideways, catching her profile in the dim light. “Did you want to come?”

Meredith’s brows lifted, then her smile grew, quick and easy, bright in the glow of the lanterns strung between buildings. She pushed off the porch rail, boots thudding softly against the wooden planks, and hopped down the steps with a lightness that made it look like she’d been waiting for the invitation all along.

“Sure,” she said, tucking her hands into her coat pockets as she matched your pace. “I might even let you skip the line.”

That earned a faint shake of your head, but you didn’t stop the curve tugging at the corner of your mouth. The two of you fell into step, boots crunching against the packed snow, your breath rising pale and clouded into the night. Lantern light swung in the wind above, painting the frost in fleeting gold, and for once the weight on your chest eased, just slightly, with someone beside you.

Meredith tilted her head toward you after a moment, her voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Heard about your patrol the other day. Sounded pretty intense.”

You stiffened slightly, eyes darting away to trace the faint shimmer of frost along a fence post. “Ben’s got a big mouth,” she went on, amusement curling at her tone. “Half of Jackson’s already heard how you saved his ass.”

That drew a snort from you, and when you glanced back her way, she was already grinning. She gave your arm the gentlest nudge with her shoulder. “He’s not wrong, you know.”

“Glad I didn’t screw it up, then,” you muttered, though your voice carried more weight than you meant it to, your breath feathering out white into the dark.

“People are warming up to you, I think,” she added after a beat, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Her tone carried no judgment, only fact. “You should get out more. Show your face. Talk to people.”

You kept your eyes on the ground ahead. “I don’t know,” you said, your throat tightening around the words. “Been a long time since I tried to make friends.”

Meredith slowed just enough that you had to glance at her, her expression soft. “Well… trying is the first step.”

Her smile caught the light again, unguarded and patient, and you felt something inside you loosen just slightly— like the first crack in a wall you hadn’t realized you were still holding up.

But the thought of it— of trying, of putting down roots and reaching for something beyond survival— sat sharp in your chest. Friendship felt unnatural now, almost dangerous. Every bond you’d made in the years before had ended the same way: ripped apart, leaving you bleeding with the loss. What sense was there in stitching yourself to people again, knowing how easily the world tore seams open?

Easier to be alone. Easier to let walls stand. At least if you were alone, no one could be taken from you. No one could leave you behind.

The mess hall glowed ahead of you, its wide windows fogged with condensation, golden light spilling out into the cold. The closer you drew, the stronger the scents became— stew again thick with root vegetables, bread still warm from the oven, the faint tang of smoke from the hearth fires inside. Voices carried out through the door, laughter rising and falling in waves, threaded with the scrape of chairs against the wooden floor.

Meredith pulled the door open and held it with a sweep of her arm. You stepped through, the warmth enveloping you so suddenly that your eyes stung with it. Inside, the air was dense with sound, movement, life. People crowded shoulder to shoulder, the line for food snaking past tables where others leaned close in easy conversation.

You joined the end of it with Meredith beside you, the two of you pressed close by the crush of bodies. Around you the hum of small talk ebbed and flowed— neighbours trading stories of patrol routes, of stubborn tools that wouldn’t mend, of children sneaking extra slices of bread. The normalcy of it was disorienting. Too ordinary. Too whole.

You kept your head down, eyes fixed on the worn wood of the floorboards, until you felt the prickle of someone watching. When you looked up, a man farther ahead in line— broad-shouldered, face weathered with years of work— caught your gaze. For half a heartbeat you braced for the familiar flicker of distrust, the quick glance away.

But instead, he nodded once. The movement was simple, acknowledging.

The air left your lungs in something close to a laugh, though you swallowed it back before it could escape. You turned quickly, busied your hands with the tray Meredith passed you, but the weight of that nod lingered. She had been right. Saving Ben had mattered. It had earned you something you hadn’t thought possible here— acceptance, however small.

Meredith leaned close, shoulder brushing yours as she reached for a bowl. “Not so bad, is it?” she murmured, a teasing edge beneath her words.

You shook your head, lips pressing tight, though the corners threatened to give you away.

Trays in hand, the two of you wove through the crowded hall until you reached the far corner, where the noise dulled just enough to feel bearable. Meredith slid onto one side of the bench with practiced ease, leaving you the spot across, tucked tight against the wall. You dropped your coat beside you, the worn fabric pooling across the wood, exactly as it had a few nights earlier.

Then, Joel had been the one across from you.

The thought came unbidden, so sudden you almost winced. You caught yourself glancing up, eyes drifting across the room— past the windows fogged with heat, past the clusters of bent heads and moving hands, searching for the familiar slope of his shoulders, the silver threaded through dark hair, the tan canvas of his coat. You told yourself you weren’t looking, not really. Just taking in the room.

But Joel wasn’t there.

When your gaze slipped back, Meredith was watching you. Her gaze was heavy, but not unkind. Her lips quirked at the edges, the faintest smirk settled across her face like she knew something you didn’t. She didn’t say anything, though. Only nudged her bowl closer, lifted her spoon, and dipped into her stew as if nothing had passed between you.

You forced your eyes down, tore off a piece of bread, and let the food ground you in its plain, comforting weight. Bite by bite, the noise of the hall began to fade into the background, until all that remained was the warmth of the corner, the scrape of spoons, and Meredith’s quiet presence across from you.

You realized, almost absently, that you liked being in her company. There was something about her— an ease in the way she carried herself, a steady warmth that softened the sharp edges of the world. She didn’t demand or pry, didn’t fill the silence just to fill it. She simply sat there, solid and present, and somehow that was enough to make you feel the faintest bit steadier.

And that mattered.

“So,” she said after a few quiet bites, tearing off a piece of her sourdough with her hands. She chewed, swallowed, then lifted her chin toward your plate. “I made this, by the way. It’s good, right?”

You looked down at the bread in your hand, at the pale crumb and the browned crust dusting flakes across your plate. It was good— chewy, warm, and solid in a way that made you feel momentarily grounded.

You lifted your eyes back to her, let a small smile tug at your mouth. “It’s very good,” you admitted, surprising yourself with the softness in your tone.

Meredith’s answering grin was bright, and then she was tilting her head, circling back to whatever had been waiting on her tongue. “Are you coming out tonight? For Christmas Eve?”

The question stopped you cold. “Oh.” Your spoon clattered faintly against the edge of the bowl as you set it down.

You’d forgotten. Tomorrow was Christmas.

Memory rose like water breaking through a cracked dam, unstoppable and drowning. You were young again, tiptoeing down carpeted stairs while darkness still pressed against the windows. The tree in the corner of the living room shimmered with strands of coloured light, every bulb reflected back in the glossy shine of wrapped presents stacked high beneath its branches— emerald, maroon, gold.

A hand pressed gentle to the small of your back, urging you closer, and when you turned your head there were those wide, bright blue eyes, shining in the half-dark.

“Well, did he come? Did Santa come?”

The image hit sharp and sudden, and you jolted back, the warmth of the hall closing around you again. Meredith was watching you, the smile gone from her lips. She leaned forward, brow furrowed, worry written plain across her face. She’d caught it. She’d seen how you’d slipped away, pulled beneath a current too strong to fight.

“I’m not really sure,” you mumbled, retreating into the safety of vagueness, of avoidance.

She studied you a moment longer, but then she let it go, her voice gentling as she tried again. “You should come. There will be music, and dancing, and booze.”

That last word dragged a laugh out of you before you could stop it, quiet and rueful. “Alcohol sounds nice. Needed.”

“Hard to pass up, right?” Meredith’s grin was back now, as bright as ever. She nodded once, decisive, as though she’d won something.

From somewhere behind the food line, a voice rose above the din, calling her name. Her head turned, curls shifting loose from beneath her hat. Someone at the counter was waving her over, gesturing with a hand still wrapped in a dish towel.

She sighed, set her spoon down, and pushed her tray forward just enough to make room as she stood. Her bowl rattled against the wood when she shifted it, balancing bread against bowl with a practiced hand. Only once she had everything gathered did she glance back down at you from her new height, her shadow stretching across the table.

Her smile had softened, steadied, the brightness tempered into something quieter. “Just think about it, okay?”

And then she was off, weaving through the narrow spaces between tables until she disappeared into the press of people, leaving you alone with the half-eaten bread and the ghosts you hadn’t meant to conjure.

***

The noise of the hall faded behind you the moment the door shut, muffled into little more than a low hum. Outside, the cold pressed close again. You leaned into the railing outside the hall, the wood worn smooth beneath your palms, head tipped back to the wide sprawl of night above. The stars burned sharp and bright in the clear sky, steady pinpricks against the black, and for a moment you let yourself get lost in them— something so far away you could almost pretend the world beneath your feet had never fractured.

Bootsteps broke the stillness, slow and measured, but you didn’t flinch. You’d felt the weight of eyes on you before you’d even heard him drawing near.

Joel came into view at the edge of the lamplight, broad shoulders cutting a familiar shape against the dark. His hands were tucked deep into his jacket pockets, his stride unhurried.

When he reached the foot of the steps, he lifted his chin just enough to meet your gaze.

He didn’t look surprised to see you.

For a long beat, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your face, your breath slipping out in faint clouds, and still Joel only watched you, gaze steady and unreadable.

“Hey,” he greeted after a while, the word low in his throat.

You answered with a simple nod, your gaze lifting back to the stars. They glittered sharp and distant, indifferent to the cold, indifferent to you.

You half expected him to move past you, to climb the steps and disappear inside, swallowed by the warmth and the voices of people who still knew how to go on with their lives.

Instead, his boots scuffed against the wood as he stepped up onto the porch, close enough that the warmth of his body brushed against the edge of your awareness. He leaned a shoulder into the post beside you, arms crossing over his chest, the material of his jacket creaking faintly with the motion.

He didn’t look at you, not directly. His eyes tracked through the window of the mess hall instead, watching the movement inside— the tilt of heads bent close, the flash of hands passing plates, the bursts of laughter muffled by the glass. His jaw shifted, working once before it stilled again.

The quiet settled heavy between you, thick as the frost edging the railing under your hands. You let it hold, let it bite.

Then, without looking away from the window, Joel spoke. His voice was soft, more observation than question. “You’re quiet tonight.”

You fixed your eyes on the stars, like they might hold an answer you hadn’t known you’d been searching for. “Guess I don’t have much to say.”

Joel’s silence in return wasn’t empty. It was heavy and weighted, like he was turning the words over, testing them for truth. You felt it all the same, the way he looked at you. The way he seemed to see too much.

The urge to retreat rose sharp in your chest. You pushed yourself upright, already reaching for the railing to step down. “I should—”

“C’mon.” His voice cut through yours, quiet but firm. He didn’t wait for you to finish, didn’t frame it as a question. “Got coffee on back at the house. Look like you could use some.”

He was already turning, boots crunching against the snow as he started down the path, as if you following him was inevitable.

You froze, the breath in your chest catching sharp. Why should you? What business did you have trailing after him into the dark, into his home? You owed him nothing. You’d promised yourself distance, safety in solitude, the illusion of control that came with keeping people at arm’s length. He was a man who looked too closely, who read too much in your silences, and God knew you had no more truths to spare.

And yet—

There was something in the way his words lingered, unhurried and certain, like he’d already carved out space for you in that house of his, whether you accepted it or not. Something in the broad set of his shoulders as he moved away, steady and sure, like he carried storms inside him but would never let them spill onto you.

You hesitated, fingers tightening on the rail until the chill of it bit into your skin. You could stay. You could let him walk on without you, disappear into the safe emptiness of the night. Or you could step forward, risk the pull of gravity that had been gathering between you since the day he found you, risk what it might mean to be seen.

Above, the stars spun steady and indifferent, the same as they always had.

And still, your feet moved. Slow at first, reluctant, but forward all the same— until the crunch of your boots fell in time with his.

[mcufam]

THUNDERBOLTS* dir. Jake Schreier | 2025

[perfectquote]

“Stop asking me to trust you while I’m still coughing water up from the last time you let me drown.”

— Unknown

[rockytheeridian]

YELENA BELOVA and her big doe eyes in THUNDERBOLTS* (2025)

[unearthlydust]

SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES THUNDERBOLTS*

[casstheasswrites]

Bby where's the next chaptrrrr

JUST POSTED <333

[casstheasswrites]

SAVE WHO YOU CAN SAVE (5)

pairing: joel miller x reader (female)

summary: you weren’t supposed to make it this far. dragged half-dead through jackson’s gates, you enter into a world still spinning— slower, quieter, but not much safer. the man who carried you there says little, watches too closely, and keeps his distance like it’s for your own good. but he keeps showing up, again and again. and you’re starting to wonder who’s saving who.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. joel is a sweet southern gentleman, just sort of tucked behind a few very thick layers. reader is a bit of a troll who uses humour to cope <3

chapter length: 6.3k

authors note: i really enjoyed this one! i hope you do, too. feel free to send me a message or comment if you want to be added to the taglist <3

tag list: @ivuravix / @chewie-bars / @peelieblue / @cowboylikelil / @l0v3rgirl13 / @libraryofneith / @armandispunk / @ghostytoasty17 / @sohaaa6 / @millersrevolver / @anoverwhelmingdin

It had been weeks since you had last encountered an infected.

But you remembered the sounds, the smells, the fear. You remembered the way your body locked up, muscles taut, and the way your fight or flight instinct rushed past your ears like the sound of a waterfall just beyond the next cluster of trees.

It was familiar, the way your body reacted to terror. Too familiar.

Ben was crouched to your right, pressed low behind the same stack of withered pallets you sheltered against. The wood was splintered and soft in the middle, half-rotten beneath its heavy dusting of snow, but it was all the cover you had. The scent of rot wrapped around you like a shawl, bile rising at the back of your throat.

The man in charge of patrols had encouraged the two of you to venture a bit beyond the typical route, just to ensure all was clear.

And so you had. But all was not clear.

Your gaze drifted to the pistol gripped in your hands. The cool metal was nearly gleaming in the early afternoon light, as if Maria had taken the care to polish it before handing it to you over her desk.

Movement flickered in your periphery and you lifted your gaze. Ben’s eyes were already on yours. One of his hands was wrapped around his own pistol and the other was raised towards you in the shape of a fist. You nodded, silent, understanding his message without needing him to speak.

You couldn’t help but think that this was quite the experience for the two of you. You’d never seen him before, not spoken more than a dozen words to him, and yet here you were— faced with a moment that would either break you or bond you together.

Ben’s fist relaxed and instead he lifted a finger, pointing it toward his chest. You watched with wide eyes and rapt attention, following the movement of his hand as he walked you through your next steps. Around you, beyond the sound of snow falling lightly to the ground and adrenaline pumping through your veins, you heard the dragging of feet and a few loud, unsteady grunts of pain.

No clicks.

Just runners.

It was the only relief you’d find.

Once Ben finished with his silent rendition of the plan, you simply nodded. His gaze remained on yours for a beat, and you could have sworn you saw something flash there, in his dark eyes— something that looked a lot like doubt. You couldn’t blame him, though. You were unproven. He had no idea how you’d hold up in a fight. All he could do was hope you’d do as he’d instructed and watch his back.

After another beat, and another deep breath, you and Ben moved in silent synchronicity.

You moved slow and to the left, your center of gravity low to the ground, your boots caressing the snow with as little pressure as possible. You kept your eyes focused forward, though all you wanted to do was peer back and ensure he was following the plan, too.

You had to trust him. You had to.

As you left cover, your eyes swept to the open expanse of space that surrounded the small cabin you’d located in the hills around Jackson. It was weathered and worn to time, the wooden siding disconnected and missing in places. The front porch seemed to slant slightly to one side, weighed down by years of snow that fell in the winter and vegetation that grew in the summer.

Just a few feet from the front porch, you spotted the first infected. From this distance, you couldn’t quite make out who it had been, once. A man or a woman, certainly, from the size. Not a child. A breath of relief pressed free from your chest.

You rounded the clearing and found yourself behind your next point of reprieve, a tree with a base thick enough to hide your figure from sight. You leaned one shoulder against it as you breathed, ignoring the ache in your side and the quiver in your knees.

After you’d caught your breath, you peered around the side of the tree, holding yourself as still as possible. Closer to you, just a few feet from the tree, there was another infected, turned away from you. This one was taller and broader. Definitely a man. His head jerked backward suddenly, as if he’d felt your gaze on him, his half-decayed face twisting towards the sky as a rough, shaking groan ripped free from his throat.

A cool chill snaked down the length of your spine. Your throat closed, an invisible hand pressing roughly to your windpipe, rendering you unable to breathe for a moment. Your only hope here was the element of surprise.

You twisted around the tree, eyes seeking out the far end of the clearing. There, you spotted two more infected, just a few feet apart. Their clothes were tattered and soaked through, but they appeared to be immune from the cold chill that bit at your exposed skin. Your eyes flickered to the small shed along the edge of the clearing and you spotted Ben. He was crouched around the back of it, his eyes silently assessing the two infected closest to him. You squinted, trying to better make out his darkened shape, given the distance. Something silver gleamed in his hand and your stomach dipped. He had traded his pistol for his knife.

Your chest tightened, each breath dragging rough and shallow, as if the cold itself had lodged in your lungs. You turned away and leaned more fully against the tree, your pulse thundering in your ears, drowning everything in static. The rush of it made the edges of your world shimmer and tilt. Your eyes pressed shut and for a moment, you just breathed.

You’re stronger. You’re smarter. You’re faster.

The silent mantra threaded through every corner of your mind.

You didn’t believe it, not really— but what had Alice always said?

“Better to fake it than fall apart.”

You fought the urge to smile, the sound of her voice soothing your frayed nerves.

After the next breath, you began to move. You pressed your pistol back into the thigh holster Maria had gifted you and instead, you traded it for your knife. The silver blade was long and had a serrated edge. It required more force than a smoother knife, but it had always done the job. Then you tipped your neck from side to side, a soft crack sounding from the joints, and you turned back towards the clearing.

Across the way, Ben was ready. He held up a hand, five gloved fingers on display. You lifted your own hand in the shape of a thumbs up, signaling to him that you were ready. And you watched, your heart in your throat, as his fingers began to lower, one at a time.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

And on one, you moved.

You kept yourself low, your knees bent, and you closed the distance between you and the closest infected with as much speed as you could without compromising your silence. At the last second, you jumped forward, halfway climbing onto his back. Your left arm wrapped around his shoulders and his neck, holding yourself steady. Just as his mouth began to part, prepared to let out another of his withered screams, your right arm came around and silenced him, burying the length of your knife into the center of his forehead.

The momentum of your weight caught up all at once, dragging his unmoving body toward the snow and you scrambled, eyes flaring wide as you ripped your blade free and threw yourself to the side. You landed on your knees in the snow a foot away, a sharp ache rising in the joints there.

But now was not the time to tend to your pain.

Your head lifted and you were on your feet in an instant. You didn’t waste your time checking on Ben. You had to trust that he had his two infected handled. Instead, you began to run, sprinting toward the infected at the base of the cabin’s porch. It turned toward you as you neared, any semblance of stealth long gone. As its face turned more fully towards you, you realized this one had once been a woman. Long, damp ribbons of hair settled over her greyed face and spilled over her shoulders. She let out a high-pitched scream, her limbs trembling, and then she began to charge at you. Fast.

A tremor rippled through your muscles, fine and uncontrollable, leaving your hand quivering around the knife’s hilt.

The woman charged at you— no skill, just brute force. You managed to dodge at the last second, throwing yourself into the snow and sliding on your sore knees to get around her. You spun just as she did, but you were faster. You rose to your feet and lifted one leg, landing a solid kick to the base of her chest, sending her sprawling backwards into the snow.

And you followed.

You dove on top of her, pinning her thrashing body to the ground, and lifted your knife into the air. You plunged it down, down, down, until you heard a deafening crack, and the movements below you ceased.

You blinked, your eyes resettling on the scene before you, and your stomach turned. Your knife was buried in the woman’s eye, only the handle free from flesh and skin and bone. Your hands were trembling and your body was shaking, adrenaline coursing through your veins with such a strength you weren’t sure how to quiet it. You pulled your knife free and stood on shaking legs, finally turning towards the other side of the clearing. Ben, too, was rising, two identically still bodies at his feet.

“You alright?” he called, breathless. He dragged the length of his bloodied knife along the thigh of his pants, leaving behind a crimson stain.

“I’m good,” you replied, your voice sounding foreign, even to your own ears. “I’m clean. No bites.”

“Same.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Relief flooded your chest, chasing away the final, lingering stretch of adrenaline, and your body slumped. The tension in your muscles eased and the aches began to resurface. A gentle flinch rippled through your body. Your lungs burned, your knees ached, and your side was burning in protest.

And for the briefest moment, you had to wonder… had Joel been right? Had it been too soon for you to step outside the walls of Jackson?

You shook your head, a miniscule movement that you were certain Ben wouldn’t see from several feet away. You pushed away the thoughts. You had proven yourself capable. A little soreness was to be expected.

You and Ben began to move toward each other in the aftermath.

As you neared, you spotted a small curve to the man’s lips. After another deep, steadying breath, you found yourself returning it.

Now, just a few paces apart, you watched as Ben’s lips parted, as if he was about to speak. But before he could, the sound of wood lashing against wood filled the space around you. Your eyes widened and your hand dropped to the pistol at your thigh on instinct. Just as your fingers settled around the grip of the gun, movement caught your attention from just behind Ben, near where he’d initially been hidden around the side of the small shed.

The door to the shed flew open with a force so sudden that the wood of the door cracked against the side of the shed, blown from its hinges.

Before you could speak, before you could so much as breathe, a fifth infected darted out from inside the shed and ran straight towards Ben. He had just begun to turn toward the sound and you knew, deep in the pit of your stomach, that he would not outpace this infected.

You ripped your pistol free of the holster and lifted it with one hand. “Down!”

And though he had no reason to trust you, and though you weren’t sure you’d expected him to, Ben did as you’d instructed. He threw himself to the snow and you pressed one eye shut, sucking in a sharp breath, and fired.

The sound echoed through the clearing, startling a handful of birds that had been clustered in the trees above. The infected fell to the ground just a foot behind Ben, its head lying at his feet, blood beginning to stain the snow a sharp scarlet.

***

The ride back to Jackson blurred, a haze of aching muscles and whispered gratitude.

“You saved my life,” Ben had admitted, his dark eyes wide as he’d peered up at you from his prone position in the snow.

You’d shaken it off, offered him a hand, and pulled him to his feet. And then the two of you had hiked back to where you’d left the horses and traced the path back down the side of the hill, heading for safety.

The air had shifted on the descent but your body carried the fight like a brand. Every jolt of the saddle pressed into your knees, every sway of the reins stirred the ache in your shoulders. And still, beneath the soreness, a quiet hum remained: the raw certainty that you had lived, that you had acted. That for once your actions had helped the person beside you, rather than hurt them.

By the time the palisades of Jackson came into view, dusk was crawling its way down the mountains, the sky bruised purple and shot through with red. The gates pressed open slow at your approach, wood creaking, voices calling down from the wall. You felt the weight of eyes on you, the subtle lift of curiousity— two riders returning, but one of them untested, unproven.

And then you saw him.

Joel.

He was pacing just inside the threshold, his boots wearing a restless track into the snow, head bowed, shoulders tense like a man wound too tight. It was the kind of posture that said he had been waiting, that stillness had been impossible. At the sound of hooves his head snapped up, and in an instant his stride broke, carrying him forward with a force that felt like gravity.

The crowd, the voices, the yawning gate behind you— all of it fell away. There was only the hard cut of his face in the dying light, all planes and shadow, worry carved so deep it looked immovable. Relief and anger warred in the lines of his jaw, in the flicker of his eyes as they raked over you, checking, searching, unwilling to believe what he saw until he’d touched it himself.

He reached your horse before you’d even slowed, his hand finding the reins with a purpose so certain it left no room for hesitation.

“What happened?” he asked, voice cracked against the cold, rough and unyielding.

For a moment all you could do was stare down at him— at the fire smoldering in his eyes, at the way the sight of you had unraveled him, and how quickly he tried to stitch himself back together.

You opened your mouth but nothing came. The words clogged somewhere in your throat, thick as the phantom press of fingers that had once stolen your breath. You could still feel the bite of snow under your knees, the slick give of bone beneath your knife. Your tongue moved, but no sound followed.

Joel’s eyes narrowed, scanning your silence, searching your face as though he could dig the truth out himself.

“She saved my life,” Ben offered, his voice rough with the remnants of adrenaline. He had swung down from his own saddle and stood a few paces off, his breath fogging in quick, uneven bursts. “We got caught out by a handful of runners near an old cabin. Four of ’em, then a fifth out of nowhere. I would’ve been done for if it wasn’t for her.”

Joel’s head snapped toward him, the cords of his neck pulling taut. For a long moment he said nothing, the weight of his gaze so heavy you felt it from where you sat above them both. His jaw flexed once, then again, before his attention returned to you.

Still, you couldn’t speak.

The world seemed to narrow to the grip of his hand on the reins, the leather biting into your palm where his fingers overlapped yours. The strength in it was steady, like he was anchoring you to the earth.

Joel’s mouth parted, the edges of words gathering there, sharp and restless, but he bit them back. You saw it in the movement of his throat, the way his jaw worked once, twice, before his voice finally came.

“You did good.”

Just three words. Low, steady, carrying more weight than any lecture might have.

The sound of them washed over you like heat too close to the skin. Your chest pulled tight, your cheeks flushed with warmth that had nothing to do with the cold, and something deeper— something heavier— settled low in your belly, insistent and undeniable.

You tore your eyes from his and swung down from the saddle, boots crunching against the packed snow. The ground wavered beneath your feet, not from weakness but from the sheer strangeness of hearing him, of all people, offer you praise.

“I just…” you managed, fumbling for air, for distance. You gave a half-hearted shrug and glanced away, a hollow smile threatening your lips. “I just did what anyone would’ve.”

Your gaze drifted back, settling squarely on Joel, pointed and steady, as though daring him to contradict you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

His hand still held the reins, leather stretched taut, but his eyes… his eyes hadn’t moved. They stayed fixed on you, heavy and searching, as if he could see straight through the words you tried to hide behind.

Around you, the world moved. Voices rose and fell as the guards called down from the wall, ropes creaked, the gates groaned shut again. A couple of stablehands hurried forward, their gloved hands reaching for reins, patting the horses’ necks as they led them toward the warmth of the stables. Snow crunched under boots, cold air carried the scent of hay and leather, and still you and Joel and Ben remained fixed in place, as if the churn of the town couldn’t quite touch the three of you.

It was Ben who broke the silence first.

He stepped closer, just near enough to brush his hand against your arm— light, friendly, and gone in an instant. “You’ve got yourself a permanent patrol partner,” he said, his mouth curving with warmth, his tone free of anything but gratitude. “Don’t know what I would’ve done without you. Seriously.”

The words stirred something easier in your chest. You smiled, small but real, and dipped your chin in a nod. “Glad I was there.”

Ben’s dark eyes lingered for a beat more before he tipped his head toward the main street. “I’ll report in. You’ve earned the night off.” With that, he turned and strode away, boots leaving a straight trail of prints through the snow until the crowd swallowed him whole.

And just like that, it was only the two of you.

Joel’s hand rose to the back of his neck, fingers dragging slow against the stubble there, a restless habit that betrayed more than his words ever would. His eyes hadn’t left yours, not once, steady and unblinking, as if Ben’s presence had been little more than a pause between heartbeats.

You rocked back on your heels, trying to break the tension that had settled between you before it swallowed you whole.

“So,” you said, tilting your chin up toward him. “How long am I gonna be waiting for that apology?”

For a heartbeat he just stared, as if you’d spoken a language he hadn’t heard in years. Then, with a quiet sort of reluctance, he let out a laugh that fogged the cold air between you.

His head tipped forward, shaking once, before he muttered, “A while, I’d say.”

“Figured as much.”

The words lingered, lighter than they had any right to be, but they eased the distance that had begun to feel like a canyon. His eyes still held yours, but now there was something warmer there too, faint as the glow of lanterns spilling out across the snow.

Joel’s gaze flicked over you then, quick but thorough, the kind of assessment that felt like more than just a glance.

His voice came rough, quieter than before. “You hurt?”

The question landed heavy, but you found yourself shaking your head. “I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

He studied you for a moment longer, like he was weighing the truth in your answer, then let it go with a short nod. “You eaten today?”

The truth slipped out before you could stop it. “No. I’m starving.”

Something eased in his expression, not quite a smile but close enough to warm the space between you. “Come on, then.”

He shifted, angling his body toward the main street, and you fell into step beside him. The snow crunched beneath your boots in uneven rhythm until, without meaning to, your strides matched. Jackson was alive around you. Lanterns were swinging from posts, voices called out across the square, and there was the thrum of a saw somewhere deeper in town— but the sound of it all seemed muted, muffled, as though the world had drawn itself back to make space for just the two of you.

You glanced sideways once, catching the shape of his profile in the lamplight: the sharp line of his jaw, the grey threaded through his beard, the way his eyes stayed fixed forward even as you felt the weight of his awareness brushing against you.

For all the people that bustled around, it felt like you were moving in your own current, side by side, the pull of it stronger than you knew how to fight.

“You look dead on your feet,” Joel muttered, eyes still fixed ahead.

“Thanks,” you said, voice dry. “Always nice to hear how radiant I am.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at you. “Ain’t what I meant.”

“I know,” you replied, softer this time. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, the lamplight catching on the deep lines at the edge of his face. “But you should’ve seen the other guys.”

That earned you a rough sound from deep in his chest, half scoff and half laugh. His head shook slowly, as though he was trying to keep his expression even, but the faintest smile slipped free anyway. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good somethin’ or bad somethin’?” you asked.

This time he did look at you, steady and unblinking, his eyes giving nothing away. “Ain’t decided yet.”

The words lingered, heavier than his tone suggested. You let them turn over in your mind as the two of you walked. Ain’t decided yet. The thought curled through you, unexpected and sharp, a quiet thrill sparking at the idea of Joel thinking about you at all— measuring, weighing, holding you in that steady gaze even when you weren’t there to see it.

The silence that followed was no longer empty; it thrummed with something you didn’t dare name. By the time you rounded the last corner together, the world had already shifted beneath your feet.

Jackson’s mess hall came into view, warm light spilling from the tall windows, fogged faintly with condensation, and the smell of something savory curled out into the snow-dusted air. People were already gathering inside— families, patrolmen, children darting between tables. It was jarring, the difference between this world, inside Jackson, and the one you’d left behind outside the walls.

Joel reached the door first and held it open, his broad frame silhouetted in the glow. “After you.”

You hesitated a beat, your chest tightening at the simple gesture, then tipped your chin and stepped past him into the heat of the hall. The sudden wash of warmth raised goosebumps along your arms, thawing the chill that had sunk bone-deep. Your fingers plucked at your gloves, exposing your bare hands to the warmth, and you tucked them into the pocket of your coat.

Behind you, Joel’s boots sounded heavy on the wood floor, steady and close. He angled his head toward the line snaking along the far wall, then looked back to you.

“Go grab a seat,” he said, voice low but certain. “I’ll bring you somethin’.”

Your mouth parted on instinct, ready to protest. You could stand in line, carry your own tray, you didn’t need coddling. But before you could form the words, his hand lifted. It was just the briefest brush of his fingers against your arm, warm through the fabric of your coat, but it was enough to still you where you stood.

The protest died on your tongue.

You searched his face instead, caught in the weight of that steady gaze. And then, quieter than you meant it, you found yourself saying, “Alright.”

You slipped away from him, weaving through the crowd until you found an empty table near the corner. It was quieter, here, tucked away a bit from the bustle at the center of the hall. The bench creaked beneath you as you sank down, your body reminding you of every bruise and ache you’d gathered on patrol. For the first time since the fight, you let yourself really exhale, the sharp edge of adrenaline softening into something slower.

Something that felt dangerously close to comfort.

You shrugged out of your coat, the zipper rasping loud against the low hum of voices. The weight of it fell heavy in your hands before you draped it across the seat beside you, a makeshift barrier between yourself and the rest of the hall. Your shoulders eased once freed, the chill still clinging to your clothes but softening under the press of warmth that radiated from the hearths at either end of the room.

Leaning forward, you propped your elbow on the edge of the table and cradled your cheek in your palm. The wood beneath your arm was scarred, carved into with initials and knife-marks left by years of restless hands, but it was solid, steady, and grounding.

Your gaze wandered almost without permission. Across the wide hall, Joel stood in line, two trays balanced easily in his hands as though the weight meant nothing to him. His shoulders cut a familiar shape, broad and certain even among the press of bodies. He waited, patient and unhurried, the set of his jaw as strong in rest as it was in motion.

Across from him, Meredith moved along the serving line, her apron smudged and hair loose from its tie. At one point she glanced up, her eyes catching yours across the room. She lifted her hand, fingers waggling in a wave that was quick and warm. Reflexive, almost, like a gesture you’d offer an old friend.

A shock of surprise rippled through you, freezing you in place. For a moment you simply blinked at her, unsure how to bridge the gap between reflex and response. But then, with a hesitant twitch of your wrist, you raised your own hand and returned the gesture. The corner of Meredith’s mouth curved in approval before she turned back to her task.

The moment lingered, settling into you like a stone dropping through water. The noise of the hall blurred, the scrape of cutlery and rumble of voices receding into something softer. You felt the edges of your body begin to unclench.

By the time Joel reached the table, the calm had settled deep enough that you startled faintly when the shadow of him fell across you. He set a tray down before you, the smell of hot food rising to meet you, then slid onto the opposite bench. The wood groaned under his weight, and just like that, the space you’d carved for yourself shifted— narrower, sharper, and charged with something more alive.

Steam curled up from the bowl he set before you, the rich scent of broth and herbs making your stomach clench with sudden urgency. Chunks of meat and vegetables swam in the thick stew, the surface glistening with oil that caught in the light. Beside it sat a thick slice of sourdough, its crust dark and blistered, a pat of butter already softening on a small plate. And, surprising you most of all, there was a glass of orange juice, its sharp brightness out of place in the winter dim, the kind of thing rationed too carefully to be casual.

You hadn’t tasted fruit in… you didn’t know how long.

Your throat tightened, though not from hunger this time.

Joel slid his own tray down, nearly identical, and leaned back on the bench across from you. His hands curled around the edge of his tray as though anchoring it, but his eyes flicked up to yours once, briefly, before dropping to his food. You couldn’t help but notice that instead of orange juice, Joel had water.

You wrapped chilled fingers around the sides of your bowl, soaking up the heat as if you could draw it into your bones. For a moment you just held it there, breathing in the steam, before lifting the spoon and bringing the first mouthful to your lips. The broth scalded your tongue, salty and rich, and you let out a quiet hum that you hadn’t meant to.

You lowered the spoon, eyes flicking across the table to him. He was tearing a piece of bread in two, movements careful, deliberate, like he could pretend he hadn’t heard the sound slip from you. His jaw was pulled taut, the muscle trembling from the strain just enough to catch your attention.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft.

His hands stilled, the bread caught between them. For a beat he didn’t move, didn’t look up, and you wondered if you’d spoken too quietly. Then his gaze lifted, steady and unreadable.

“Eat,” he muttered, voice rougher than before, as if the single word was all he could manage. The bread broke in his hands then, and he slid half across the table toward you without meeting your eyes. A soft smile pulled at the edges of your lips and you let out a low breath, shaking your head.

The meal passed in silence, save for the scrape of cutlery and the low murmur of voices that filled the hall around you. You forced yourself to eat slowly, though hunger pressed sharp at your ribs— small, measured bites, afraid that if you let yourself give in too quickly, your stomach would revolt.

The bread softened in your mouth, the stew warmed your chest, and little by little, the ache in your joints began to ease. Still, every now and then your gaze wandered, drifting across the rim of your glass as you lifted it to your lips, drawn to the man across from you.

Joel ate like he did everything else— efficient, restrained, each movement pared down to its use. His expression was shadowed and guarded, but not absent. His eyes never lingered long on you, yet you felt the pull of his awareness all the same, like a line drawn taut across the table.

You lowered the glass after draining the last of your juice, your fingers tracing the condensation down its side. “You were waiting for me,” you said, more observation than question.

His spoon stilled halfway to the bowl. A beat passed before he set it down, the soft clink loud in the narrow space between you.

“Damn right I was,” he said finally, voice low.

The words sparked through you, warmth unfurling beneath your skin. Your cheeks heated, your stomach tightening with something that had nothing to do with hunger.

You ducked your head, a smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. “Well,” you murmured, picking at the crust of your bread. “Guess it’s nice to be missed.”

Across from you, his mouth curved— small, fleeting, and almost hidden— but enough to change the shape of his face.

“Never said all that,” he replied, dark eyes narrowing when they lifted to meet yours.

“You didn’t have to,” you teased. “I can infer.”

The silence that followed was softer than before, threaded through with something unspoken. He shook his head, slow, as if you were impossible to reason with, yet his gaze lingered on you a fraction too long for the dismissal to land.

“You talk too much,” he muttered finally, reaching for the last bite of bread on his tray.

You leaned forward, chin tipping into your palm, watching him with an irreverent smile that belied the thrum in your chest. “And you don’t talk enough.”

For a heartbeat, you swore you saw it again— that glimmer of warmth, buried deep in the rough edges of him, surfacing just long enough to catch the light before it vanished. Instead, he huffed through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. His eyes lingered on you a beat longer before dropping back to his stew. The scrape of his spoon against the bowl filled the quiet that stretched between you, and you let it, settling into the strange ease of it.

By the time you pushed your bowl away, only a thin sheen of broth left at the bottom, Joel’s was already clean. He sat back, arms folded across his chest, and studied you in a silence that felt heavier than before.

“Ben,” he said, his voice breaking through the noise of the hall. “He a good enough partner?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Your mouth opened, then closed again, hesitation slipping through before you could stop it. Joel’s eyes sharpened, catching it, and you scrambled to cover.

“He seems just fine,” you said quickly, forcing a small shrug. “Seems like he knows what he’s doing.”

Joel shook his head, the movement slow and restrained. “You need to be out there with someone who’ll watch your back.” His voice was low, but it carried, every word a weight dropping between you.

“We managed just fine,” you countered, a little too sharp.

His eyes locked onto yours, unblinking. “No. You got lucky.”

The words lodged deep, colder than the winter air outside. You felt them settle in your chest, pressing tight against the warmth the meal had left behind.

You drew in a sharp breath, then let it out slow. “Why do you care so much, Joel?”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He just kept staring at you, the dark heat of his gaze as steady as a brand.

“Because if it’s about guilt—” you pressed on, your voice low and deliberate. “You don’t have to carry it. You’re not responsible for me, you know. Just because you brought me in doesn’t mean I have to weigh on your conscience.”

For a moment, you swore you saw something flicker— anger, grief, or something sharper and older than either. His glare didn’t waver, but the silence stretched until it was unbearable. When he finally spoke, the words were rough, bitten off like he regretted them even as they left his mouth.

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

They landed flat between you, an attempt to shut the door, and for a moment all you could do was watch him, trying to read what he wouldn’t say written in the lines of his face. A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips anyway— part disbelief, part resignation— and you shook your head slowly, your hair brushing against your cheek.

The bench groaned softly beneath you as you shifted, pushing your palms against the scarred tabletop to rise. The sound cut through the low murmur of the hall, pulling Joel’s eyes up to you with a sharpness that almost startled. His head tipped back slightly, his shoulders tensing like he half-expected you to sit again. Like he wasn’t ready for the moment to end.

You lingered there on your feet, fingers trailing across the rough wood of the table as if to hold yourself steady. His gaze pinned you in place, dark and unreadable, the air between you drawn tight. For a beat, you almost sat back down.

Almost.

Instead, you reached for your coat where it lay draped across the bench beside you. The fabric was stiff with cold, heavier now than it had felt when you’d first shrugged it off. You shook it out once, slid your arms through the sleeves, and tugged the zipper halfway closed. All the while you felt his eyes tracking every movement, the silence stretching, as thick as snowfall.

Only then did you lean forward, gathering his empty tray along with your own, the plates and cutlery clinking together in a muted rattle.

He didn’t stop you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice soft but steady, though the words caught somewhere low in your chest. You didn’t look away as you spoke, holding him in that gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “For the food. For the concern. But I’ve got everything under control.”

His mouth parted, the barest flicker of movement, but no sound followed. His eyes searched yours instead, steady and burning, like he wanted to stop you, like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t force the words free. One of his hands twitched against the table, curling, releasing, then curling again.

You adjusted your grip on the trays, straightening your shoulders, heart thudding against your ribs. “I’ll see you later, Joel.”

The words slipped out quieter than you meant them to, but they held their own kind of finality. You turned before the silence could swallow you whole, weaving through the crowded tables with your head held higher than it had any reason to.

The warmth of the hall pressed against your skin, the chatter of voices filled your ears, but none of it dulled the burn of being watched— of knowing his eyes were still on you, steady and unrelenting, long after you’d walked away.

[not-so-mundane-after-all]

[casstheasswrites]

Hi all.

I am struggling with a bit of writers block at the minute and would love your help breaking free of it. Does anyone have any writing prompts or shortform fic ideas they would like to see?

Send me a message if you have an idea! <3

[casstheasswrites]

SAVE WHO YOU CAN SAVE (4)

pairing: joel miller x reader (female)

summary: you weren’t supposed to make it this far. dragged half-dead through jackson’s gates, you enter into a world still spinning— slower, quieter, but not much safer. the man who carried you there says little, watches too closely, and keeps his distance like it’s for your own good. but he keeps showing up, again and again. and you’re starting to wonder who’s saving who.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. joel is a sweet southern gentleman, just sort of tucked behind a few very thick layers. reader is a bit of a troll who uses humour to cope <3

chapter length: 5.3k

authors note: i'm sorry for such a delay between updates. real life has been kicking my ass lately (big girl job, monster children, editing and getting my original novel ready for publishing, etc). but i promise, there shouldn't be such a long gap between updates moving forward. much love for all your kindness and patience <3 also i probably missed people who wanted to be tagged... comment or send me a dm and i'll add you!

tag list: @ivuravix / @chewie-bars / @peelieblue / @cowboylikelil / @l0v3rgirl13 / @libraryofneith / @armandispunk / @ghostytoasty17 / @sohaaa6 / @millersrevolver / @anoverwhelmingdin

The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic and woodsmoke, a strange, clinging blend that settled at the back of your throat. Somewhere beyond the thin wall, a kettle hissed, the steam curling into the same warm air that drifted lazily from the cast-iron stove in the corner.

The room felt heavier than the frozen streets outside, thick with heat, and for a moment you just stood inside the doorway, letting the sting fade from your cheeks, flexing your fingers until the ache from the cold eased. The floorboards creaked beneath your boots and your gaze caught on the glint of glass jars lining a shelf at the back, each one packed neat with folded bandages and gauze.

Holly didn’t look up right away. She was bent over a desk just inside the entryway of the clinic, sleeves shoved to her elbows, dark hair knotted low at the nape of her neck. When she did glance over, it was quick and assessing, the kind of look that weighed your worth in seconds. Recognition flickered in her eyes and she glanced down at the cracked watch face settled against her wrist, pressing out a sharp breath of air as she did.  

“Sit,” she said, tilting her chin toward the narrow cot by the stove.

You obeyed, lowering yourself onto the thin mattress after crossing the room, your palms pressing into the scratchy blanket as you shifted to get comfortable. The stove’s heat licked faintly at your side, just enough to ease the tight pull of muscle there. You kept your eyes on the floorboards while Holly gathered her tools— metal tray, curved scissors, a shallow ceramic dish that clicked faintly against the wood as she set it down.

“Right on time,” she commented, glancing at you. You couldn’t tell if it was meant as a compliment or a complaint.

“I might’ve heard a thing or two about your bad side,” you replied, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “Trying to avoid it.”

Her brows lifted, just barely. “Smart.”

She stepped closer, then, the faint scent of soap and pine salve clinging to her sleeves. “How’s it feeling? Any swelling, tearing, trouble sleeping?”

Trouble sleeping?

No more than usual. No more than every other night for weeks. But the question still landed heavier than you wanted it to, like Holly had pressed a hand directly over something you’d been keeping hidden under the surface.

It had been a week since anyone last looked at you closely enough to ask. A week of drifting through Jackson’s snow-packed streets, learning the slow rhythm of the place in pieces. The way the smoke curled from certain chimneys earlier than others. The sound of hammers in the mornings, muted but constant, somewhere beyond the main street. The familiar faces that passed without stopping, most offering nothing more than a polite nod, or no acknowledgment at all.

You’d explored in cautious stretches, letting your feet take you further each day, but you never shook the feeling of eyes following you. Not constant, not always unkind, but enough that you caught them— those quick flickers your way before glancing off again, as if people were still deciding what to make of you.

You’d spoken with Tommy a handful of times, each conversation short but easy enough. He’d asked if you were settling in, told you where you could find the best coffee if you didn’t mind a walk. But outside of those brief exchanges, you’d kept mostly to yourself.

And always, just beyond the edges of your days, there was Joel. Or rather, the absence of him. You’d caught sight of him a few times— once across the street, another time at the far end of the stables— but he never closed the distance. You weren’t sure if he was giving you space, or if avoiding you was easier for him. Either way, you’d tried not to think about it. Tried not to notice. Tried not to let it bother you, that the one person you’d thought you had here, had pulled back.

Nights were worse. Nights left too much room for your mind to wander. The walls of your room couldn’t keep out the memories, and sleep never came easy. When it did, it carried you straight into the jagged edges of dreams you didn’t want— faces and voices from places you could never return to, moments that replayed until you woke with your pulse thrumming in your throat. You’d lie there in the dark, the shapes of the furniture half-lit by the spill of moonlight through the window, waiting for your breathing to settle. Sometimes you’d drift again before dawn. Other times, you’d simply stay awake, counting the hours until it was time to get up.

So no, trouble sleeping wasn’t new. But hearing the question out loud made you feel like she’d seen through you, somehow— seen past the steady face you’d been wearing all week, straight to the restless nights and the quiet, lonely days that came after.

You dropped your gaze to her tray of tools, unable to meet her eyes. “No,” you said. “It’s been fine.”

She hummed, a sound without judgment, and reached for the scissors. The metal was cool against your skin when her fingers brushed close, and then came the first tug— a quick, small pinch that made you breathe out slow through your nose. You kept still, watching her work from the corner of your eye as she checked your face between movements, those sharp glances taking your measure but never lingering long enough to be unnerving. It was all precision, no fuss, the kind of skill that came from doing the same thing a thousand times before.

“You ever think about learning this?” she asked after a while, her tone so flat you couldn’t tell if she was simply filling the air or if she was serious. “Medicine, I mean. You’ve got a steady enough hand from what I’ve seen. Good instincts.”

The question caught you off guard. You had never thought about it, not really. Your mind had always been too busy making space for the next day, the next fight, the next breath.

“I… haven’t,” you said, your voice quiet. You didn’t add that you had done this before, the stitching, the healing, the putting broken pieces back together. It was never perfection, never even pretty; but it worked, and in this world, that was what counted.

She only hummed once more, deft fingers moving to the next stitch. One by one, the tight pulls of thread loosened and fell away, leaving behind faint pink ridges across your skin. When the last one gave, she set it on the tray— a small, limp thread stained red at the center. Your eyes lingered on it for a moment, surprised by how something so slight could have held you together this past week.

A faint ache had begun to bloom along your side, deepening when you shifted. The skin there felt tight and newly tender, stretched over healing tissue. Not quite pain, but enough to remind you that you weren’t whole yet.

Holly wiped her hands, stepping back. “You’re cleared for regular duties now,” she said, straightening. “Find Maria or Tommy for your assignment.”

Movement in the corner caught your attention, a figure passing through the far doorway, their arms cradling a stack of folded linens and bottles of antiseptic. You found yourself wondering who they were for, what injury or illness lay in one of the other rooms. The thought tugged at you for a beat before fading under Holly’s expectant gaze.

Cleared. The word settled in your chest like a small stone, part relief, part something heavier. There was safety in being sidelined; regular duties meant eyes on you, people measuring what you were worth. Still, you nodded, sliding from the cot, your boots whispering against the floor as you followed her to the door.

“And hey…” Holly’s voice stopped you just short of the threshold. You turned back to find her watching you, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her gaze steady in that way that felt like she could see more than you were saying. “Think about what I said. We could use more medics around here. People who can keep their head when things go sideways. It’s not all stitching and bandaging— sometimes it’s ugly, and it’s fast, and you’ve got seconds to make a call. Not everyone can do that.”

She let the words hang there, the quiet between you filled with the faint hiss of the kettle in the other room. “You strike me as someone who could,” she added, softer this time, like it wasn’t a compliment so much as a fact she’d already decided on.

You didn’t answer, just gave a small nod, the kind that promised nothing. But the weight of it followed you as you stepped outside, into a light sharper than you’d expected, the air biting at the edge of your face. Snow clung to the path in brittle sheets that cracked faintly under your boots.

You pulled your coat tight, the words repeating in your mind— regular duties— and now, threading through them, we could use more medics. You weren’t sure which thought felt heavier.

Maria had said once that she was never hard to find, but the truth was you didn’t have the faintest idea where to start looking. People passed you in slow, purposeful trickles, their shoulders hunched against the cold, cheeks flushed red from the wind, their arms laden with tools, baskets, the weight of whatever work they were about to return to. You thought, for half a second, about stopping someone and asking, but the words sat heavy and awkward in your throat. You still felt the way eyes sometimes slid your way when you passed, quick flickers that didn’t quite linger but didn’t ignore you either, and it was enough to keep you moving.

So you set off on your own, boots crunching over the packed snow. The cold nipped at the bridge of your nose, your breath curling white in front of you. You passed the narrow alleys between buildings, the woodsmoke drifting down from chimneys, the glint of sunlight catching on frosted windowpanes.

It was the sound that caught you first— light, unrestrained laughter cutting through the hush of the winter street. It rose and fell like a bird’s wings, sharp in its suddenness, softer as it drifted. You slowed without thinking, your boots sinking into the uneven crust of snow as you scanned for the source. A few more steps brought it into view: a low, square building with wide windows fogged around the edges, the warm glow inside blurred and golden against the pale sky.

Even before you reached it, you knew. The daycare.

You stopped just short of the glass, your breath pooling white in the air and melting a small patch of frost at the edge of the pane. Inside, children were scattered around low tables, the air thick with their movement. Sweaters in mismatched colors, hair that wouldn’t stay brushed, knees jostling under small chairs as they bent close over their work. A plastic bin overflowed with blocks in primary colours; crayons rolled lazily across the table as someone’s elbow bumped them.

One little girl sat apart from the noise, her head bent, a fist wrapped tight around a thick red crayon. She pressed it hard to the page, dragging it in wide, looping strokes that overlapped and tangled until they looked less like a picture and more like a feeling. The motion— determined, rhythmic— caught somewhere deep inside you and pulled.

You blinked and the cold air thinned.

The driveway had been warm beneath your bare legs, gritty with dust that clung to your skin. The air shimmered faintly in the heat, carrying the dry tang of chalk and the faint sweetness drifting from the open kitchen window. You and Alice had been crouched side by side, your heads nearly touching, the rainbow beneath your hands spreading wider and wider with each pass of color. Blue, yellow, green— the colours smudging at the edges where your fingers had brushed them.

From inside came the gentle percussion of dishes, the muted hum of your mother’s voice as she moved about the kitchen. Somewhere, something metal tapped against glass. The smell of freshly baked muffins drifted out in soft waves, curling in the thick summer air until it wrapped around you like a hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the front door. Your small hand wrapped around the screen door and tugged, your feet hovering on the threshold.

“When will they be ready?” you had called, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of your mother around the wall.

“Be patient,” came the reply, light but distracted, as if her hands were already full. “Not long now.”

You’d grinned to yourself, rubbing the chalk dust from your palms, already tasting the burst of warm blueberries against your tongue. Turning back toward the driveway, you expected to find Alice still hunched over the rainbow, but the spot you’d left her was now empty.

The red chalk she’d been gripping lay where she’d dropped it, the arc of her rainbow breaking off mid-curve. The colour was almost too bright against the dull gray of the concrete.

The warmth in your chest drained so quickly you could almost hear it go, replaced by something cold and sharp. Your heart began to thud hard enough that you could feel it in your ears. That first flicker of dread, small but certain, spread fast, curling its way into every breath. You had been meant to watch her. You had been right there.

A shadow shifted in your periphery, and the glass in front of you reflected not just your face, but another beside it.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” a voice said at your side, close enough that you caught the faint scent of cold air and wool. “Seeing kids just being kids again.”

The sound of it pulled you back— away from the chalk, away from the heat of the summer driveway— until the glass cleared and the present returned in full.

You turned, slowly, to find a woman standing beside you, about your age, her cheeks pink from the cold, a stray curl of hair escaping from the knit cap pulled low over her ears. She had the kind of smile that felt practiced in the way of people who didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable— small, easy, nonthreatening. Her gloved hands were tucked deep into the pockets of a coat patched at the elbows, the fabric worn but cared for.

Her voice lingered in the cold air between you, gentle but expectant, as though she might let the silence stretch if you didn’t answer. You weren’t sure what to say at first, your gaze still snagged on the smear of red crayon inside, the bobbing of small heads, the muffled hum of a teacher’s voice just audible when the door opened for a moment to let someone in.

“Yeah,” you said finally, the word low, nearly lost to the sound of boots scuffing against packed snow as someone passed behind you. Your throat felt rough, like the air was too dry, and you had to look away from the window before the memory could creep back in again.

The woman shifted her weight, her shoulder brushing lightly against your coat as she leaned forward to glance through the glass again. “Hard to believe sometimes, isn’t it? That they can still laugh like that. Forget everything else.” Her breath misted in a small cloud as she spoke, dissipating quickly in the chill.

You found yourself studying her out of the corner of your eye. The slope of her nose, the faint crease between her brows when she squinted against the reflection on the glass, the way her gloves were scuffed and fraying at the fingertips. There was something in her voice that felt disarming in a way you hadn’t expected.

You weren’t used to strangers approaching you without wanting something. Even now, part of you stayed braced, waiting for a question you wouldn’t want to answer. But she didn’t push, just let the quiet settle again before adding, “I’m Meredith.” She didn’t offer a hand, only a small smile that deepened the faint lines at the corners of her eyes.

You gave your name in return, a little stiffly, and it sat there between you, the exchange as tentative as the pale winter sunlight.

For a moment you both just stood there, watching the small, warm world on the other side of the glass. The sound of the children’s laughter was muted here, dulled by the walls and the layer of frost, but you could still feel it, like a hum beneath your skin.

“I work in the kitchens,” she said after a while, her voice as casual as if you’d been mid-conversation all along. “We keep the daycare stocked with bread and stew most days. Muffins, if someone’s feeling ambitious.” There was a faint humour in her tone, a small curve to her mouth like she was testing whether you’d catch it.

You glanced at her, unsure how to respond, the word muffins still sitting in your mind like an echo from the memory you’d just been pulled out of.

She went on, brushing her gloved hands together as if chasing away the cold. “We’ve got the Christmas Eve celebration coming up in a few days. Big meal, music, all that. You going?”

You blinked at her, thrown off by the words. Christmas Eve. The calendar in your head had been broken for so long you hadn’t even realized it was December, or close enough to matter. Seasons had passed in blurs of hunger, fear, and distance, not marked by anything so fixed as a holiday. You weren’t sure the last time you’d even thought of Christmas as something that still happened.

“I… didn’t know there was one,” you admitted, shifting your weight as the wind pushed at the back of your coat. “Didn’t know it was that time of year.”

Her head tilted, not unkindly. “Easy to lose track. We make a point of keeping it here, though, gives people something to look forward to. Makes winter feel shorter.” She looked back at the children, her smile softening. “Kids especially. They love the lights.”

You followed her gaze to the glass again, where the red crayon girl had abandoned her drawing and was now chasing another child around a low table. The teacher was laughing, shaking her head, reaching to catch the smaller one before they slipped on the polished floor.

Meredith’s voice drew you back. “You looking for someone?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Maria. Supposed to find her for an assignment.”

“Mm. She’s usually over by the stables this time of day,” she said, stepping back from the window. “Sorting the afternoon patrols.” She glanced toward the end of the street, where the faint shapes of horses shifted in the distance. “You can’t miss it— just follow the smell of hay.”

You managed a small, genuine smile before you could think better of it. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” She tucked her chin deeper into her scarf, then turned away, her boots crunching over the snow as she headed in the opposite direction.

You lingered for a heartbeat longer, watching her disappear around the corner, before you tore your gaze from the fogged windows and started toward the stables, the cold biting sharper now at your ears and the side of your neck.

***

The horse’s flank was warm beneath your gloved hand, a living heat that seemed to seep into your palm even through the layers of fabric. Each long stroke of the brush sent a faint ripple across its hide, the coarse hair shifting under the bristles before settling smooth again. The smell of hay hung thick in the air, tinged with the musk of animals and the faint, sharp tang of oiled leather. Somewhere behind you, a hoof struck the floor in a single impatient thud.

You moved slowly, methodically, not because the horse needed it but because the steady rhythm kept your hands busy, gave your mind something to anchor to. The animal’s breath came in long, steady clouds, nostrils flaring slightly when you passed the brush near its shoulder. Every so often its ear would twitch in your direction, acknowledging your presence without moving its head.

A flicker of motion drew your eyes up. A younger man was making his way toward you from the far end of the aisle, his boots whispering over the straw. He had a solid build without the bulk of someone older, his coat peppered with melted snow, strands of short blonde hair sticking damply to the edges of his knit cap. When he reached the stall, he rested a hand lightly on the half-door and offered a smile— quick, almost shy, like he wasn’t sure how much welcome it would find.

“Guess I’m your partner today,” he said. His voice had the easy cadence of someone used to talking to strangers, though his eyes darted briefly toward the horse before settling back on you. “Name’s Ben.”

You nodded once, dragging the brush in another slow sweep along the horse’s side before replying. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

Maria had told you it would be a short patrol. Easy.

“Just to get you started,” she’d said, leaning back against the desk in that cramped little office near the back of the stables, her arms folded, her eyes measuring you in that calm, steady way she had. “Get you used to the way we do things around here.”

You’d believed her until she moved around the desk and crossed to the far wall. The cabinet at the back was tall and narrow, its door fitted with a lock that clicked loudly when she turned the key. The smell of oiled metal reached you even before she brought out what was inside— a pistol, matte black, the kind of thing that seemed to drink in the light instead of reflecting it. Two loaded clips followed, set down on the desk with deliberate care, the sound of them hitting the wood quiet but heavy all the same.

“Just in case,” she’d told you, and in her voice there had been none of the mild reassurance she’d spoken with a moment before. Just a plain, even seriousness that seemed to flatten the air between you.

Now, as you stood brushing the horse, you could feel the pistol strapped against your thigh through the holster she’d given you. It wasn’t just weight, it was presence. Every time you shifted your stance, the solid shape of it pressed against your leg like a reminder you hadn’t asked for. You’d carried weapons before, plenty of times, but there was something about being handed one here, in a place that looked like safety from the outside, that made it feel heavier. Like the walls weren’t as thick as they looked.

Ben was talking— something about the weather holding, about how the snow had stayed light these past few days— but the words barely landed. They were swallowed by a sharper sound cutting through the low murmur of the stable: voices, raised and urgent, from somewhere further down the row of stalls.

Your brush slowed, then stopped altogether. You glanced over the horse’s back toward the far end of the stable. Two figures stood there, squared off in the open space near the tack room. Even from this distance you recognized the set of Joel’s shoulders— the way they rolled forward when he was angry, that tight line from the base of his neck down through his spine. He moved like someone who was trying not to close the distance too quickly, hands cutting sharp shapes in the air as he spoke.

The man facing him was older, grizzled, maybe close to Joel’s own age. His stance was rooted, one hand on his hip, the other lifting in a quick, dismissive motion as he fired back whatever he had to say. Their words carried in jagged bursts, indistinct at first but gaining clarity as the silence of the stable seemed to bend toward them.

You straightened slowly, brush hanging loose at your side, a prickle rising at the back of your neck. The smell of hay and leather seemed sharper now, tinged with something metallic in your mouth— anticipation, maybe, or the first sour bite of dread. Ben’s voice faltered and stopped, and when you glanced at him, he was already looking toward the argument with a faint crease between his brows.

And then you heard it. Your name, folded into Joel’s low, gravel-edged tone, followed by the words that made the blood rush hot into your cheeks.

“She shouldn’t be going out there. She’s hardly healed.”

The words landed like a slap, loud enough in the hush of the stable that you knew others had heard them too. You felt the shift in the air before you even looked, heads lifting from their work, hands slowing in their tasks, the quiet ripple of attention turning toward you. It was the kind of moment you’d spent a week avoiding, the one where eyes found you and stayed there, measuring.

Heat crept up your neck, chasing the cold from your skin, and pooled hot in your cheeks. You kept your gaze fixed on the horse’s flank, brushing once, twice, though your strokes had lost all rhythm. The pistol at your thigh seemed heavier now, like it was dragging the rest of you down with it.

You didn’t want to turn. Didn’t want to see Joel standing there with his jaw set and his voice raised on your behalf, not when you hadn’t asked him to. Especially not when every word only made you sound like someone who needed to be shielded, someone who couldn’t hold their own.

But you could feel the pull of it, could picture the set of his mouth, the hard crease between his brows. That same stubbornness you’d already seen in him half a dozen times over, the kind that didn’t yield easily to reason.

The older man answered, his voice low but sharp. You caught only fragments— “she’s cleared”—and then Joel’s voice rose again, the anger under it more contained this time but no less forceful.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, trying to steady the flutter in your chest. There was a moment where you nearly stepped forward, nearly crossed the straw-scattered aisle to close the distance, to put yourself between them and take back whatever control you could. You could already hear the words you might say, the ones that would sound steady even if your pulse was a drum in your ears.

But you stayed where you were, frozen in the space between humiliation and dread. You were aware of Ben shifting beside you, of the horse flicking its ear back at the tension in your voice when you murmured something soft to it without thinking.

You didn’t have to turn your head to know Joel was still at it, still speaking like he knew what was best for you, like your name in his mouth meant something it didn’t mean when anyone else said it. And you hated that some part of you felt that way, too.

The bristles of the brush dug into your palm as you tightened your grip, the leather strap of your holster creaking faintly when you moved your leg. Your stomach had gone hollow, the weight of that single sentence— She shouldn’t be going out there— lodging deep, making you feel like maybe Maria had made a mistake clearing you after all.

You didn’t plan to move, not at first. But the longer you stood there with Joel’s voice cutting through the air, the harder it was to stay rooted. Every word he threw landed like a pebble in a still pond, sending ripples across the stable, catching on every ear. You could feel the weight of it pressing between your shoulder blades.

The horse flicked its tail, shifting restlessly under your hand, and you realized your grip on the brush had tightened to the point that your knuckles ached. Ben glanced at you but didn’t say anything, just stepped aside enough to let you pass.

Your boots made little sound on the packed straw, but you were sure Joel could hear you anyway. He didn’t turn, too locked into his point, his shoulders hunched forward, chin angled down in that way that meant he wasn’t letting go. As you drew closer, the details came into focus.

His jacket was heavy canvas, the brown faded and dusted with flecks of snow that had begun to melt into darker stains. The collar was turned up against the cold, brushing the stubble along his jaw. His hair had grown longer since you’d first seen him, curling slightly where it pressed against the back of his neck, the wind having mussed it into uneven ridges. There was a tightness in the lines bracketing his mouth, a tension that carried all the way down to the way he stood— braced, rooted, like he was ready to dig his heels in and fight this out to the end.

“Joel,” you said.

Your voice came out steadier than you expected, carrying just enough to reach them without having to shout. He went still, his next words dying in his throat, and turned toward you. The set of his mouth didn’t soften.

“I’m fine.” You kept your tone even, though your pulse was a hard thud in your ears. “Holly cleared me and Maria assigned me here. She said this was just an easy patrol to get me started.”

He frowned, as if the logic of that wasn’t enough to outweigh whatever image he had in his head. “You’re not—”

“I’m not helpless,” you cut in, sharper now. A few people nearby shifted, their attention turning back to their own work in that way people do when they’ve been caught listening too closely. One of your hands drifted to your thigh and you patted the holster there, drawing his attention to the pistol strapped to your leg.

For a moment, Joel just looked at you, his gaze flickering back and forth between your eyes and the holster strapped to your thigh. It wasn’t the hard glare you’d expected from him… more like something unreadable had taken its place, his eyes darker than usual, his jaw flexing once before he glanced away.

The older man cleared his throat, breaking the taut silence. “Then it’s settled,” he said, more to Joel than to you. “Ben’ll keep an eye out, for sure, but she’s going. We need all the hands we can get, Joel. You know that.”

You didn’t miss the way Joel’s gaze snapped back to him at that, a flare of something hot and protective passing over his face before he masked it again. You stepped forward a fraction, not wanting to give him the chance to argue.

“I appreciate your concern,” you said quietly, the words only for him. “But I can handle this.”

His jaw flexed once, twice. Whatever he wanted to say, he held it back, settling instead on a short, reluctant nod. When he stepped past you, the brush of his sleeve against yours sent a warm jolt up your arm, and you hated that you felt it. The air he left behind carried the faint smell of cold air and leather, and it stayed with you even after he was gone.

Once he was gone, you let out a slow breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and turned back toward the horse, the weight of the pistol still pressing against your leg. It no longer felt just heavy… it felt like a promise you couldn’t afford to break.

[casstheasswrites]

"SAVE WHO YOU CAN SAVE" WHEN QUEEN

I KNOWWW i’ve been so delinquent i’m so sorry guys 😭 my friend had her bachelorette last weekend and as i mentioned before, i’m on deadline for my book that’s being published in october. it’s hard to find time between real life stuff, other writing priorities, PLUS i host a book club once a month and it’s on saturday and i haven’t started the book yet 💀😭

that being said, there should be a new chapter in the next few days. by the end of the weekend at the latest! 💕 i appreciate everyone’s patience.

[casstheasswrites]

baby i literally made it a tweet this very morning saying that i found out a great fic bc you were such a good writer and that if you ever write a book i would buy 5 copies and now i just found you're writing a novel lol great fucking news (congratulations!! 💟)

oh my goodness, thank you so much!! 🥹 this is the sweetest message ever, you’re an angel. 💕💕💕

[casstheasswrites]

when is the next save who you can save chapter for gods sake 😔

haha oh goodness i’m so sorry there has been such a delay!

lots of crazy life stuff happening at the moment (acting for my boss at work, trying to buy a new car, taking care of little demon children!) AND i’ve been working with my editor to finalize my original novel that is being published in october.

all that to say, i will aim to have a new chapter up in the next few days 💕

[corneliaavenue]

emails suck. unless they are from ao3, then they are the best thing to ever happen to me

[pedro-reed]

Deborah Ann Woll as Karen Page DAREDEVIL SEASON 2 (2016), created by Drew Goddard