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helenanell · 9 days ago

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Shattering Still || Joel Miller

'I had been so ready to die, but Joel Miller stopped me.'

Joel Miller x OFC - (Although can be reader as there's no name or physical description, just an age: 40)

WC: 11K

Warnings: ANGST! Smut MDNI. Interrupted suicide attempt, suicidal thoughts, grief, loss of a child. (I'm so serious this is SAD) Joel is angry but well-meaning. Not quite enemies to lovers, but they have no idea what to make of each other.

AN: I never thought I'd write for Joel, but I've been obsessed with and inspired by @almostfoxglove - specifically 'Lock the Gate' which is amazing!

Read on AO3

:✮:·

Blood bloomed upon the snow.

One after the other, crimson drops fell to the ground. And fell and fell. The gash on my forehead had scabbed over the day before, but the tumble I'd taken down that slope an hour or so ago had ripped it right off. I could have stopped, wiped the blood from the side of my face and fashioned some kind of bandage. But there’d be no point.

My path stopped here.

The small clearing in the woods I’d stumbled into was beautiful in its barrenness. As good a place as any, I supposed.

My bruised and battered body screamed when I pressed my back against the nearest tree and dropped inelegantly to the earth. The snow cushioned the impact, but it began to seep into my jeans; dozens of frost-tipped pins pricking at my skin.

I sat there for a moment, transfixed by the indifferent incandescence of winter: so lethal yet so enrapturing. The snow that covered everything from the ground to the tree branches was a smothering weight and yet it glinted in the sun like diamond dust.

Blood from my head wound rolled down and got caught in my eyelashes. I blinked to get rid of it, but it only served to bathe that eye with a tinge of crimson. With an irritated huff I pulled off my glove and used it to wipe at my face. It was messy and sure to be smearing it about my skin, but in minutes that wouldn’t matter. I pulled the glove away and looked at it: stained red, some of it transferred onto my palm, but my eyes snagged on the dried, darkened blood beneath my fingernails that wasn’t mine.

It’s easy to tell yourself that killing in the interest of self-preservation is permissible. Or, at least, that it should not burden you: the snuffing out of a life. I’d always liked the idea of that: snuffing out. To extinguish a flame. It felt fitting when applied to people, seeing as we're all just stardust; detritus from a dead thing that burned in the sky.

We wink out just like stars. What human beings had used to navigate upon land and sea for millenia, were just dead things. We found our way thanks to bodies burning in the darkness.

I’d left behind enough bodies to form whole new constellations. There wasn’t one of them that I regretted.

I’d had someone to protect. Someone worth saving. And I had. Over and over again I had saved that little boy. But none of that had accumulated into some lasting cosmic protection, or formed armour over his skin. None of it had stopped him from dying.

I’d saved him, until I hadn’t. Until I’d watched him die. Let him die.

He’d always been small for his age, but his hands had felt smaller still in my own bloodstained ones, his unblemished skin swallowed up by the crimson smeared on me.

My nephew had been born into grief. He’d been placed, red-faced and squalling, into my arms instead of my sister’s. In the moment, I hadn’t been able to look at him, a led-weight in my arms, screaming for breath as my sister drifted away.

Too much blood.

I’d known it, but I'd still stood there, my sister’s baby in my arms as I screamed at someone- everyone to save her. I’d screamed at the fucking world.

Someone must have taken him from my arms then. I don’t remember it happening, only that my memories then skip like a scratched record to me kneeling at my sister’s side and squeezing her hand. She’d been so exhausted that her head hadn't so much as turned to me, rather it had lolled to the side. Her gaze had been distant and untethered as though she couldn’t see exactly where I was, only knew I was there because of her hand in mine.

“You have to protect him.” She’d begged, her voice hoarse, tears trailing down her face. “He’s yours- your family. Promise me.”

I’m no longer sure if I said it back before her eyes drifted closed. I used to be ardent in the belief that I had, but over the years I started to think maybe her eyes had already been shut when I’d finally said it. Maybe I’d still been kneeling by her side, her hand cooling on my own and the sun set behind me when I let out a sob and said: ‘I promise.’

I had named him. Sophie had told me that she wouldn't feel right to give him one without having met him first. She'd wanted it to suit him. So, I'd looked at him and done my best. Fred, after our grandfather, because I hoped he’d be just as kind as him. I hoped that I was capable of raising him to be kind.

I’d raised him to die.

Perhaps it was my punishment to outlive them. To live long enough that I started to forget. Already my sister’s face had started to blur, the tides of time wearing down her features. Like waves against a rock face.

Everything is always crumbling to pieces. Life is a perpetually disintegrating thing.

It was time for me to disintegrate, to let death wash over me like a wave over a sand castle. When it receded, the thousands of pieces of me would be dragged back into the deep, with no evidence left on the shore that I had existed at all.

I could have just laid down in the snow and shut my eyes, let the cold subsume me, purify me in a wash of white. Drift off in a snow drift. It even sounded nice.

Just like falling asleep. Isn’t that how hypothermia was meant to end. Peacefully?

As tempting as it was, I knew that I couldn't do that. I didn’t deserve an end so… quiet . Not when all those I'd loved had died in such pain and so afraid. The people I had known who were the least deserving of suffering.

The least I could do for them was pull the trigger on myself.

With my body now quaking with the cold, assailed by the dampness soaked into my clothes, I pulled the gun out of the waistband of my jeans. I let out a breath, watched it appear and then disappear in the air before me. Like human lives: blink and you’ll miss them.

I pressed the barrel to my temple, the metal so cold it was a biting kiss.

I shut my eyes. My finger fell upon the trigger.

Snap! A branch broke close by.

It’s funny how even when humans are ready to die, our bodies can still react to imminent danger. Fight. Flight. Freeze. I’d always favoured the first.

My eyes flew open, the gun fell from my temple as I swung it out and pointed it at the figure that had emerged through the trees. No- figures . There were two of them.

Two men moved towards me, similar in aspect but with markedly different expressions.

The one that stepped through the trees first, dressed in a thick tan coat had his gloved hands closed around a rifle that was pointed right at me. He had dark, distrusting eyes that were narrowed into a scowl. His hair was snow-dusted and shot-through with grey.

“Put it down.” He snapped, voice forceful but calm. Texan, if I had to guess. He nodded at the gun in my hand as if I couldn’t have put two and two together.

I didn’t obey him, at least not right away. I watched him watching me and thought about letting him put a bullet between my eyes.

It could be my coward’s way out. If I kept the gun in my hand for even a few seconds more, he would fire his. I could see the promise of it in his eyes. He could finish the job for me. But Sophie and Fred deserved more. I couldn’t be a coward for their sake. I had to be the one to end myself, not a stranger.

I uncurled my rapidly freezing fingers and dropped the gun. The impact sent up a small dusting of snow.

The man grunted disapprovingly, his eyes never leaving mine. “Throw it out of reach.”

“I’d rather not.” My voice was hoarse from dehydration and my throat was still shredded from all of the screaming I'd done when Fred…

I was going to need the gun once the two men had left and I really didn’t want to have to get up again. I wasn’t really sure I could.

The man was having none of it. His face tightened with anger.

“Wasn’t a request.” He snarled. “Now do it.”

I couldn't help the scoff that bubbled up. He had just come across me about to shoot myself, the precaution felt unnecessary. Then again, being distrusting had probably allowed him to live long enough to get the grey in his hair.

At last, the other man stepped forward. He was younger, his hair still mostly dark, but there was a kinship in their features. His deep brown eyes looked me over, not unkindly, before settling on his companion.

“Joel.” He said pointedly. I didn’t need to know him to discern what he left unsaid.

It’s not us that she’s a danger to.

Then, his eyes slid over to the object clasped in the other hand. Pressed against my chest was Fred’s teddy bear, it’s fur matted with blood. I’d been carrying it for my entire journey and ice crystals had formed upon it. The teddy was the only thing I’d brought with me besides the gun: I had no need for anything else l where I was going.

Joel’s gaze followed the other man’s and for a moment, he went utterly still. Only for a moment though, because it wasn’t long before his eyes snapped back to my own and he repeated his order:

“Throw the gun out of reach.”

With an exhausted sigh I did as I was told. The moment the thump of the gun landed, the other man moved forward and pushed down the barrel of Joel’s gun so it pointed at the ground.

“Sorry about my brother.” He said, shooting the brooding man a reproachful look before looking to me. His smile was tentative. “I’m Tommy and this is Joel.

I nodded stiffly, not in the mood for greetings. I just wanted them gone. And yet, when I spoke it wasn’t to tell them to fuck off and let me die.

“You’re from Jackson.” I said.

It wasn’t a hard leap, we couldn’t be more than an hour outside of it.

“That a question?” Joel spat.

I didn’t acknowledge the walking stormcloud and instead kept my attention on his brother. It wasn’t that I was deluded enough to think he was in any way kinder, the way he stood told me enough: just as willing to shoot me if I looked at them the wrong way.

“Yes, we are.” Tommy confirmed. His brother’s head whipped around, but he was unbothered by the glare he received.

“We were heading there.” I uttered mournfully.

We . I must have been more delirious than I realised.

Thankfully, neither of the men pressed me on my blunder. I suppose the way they had found me and the blood-stained bear in my hand made the absence at my side clear enough.

“We’re on our way back.” Tommy said. “You could come with us.”

“Tommy!” Joel closed the gap between himself and his brother, grabbing his arm and jostling him.

Honestly, I was also a little startled. It took the exchange of a couple of sentences for him to extend such an offer?

Tommy shrugged off Joel’s grip. “That’s not your decision to make big brother.”

“Tommy, look at her! With all the shit she’s covered in, she could be bit and we wouldn’t see it. You want to drag an infected into Jackson?”

“Not infected.” I sniped back, not really knowing why I bothered.

Something about his contempt stoked the dying fire within me. There was no need to be a bastard about the woman you’d just stopped from blowing her brains out.

Joel’s eyes returned to me, sharpened with a new edge. “If you’re not bit, then why were you–”

His speech stopped abruptly, his mouth clamped shut before the rest of his sentence could tumble out. I could make an educated guess at what it would have been: Why were you about to kill yourself?’

“That’s hardly the only reason for it.” I grumbled, answering his incomplete query. “Now, seeing as you made me get rid of it, I'd appreciate it if you could pass me my gun before you go.”

Whatever wary confusion had possessed Joel to even start to enquire about my motives disappeared and his scowl returned.

“Get it yourself.” He barked. His hand shot out and he grabbed his brother’s arm again, tugging him back. “Tommy, time to go.”

With that Joel turned away, already marching through the trees. I entertained the thought that if he found anything in his path, instead of going around he’d just walk straight through it. He seemed the type: stubborn to a fault. Stubborn to the point of pain.

Tommy, as if repelled from his brother like a magnet, moved in the opposite direction and right towards me. His heavy boots crunched on the snow. As he came to a stop, he slung his rifle over his shoulder.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly trying to find the right words. “Look- whatever you were about to do…I know that ‘aint any of my business.”

“Tommy!” Wherever Joel was, his brother’s body blocked my view, but I could feel the glare passing through his brother and into me like a laser beam.

Tommy ignored him and moved closer, then dropped to a knee in front of me.

“Our lives are all we’ve got a right to anymore, so yours is to do with what you will. But, that’s not a decision to be made lightly and you look like you’ve been through it. How about you come back with us, stay for the night, have a hot meal at least?”

I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. He had no reason to offer me this, to try and coax me to Jackson at all. At least, no good reason. No one made altruistic offers, not anymore.

Then again, I could guess that this man had taken his fair share of lives. Maybe he’d changed, or was changing and thought that stopping a stranger from dying would do a little to balance his scales.

I could understand that urge. I’d thought Fred could redeem me. Make me nurturing when I’d never had the inclination. Kids will do that to you. Make you want to be better than you had ever considered possible.

I’d tried my best. I really had. But I’d never escaped the feeling of being a poor substitute for my sister; my care and compassion so pitiful compared to what she could give. I’d never had a deep well in that regard.

I suppose I wouldn’t have known until Fred was older if he’d truly felt loved by me. Sure, he’d told me he did, but he was a little boy and I was all he had.

It had been a selfish, self-indulgent fear of mine that he’d grow up, meet other people, perhaps see other families and realise how poorly I measured up; that he’d been deprived by me. How desperately I wanted to return to those anxieties that had felt so crippling at the time. Fear meant he was alive.

Now there was just…nothing. I served no purpose. There was no point to anything at all.

But I also had no fight left to give and I had a feeling that despite what he said, Tommy wasn’t going to let me refuse him so easily. I also doubted that he’d retrieve my gun for me: passing me the weapon that I would use to end it all might feel too much like culpability for a man who seemed to have a conscience.

So, I gave in. I granted a stay of my own execution and nodded.

Tommy smiled warmly as he stood up. “Come on, we got our horses tied up nearby. You can ride with me.” He leant down and offered me a hand, easily hauling me to my feet.

Weak and exhausted, I staggered to the side, but Tommy’s hold stopped me from falling. The wind blew, drying the blood that had slowed to a trickle on the side of my face.

“Woah, easy.” He said, looping one hand through my arm to anchor me to him. “You good?”

“Fine.” My breathlessness betrayed me.

“We gotta worry about anyone coming after you? Your blood’ll be like a trail of breadcrumbs in the snow.” Tommy guided me to turn around and we walked towards the treeline. Joel was waiting there, his gun still gripped tightly as he watched his brother and I advance.

“No one’s following me.” I assured him, fighting against the images that flashed behind my eyes. Bullets fired in my mind and then ricocheted off the inside of my skull.

“You sound very sure.” Joel said flatly as Tommy led me past him, he fell into step behind us. It was like having a dog snapping at my heels.

I bristled at the hostility in his voice, it was a challenge that I usually would never have been able to resist but there was no point in fighting him.

“They’re dead.” I answered bluntly.

I’d killed every last one of them.

Their blood had mingled with Freddie’s on my hands. It had felt like a desecration but it hadn’t stopped me.

Both brother’s made no further comment. When Tommy told his brother to fetch my gun, I was surprised that he complied without verbalising any objection. Although he didn’t give it back to me, just tucked it into the back of his jeans.

We remained silent after that, right up until we reached their horses. I joined Tommy on his, his, his brother striking out in front and brooding on his own mount.

When the wall’s of Jackson came into view I failed to fight back tears. I’d been so close to getting Fred to safety.

So close.

:✮:·

Once I had the two jagged edges of the gash on my forehead pressed together between my fingers, I gritted my teeth and pushed the needle through. The skin was already livid and raw, but a fresh drop of blood beaded there thanks to the pressure I was exerting. As I made the first stitch, I caught the sympathetic wince of the woman behind me in the mirror’s reflection.

“Not good with needles?” I asked, already back to sealing myself shut. It was another pointless endeavour, like glueing a shattered teacup back together while knowing that I was only going to drop it again, but acquiescing to it had seemed to appease Tommy. He’d also assured me that his wife wouldn’t hear of it being left unattended.

That had proved true enough when Maria had arrived at Jackson’s infirmary. Tommy had sent someone to pass along word of the stray he’d brought home.

Maria had looked me over with guarded concern, assuring me that I was welcome, while making it very clear that stepping out of line would be met with swift consequences. I admired her sternness: it was so clearly rooted in the desire to preserve the remarkable place that had been built.

I wasn’t entirely convinced that I hadn’t passed out in the snow back and was just imagining all of it.

Jackson felt like a dream that only my dying mind would have the luxury of conjuring up. I’d walked through the streets with Tommy and seen…normalcy. A sort of mundanity that had become a fanciful thing in my mind.

“Not good at watching someone stitch themself up, I guess.” Maria answered. She shifted so that she was leaning back against the wall, one hand cradling her belly. She couldn't have been far off her due date.

“I’ve never had anyone to do it for me.” I admitted, piercing my skin again.

I’d had to fight them to be able to tend to myself. Maria had insisted they had someone who knew what they were doing, but I couldn’t stand the idea of it: a stranger leaning over me, breathing on me for an extended period of time. Too close. Too prolonged. Just the thought made my gut twist.

It was best that I did it myself.

“It’s hard to accept help, at first. But you’ll adjust.” Maria’s tone was soft yet knowing.

I focused intently on the movements of the needle, forcing down a scoff at her words.

“Trusting people to have good intentions is asking for trouble.”

Maria nodded. “Out there, sure. But there are good people here. Families just trying to make it through.”

My grief was as volatile and shifting as the sea and I found myself biting back a nasty retort about it being pretty damn easy for the people here to make it through, safe behind high walls with their children, while somewhere else another mother lost hers.

The people of Jackson weren’t surviving, they were living . That was a luxury. And while it was a beautiful thing, practically incomprehensible given the state of the world, it shone too brightly for me to stand. I found it blinding. I wanted to throw dirt on it, smear it with filth to cover the shine.

When you’ve lived so long by crawling through the dirt, the sight of cleanliness is disconcerting. Almost uncanny.

As I came to the last stitch, my open wound now a raised edge, puckered and tied together with thread, I let myself meet Maria’s eye through the mirror.

“Look, I do appreciate the welcome, but there’s no need to go to any trouble.”

Maria waved my words away. “We’ve got enough empty houses to go around.”

Houses.

Not a room in an abandoned building where i’d have to barricade the door, or a tent that never felt remotely safe enough to get any sleep in. Or out in the open, beneath the stars.

Wherever Fred and I had found ourselves, I had never slept. I always ended up just watching him, his little chest rising and falling beneath his sleeping bag.

Oblivious to my wandering mind, Maria continued. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, we do have a process. The council–democratically elected–would want to talk to you if you decided to stay with us. You got any skills?”

“Define skills.” I said, as I tied off the thread and reached for the scissors that gleamed in the metal tray by my hand.

“Hunting. Shooting. Would be nice to have another person with a green thumb.”

put down the scissors and turned to face Maria. I leant back against the table, crossing my arms over my chest. It had long been my instinct to take a defensive stance.

“I can hunt.” I told her. “I can make traps and snares and I’m good with a gun.” I didn’t know why I was entertaining Maria’s inquiries, but acting as if I was someone intent on surviving seemed like it would lead to less resistance.

The last thing I wanted to do was solicit questions about what had happened to me. To Fred. Questions about why her husband and brother-in-law had found me alone in the woods, clutching a bloody teddy bear and readying to shoot myself. Tommy must have told her.

Before he had excused himself, husband and wife had ducked out into the hallway to talk and while Maria hadn’t treated me like a broken thing once she’d returned, there was something in her eyes that amounted to understanding.

“How good with a gun?” Maria asked, appraising me inquisitively.

“Very good.” I admitted matter-of-factly. “Our dad was a marine. Taught us to shoot long before the world went to shit.”

“Us?” Maria pressed tentatively.

Shit.

A decade after my sister died and I still thought in terms of ‘us’ and ‘we’. Ours.

“My sister.” I offered, hoping my bluntness would crush the topic of conversation before it could grow. Thankfully, it did.

We fell into a brief silence that bordered on comfort before Maria pushed off the wall.

I tensed instinctively at the movement, my hand itching to reach for the gun that Joel hadn’t returned. I’d need to ask Tommy about that.

Maria woman clearly noted my reaction, but carried on as normal.

“So…” She began with a smile. “Have I convinced you to stay? For the night, at least?”

“That’s what your silence was: you convincing me?”

“With some people, words hurt more than they hinder.” Maria said simply. “It has to be up to you. So?”

“Okay.” I said slowly. “One night.”

Maria had started moving towards the door before I'd finished my sentence. “Great! Let’s get you home. I’ll find you some clean clothes too.”

As Maria walked out, beckoning me to follow, I released a long sigh. I didn’t like the sound of that: your home. It had the distinct whiff of someone who wasn’t done trying to convince me, in silence or otherwise.

If only the Miller brother’s had arrived in the clearing just ten seconds later. I’d already be far from there, far from myself and all that I had done. And all that I had failed to do.

:✮:·

Something about the house I was given broke through my numbness to inject a dose of sadness. It was small. Just one floor. But it held vestiges of the life that had been lived so long ago.

Lines were etched into the wooden door frame that led into the kitchen, marking the growth of ‘Katie’ . She’d reached the height of my belly button before any chance of a normal future had been snatched away from her. Maybe she was alive somewhere, now an adult taller than me, but hope was just self-deception. It made reality more bearable.

Then there were the cupboards that were full of mug’s, many of them chipped. One had ‘ World’s Best Mom!’ stamped across it.

Everything was covered in dust that had gathered since the last occupants had fled, only to be kicked up by my footsteps. It felt a bit like disturbing a tomb. Except there were no bodies, just an absence. But that’s what death was: an absence in the existence of those left behind.

Maria had showed me to the house and then promptly left me to my solitude.

I attempted to settle down in the bed, curling up with the patchwork blanket I'd been given, but the softness of it was unpleasant.

I’d gone too long moving from place to place with Fred and when there had been a bed–and there was usually only one–I had let him take it and slept on the floor, or in a chair. Sometimes, I sat with my back against the door all night.

Then there had been all of the camping we had done. It had felt strange calling it that, as if it had been a recreational activity rather than a necessity, but framing it that way had made it seem more like an adventure for my nephew.

All of which was to say, I lasted a pitiful amount of time in the bed before I was gathering up the blanket and the pillow and traipsing into the living room at the front of the house and settling down on the floorboards between the couch and the coffee table.

There were bay windows that looked out onto the street, but there were no curtains or blinds to close for any semblance of privacy. No matter, it meant I could see the stars.

I laid down, bathed in a moonbeam that streamed inside, but made no attempt to shut my eyes. I just stayed there and stared up at the damp stain on the ceiling. Once clouds crossed the moon and the room darkened, the stain became a pool of blood in my eyes, spreading and spreading and spreading.

:✮:·

Tommy had returned my gun to me on the morning of my first day in Jackson. And yet, three sunrises later, I was still alive and kicking. Well, not kicking, but I was breathing.

I hadn’t had a change of heart where the wastefulness of my life was concerned, I just…hadn’t ended it yet. I was just so fucking tired. Part of me had died back in that clearing I think, even though Joel and Tommy had stopped me pulling the trigger.

There were so many more kids in Jackson than I’d thought there’d be. I don’t know why it surprised me, but seeing all the chubby cheeks and gapped tooth smiles was salt in a gaping wound.

I couldn’t help but imagine Fred and his head of blonde curls amongst the little flock. I’d called him duckling for a long time, because when ruffled, his hair had looked like the fluffy down of a little bird.

He’d have been so happy in Jackson. Nervous, at first, because he had never grown up with kids his own age, but he’d have shaken the worry off in no time, buoyed by the prospect of friends.

We’d been so fucking close. So close to a type of happiness I’d thought died with the old world. Part of me hadn’t even believed that a place like Jackson could exist. A community where actual kindness could be found, polished to a shine; a point of pride instead of something people let gather dust in a dark corner of their mind.

It had been a dream. A wish that I'd made for the both of us, one that I’d repeated with every step that we had taken forward.

But it did it exist.

Just being there hurt .

And if there was one thing that was intrinsic to humans no matter what state civilization was in, it was that we’d hurt and be hurt. And pain led us to seeking out ways to numb it. It’s how we’d ended up with alcohol.

The Tipsy Bison was almost too close to the bar’s I had spent my early twenties in. All dark wood and dark walls, sticky booths and shitty lighting.

The back wall behind the bar was an explosion of discordant memorabilia, all fighting to catch your eye first: a shooting trophy, a tiny American flag, a clock with what looked like a submarine on it, a little anchor. Everywhere you looked something new.

With a heady buzz building behind my eyes, I looked up at the mirrors behind the bar, partially obscured by the empty bottles that cluttered up the shelf beneath it. There were fairy lights strung up on the ceiling and in the reflection, my blurred vision made them bleed into one pulsing, glowing mass.

I groaned and dropped my forehead down onto the bar, enjoying how cool the varnished wood felt. My stitched head wound stung at the impact, but I found a perverse thrill in it.

I thought if I stayed utterly still and tried my best to block out the noises of the other patrons, the headache might begin to abate. Then I would move, stumble back to the house I'd been given.

I thought my plan might just work, until someone gracelessly dragged out the empty stool beside me. It scraped against the floorboards and I felt the vibrations in my brain. I groaned as I sluggishly lifted my head to find the culprit.

The scar at Joel’s temple was the first thing my eyes fell upon. It was almost illuminated in the bar’s inconsistent lighting. His posture was rigid, making him seem somehow even more solid, like he weighed himself down to the extent that movement was a chore. A hulking immovable object.

“Quit it.” Joel groused. He didn’t so much as glance at me out of the corner of his eye, his attention reserved for the barman who’d already poured him a whisky.

I sat up a little straighter, narrowing my eyes at him. “What?”

“Quit fuckin’ staring.” He snapped in answer, still not deigning to meet my eye.

“Wasn’t staring.” I spat back.

“What would you call it, then?”

“Observing.”

Oh, and Joel really didn’t like that: the notion that I had been watching him actively. As if taking him in visually, learning even a little about him from it, was a kind of theft, a terrible, offensive transgression. He gripped his glass tighter, making the tips of his fingers turn white. He angled his head in my direction, not quite looking at me, but close enough.

“Nothing to observe.” He muttered resentfully.

It had been over a decade since I'd let myself get so drunk and it brought out an instinct to antagonise that I’d forgotten I possessed. I smiled nastily and leant a little closer to him.

“Are you under the impression that you’re invisible?”

“No.” He shot back. “Sure would be nice though.”

“Oh?”

“This conversation wouldn’t be happening.”

“You started it.”

Joel slammed his glass down into the bartop, some of the dark liquid spilled over onto his hand. “What are you, fuckin’ five years old?”

I didn’t answer. My heavy head became too much to bear so I dropped it back down into my folded arms. The energy the alcohol had given me was already spent.

As I expected, the silence suited Joel just fine and minutes passed without another peep. I started to entertain the thought that he’d never try to engage with me ever again but then…

“Do you not need to eat?”

I looked to look at him but didn’t lift my head up off my arms. “Feeling talkative now?”

Joel had gone back to looking at anywhere but me. He grunted in displeasure at my mockery but carried on. “Been five days, haven’t seen you in the mess hall once.”

Instead of answering him, I forced myself to sit up and called out to the bartender, pointing at my empty glass. But, when he approached, Joel’s hand reached out, enfolded the top of my glass and dragged it out of the man’s reach. And his generous pour.

“About time this one was cut off, Seth.”

I scowled and clumsily reached forward to snatch back the glass, but Joel just swept it up and away from me.

“You were happy to leave me to shoot myself in the woods, but you’ll stop me from drinking?” I seethed. I thought I had whispered, but the few heads that turned in our direction told me otherwise.

Joel tensed so severely I thought the glass might shatter in his grip. But after a second or two, he set down the empty vessel and retrieved his own drink and lifted it to his lips. He kept set his eyes forward and took an obnoxiously loud sip.

“Fine. Fucking asshole.” I mumbled as I slid off and snatched my coat off the back of the stool.

“What was that?” Joel asked sharply.

Emboldened by the alcohol and infuriated by him, I sidled right up beside him and leant onto the bar. My other hand fell on his arm and he actually flinched .

“I said, you’re a fucking asshole.” Before Joel could muster up much of a reaction, I pushed off the bar and sent a consternated Seth a weak smile. “Night.”

I lurched out into the street and had to steady myself against the wall, sucking in icy breaths that scratched their way down my throat like glass shards. Painful, but it helped me come back to myself enough to put one foot in front of the other and head for my house.

Shit.

My house.

It should have been ours: Mine and Fred’s. Our home.

Never just mine.

:✮:·

It turned out that getting blind drunk didn’t just impair your vision, but also created such a fog in your mind that you forgot a lot of things. In my case, what I failed to remember as I staggered up the cracked stone path towards the house, was Maria’s warning that the wooden steps of the porch had rotted.

I was not exactly light of step at the best of times, but in my inebriated state, my footfalls may well have been able to crack concrete. So, when I stomped up onto the porch, my right foot went clean through the top step.

My stomach dropped and bile rose as I lurched forward. I was just barely able to catch myself and avoid breaking my nose against the wooden planks. My palms were abraded against the unforgiving surface, my skin riddled with splinters in an instant. I could feel something digging into my ankle and suspected that if I wasn’t so numbed by the alcohol, that I’d be experiencing at least a little pain.

“Fuck.” I grunted as I dragged myself up, pulling my ankle free of the hole. Once most of my body was on stable ground, I flopped down onto my back.

I shut my eyes and willed the world to stop spinning. The wind blew, drawing my attention to the exposed skin between my pant leg and my boot, upon which I could feel the trickle of blood.

Out in the open air with the stars glittering above, although obscured from my sight, I found myself beginning to feel oddly soothed. It was more of a familiar sleeping arrangement than the bed in the house that I’d rejected.

Which was probably why my eyes drifted shut.

:✮:·

A sharp kick against my leg woke me up.

My eyes fluttered open, only to find a dark mass standing over me. After a few more blinks, the nebulous shape began to shift into something more recognisable. Wide chest and broad shoulders, atop which sat a distinctly displeased face.

I couldn’t actually see his expression all that well, but it wasn’t exactly a hard leap to make once I realised that it was Joel.

Now sleep-addled as well as drunk, I was unwilling to be the first to break the silence. He must have realised this, because he spoke first. It sounded like he was under significant duress:

“Your steps have rotted.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” I slurred.

Joel gave no answer, but dropped down onto a knee beside my prone body, emitting a small grunt when the bone cracked.

“Feeling your age?” I asked, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“Shut up.”

I was, quite frankly, far too drunk, exhausted and frozen stiff to find to rouse myself to tell Joel to fuck off. The frigid night air had frozen my reservoir of rage. For now.

Despite that, when I felt cold fingers push up the bottom of my pant leg to expose my sticky blood to the night air, I kicked out at his hand. When the sole of my heavy boot made contact with Joel’s hand, he pulled it back with a hiss. “Go away.” I ground out, focusing on the way the now exposed scratches on my ankle stung.

Boots scuffed against wood as Joel rose to his feet, face contorted with displeasure. Before I could let out the sigh of relief at his anticipated departure, he kicked the side of my leg again.

“Can’t stay out here. Get up.”

“I’ll get up when you're gone.”

“No. You’ll pass out and freeze to death.”

“Just fucking let me, then! I’m nothing to you.” I hurled back at him, wincing at the resultant pain in my head.

Daughter, sister, aunt. Through every stage of my life, I had understood myself and my purpose through those titles. But now…I wasn’t anything to anyone. Just nothing .

The silence was drawn out just long enough, I thought he might have left and I was just so delirious I hadn’t heard his footsteps. But the next thing I knew a hand curled around my arm and I was hauled to my feet.

I wanted to curse him, to spit and claw at him, to turn my pain against someone other than myself and draw blood. Before Fred had died that’s what I would have done. But whatever the husk of who I was had left within it, it wasn’t the quickness to violence.

So, I let Joel drag me like a dog on a leash. He was rough. His fingers dug into my arm and he let me stumble over my own feet. He threw open the front door and stormed in, moving far too quickly for my drunken body to coordinate with. As we crossed over the threshold into the house, I tripped and would have ended up on the ground again if he hadn't pulled me to his side. He smelled of whisky and woodsmoke.

We moved down the hall at a jarring pace. It felt as though I was a piece of obsolete equipment that he was hauling around, and therefore he was uncaring about jostling me to the point that a screw or two came loose.

Thankfully, the little house didn’t give us much ground to cover before he was shoving me into the sitting room. When he came to an abrupt stop, I presumed that he was taking in the sight of my blanket and pillow on the floor, but when his hold on my arm eased up, I followed his gaze to the coffee table.

My gun sat atop the dusty surface and right next to it was Fred’s teddy bear, still stained even though I'd lost count of the number of times I'd scrubbed it. No industrial-strength stain remover at the end of the world.

I heard a short, sharp intake of breath and braced myself for a cutting remark, but instead he returned to his man-handling. Joel grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me onto the couch. He then bent down, took hold of my calves and lifted them up, forcing me to twist around so that I was lying flat. When he pulled off my boots, I hissed at his unforgiving hold on my bleeding ankle.

He made no apology, just dropped my boot to the ground and proceeded to yank off the other one.

I laid still and stared up at the ceiling, silently begging that he’d leave without uttering another word. He stood at the end of the couch, watching me like I was a rat caught in a trap. His brown eyes were black in the darkness of the room.

“You got a bed. No good reason to be sleeping on the ground.”

Exhaustion had me back in its grip, so all I could manage as my eyes closed was a mumbled: “What would be a good reason?”

A disgruntled huff. “Don’t be a smartass.”

A heavy weight was tossed over me. I clawed at the fabric, pulling it down until my face was freed and sucked in a breath as if I'd actually been at risk of suffocating. He’d thrown the blanket over me.

My eyes darted around but only caught a glimpse of Joel’s back as he was stepping back into the hall. His footsteps receded and then there was the unnecessarily harsh opening and closing of the front door.

Had I been less intoxicated, the entire interaction would have likely been confounding, but in the state I was in I just sank down into the couch cushions and shut my eyes and thanks to the alcohol, fell right to sleep.

My wakeup call was the sun that speared through the window and landed in my eyes. It split my throbbing head in half like a block of wood. My mouth was like sandpaper and something throbbed angrily behind my eyes. A hangover at forty was a different beast altogether.

I’m not sure how long I stayed inert and wallowed in my self-inflicted sickness, but eventually I did find it in myself to sit up, I swung my legs off the couch and edged forward and as I did so, my eyes fell onto the coffee table.

Fred’s teddy bear was right where i’d left it, but my gun was missing.

:✮:·

Thanks to the tour Maria had given me, during which she’d pointed out her and Tommy’s home as well as ‘Joel and Ellie’s across the way’, tracking down the thief didn’t take long.

My knuckles rapped viciously against his door, exacerbating the symptoms of my hangover and my anger all at once.

Just as I started to contemplate kicking it in, the front door swung inward and Joel filled the gap. It was obscenely early and yet he was already dressed in jeans, another plaid shirt with its sleeves rolled half-way up his forearms. I knew I was a ghastly sight and his displeasure was evident, but I gave him no chance to express that verbally.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth when you’re at my goddamn door.” He bit back.

“Give it back.” I held out my hand, matching his hateful stare.

Joel didn’t try to deny it, he didn’t even blink before he turned around and stomped down his hallway. I waited at the threshold, unwilling to enter his space.

Joel returned with the gun already held out, but when I reached for it, he pulled it back and left my fingers to clutch at the air.

“Don’t be a fucking child.” When I lunged for the gun that now hung in the hand at his side, he enclosed his other one around my wrist.

“You plannin’ on using it?” His voice was strained, as if pressure was being exerted on his neck.

“No.” I sneered sarcastically. “I just think it makes a nice table decoration.”

Joel’s hold tightened and the pads of his fingers pressed into my pulse point. The touch lingered long enough that it felt like he was tracking my heartbeat, but he soon let go.

He did let me take back the gun then, but when I put my back to him he asked:

“Why bother?”

“What?” I wouldn’t turn back to speak to him. I didn’t know what expression he’d end up finding on my face.

Wooden floorboards creaked beneath him as he shifted in place. “Killing yourself here or out there- it makes no difference. Why come with us when Tommy asked? Just means someone has to clean up after you.”

I wanted to see it. I thought. It came to me only then, having not really considered it before that moment. I wanted to see the place that could have become home if both Fred and I had made it.

I shook my head and continued on.

Joel’s voice stopped me again. I hated that it stopped me. Why didn’t I just keep walking?

“If you were sure, you would’ve done it already. You wouldn’t have walked with your head streamin’ blood for as long as you did before sitting down by that tree.”

I looked back at him over my shoulder. “I’m not dragging it out because I want to live, Joel. I just haven’t decided what the actual punishment is: life or death.”

“Punishment for what?”

“He died.” I didn’t offer Joel more than that and left him standing in his doorway.

:✮:·

In the two weeks that I had been in Jackson, I’d spent more time on the floor of my living room than anywhere else. My body protested in its stiffness, almost threatening to atrophy, but I could conjure no will to stop it.

I had no will to do anything at all.

So, it was night and I was yet again, flat against the floorboards, staring up at the stain on the ceiling.

I hadn’t shut the door properly on my way in, something which was signalled to me by the noise coming from the hallway. The wind blustered through the gap, taking every opportunity to rush inside and whisper to me.

The door would hit against the jamb and then creak open. Shut. Then open again.

I had realised almost as soon as I’d laid down, but found myself unable to get up again to close it. So the cold invaded, a pervasive chill that had settled over everything, pricking the skin on my arms on the way down to my bones, attempting to freeze them too.

It didn’t help that I’d just dropped down on top of the blanket instead of crawling under it, leaving myself protected by only sweatpants and a ratty old t-shirt.

The noise of the door didn’t bother me. It had a sort of soothing rhythm. Open, shut. Open, shut. The wind whispered through a wooden mouthpiece.

Just out of curiosity, I'd put my fingers against my wrist: the noise was almost in time with my heartbeat.

Outside, the dark clouds which had spent all day swelling to an ominous, bruised bloat had finally burst. Rain lashed against the windows as though it endeavoured to break the glass.

With my fingers still on my wrist, I felt my pulse jump as my front door slammed shut. I waited, but it didn’t creak open again. The wind’s whisper had been quieted.

I don’t quite know how I didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. I must have been more out of it than I’d thought.

“Catchin’ your death from the cold is slower than a bullet.”

I wasn’t startled by the sound of Joel’s voice. I wasn’t angry or even confused. It was more of a disquiet, that the noise of the wind and the door that I had used to ground me for the last hour or so had stopped so abruptly.

The feel of my pulse became an unwelcome sensation. I pulled my fingers away from my wrist.

I didn’t sit up. Couldn’t yet. It felt like there was a physical weight on my chest: grief sitting there, spiteful and malignant but unseen. Maybe I’d spent so long on the floor I’d fused to it.

Joel moved closer and that time, I heard his footsteps.

“You left your door open.” He said.

He’d stopped right by my feet. I could feel the scuffed soles of his boots brush against my socks. There was something about his presence that prompted a slight buzzing behind my eyes.

“I noticed.” I answered.

“Where’s the gun?”

I didn’t baulk at the question, or feel a familiar flare of irritation, I simply reached back, my hand questing beneath the pillow where it wrapped around the grip. I pulled the weapon free and held it up.

“Why is it under your pillow?”

If I had known Joel better- or just known him at all, I might have been able to tell what exactly the tone of his voice signified.

“I want it close, in case of intruders.” I said glibly.

I lifted my head just enough to make out the shape of Joel, a dark, unmoving mass and shifted my hold so the barrel was directed at him.

“Don’t point that fucking thing at me!” He snarled, his boots knocking against my feet as he lurched forward. “Put it down. Now.”

I was thrown into the memory of the day we’d met in that clearing, when he’d barked the same order with a rifle pointed at my head.

I let my arm drop and the gun clattered onto the floorboards.

He might have mumbled something under his breath then, but I couldn’t make it out. The buzzing was intensifying.

Joel moved forward and soon his large form filled the gap between my body and the couch. He crouched down, his knee brushing against my thigh. He picked up the gun and tossed it onto the couch.

“Still sleeping on the floor.”

My head rolled to the side and I found his eyes in the dark. Outside, the wind howled, the rain like stones thrown against the windows.

“I don’t really sleep.” I told him. “Doesn’t matter where I am.”

“You don’t sleep.” He repeated my words in a tone that I was far too untethered to pin an emotion to. If there was any emotion in it all.

“Why are you here?” I asked, if only to fill the silence.

I missed the sound of the wind through the gap in the door, considered asking him to go back and open it again but then thought better of it.

“I was passin’ by.” He said.

I chose that moment to force myself to sit up. Being around another person coerced me into some kind of self-awareness and I realised I was in a vulnerable position: him looming over me.

Once I was upright, the details of Joel came into focus. He was soaked from the rain. His tan coat darkened by patches of moisture. A grey-flecked curl fell over his forehead. I was much closer to him when upright. Close enough that I felt the warmth coming off him, flooding the freezing room.

My skin began to prickle.

“Why were you passing?”

“Hmm?” Joel hummed, Then, still kneeling he shifted closer to me. The knuckles of the hand thar he used to hold himself up, ran along the outside of my leg.

“It’s late.” I said thickly. “Why were you wandering about in the rain?”

Joel huffed as his eyes dropped to the ground. Perhaps he’d only just realised he was touching me and decided to take a look. He didn’t move his hand away. “You about to give me a lecture?” He asked.

I shook my head. “No. Tell me.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Is all he offered.

“You’re dripping onto my floors.” I said, drawing attention to the tell-tale noise that had been poking holes in the silence between our speech.

Joel’s thick brows rose, as if he was affronted. “Oh, they’re your floors? Thought you weren’t sticking around.”

The double meaning swelled in the air between us, taking up space. It stole our breath.

Was that what I’d been doing in Jackson the past two weeks? Just sticking around ?

Yes, I realised. It was exactly what I’d been doing.

I loitered in the land of the living when I knew full well that I didn’t belong anymore.

“My floors, for now.”

The hand against my leg lifted and then passed across my torso coming to settle on my side. With me now partially caged in, Joel leaned closer, which left our faces only a hands breadth apart.

The cold from his damp coat felt like it was seeping into me.

“For now.” Joel repeatedly tersely. His jaw tensed.

“Yes.”

Then his eyes flicked to the coffee table- to Fred’s blood-stained teddy bear.

“Your kid?” He asked upon a strained whisper.

Yes. No. My child and yet not.

My nephew. My reason for living. Mine.

Almost of its own will, my hand shot out and grabbed the collar of Joel’s coat. I held him so tightly I thought my knuckle bones might split my skin. The action inadvertently tugged him closer. His breath fanned out across my face.

“Don’t.” I warned him.

“Don’t what?” His voice had turned brittle, as if something within him was breaking. Perhaps it was his resolve.

“I can’t—” I spluttered out. “I'm not talking about that.”

About him.

Fred was still a part of me. Talking about him after his loss felt like surrendering further pieces of him; tearing of strips of my own skin, a slow flaying of flesh.

“Okay.”

“Don’t try to know me.”

Wanting to escape Joel’s unrelenting gaze, I stared at a bead of water that had fallen from his hair and rolled down his temple. I still had hold of his coat, the damp fabric bunched up between my freezing fingers.

“Who said that’s what I was doing?” Joel challenged, sounding almost insolent.

I made myself meet his eyes again. “Why are you here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.” He repeated, a stubborn set to his jaw. “Was walking.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Your door was open.”

“You could have shut it and kept on going.”

“Should’ve.” He admitted gruffly.

My shoulders sagged and I shook my head, trying to dislodge his unwavering gaze. It didn’t work

“I don’t want to talk, Joel.” I told him tiredly.

“Don’t have to talk.”

We watched each other closely. Carefully.

“Okay.” I uttered.

My breathing faltered as Joel’s calloused hand curled around my wrist and tugged, encouraging me to release my hold on him. I did immediately. Then, his other hand landed on my back and he began to guide me down. It wasn’t gentle, but the force didn't feel like an imposition.

When the back of my head hit the pillow, he clambered over me. One knee rested on the ground beside my hip, while the other nudged my legs open.

Joel sat back on his knees, his dark pupils trained on me as he unzipped his coat. I watched as he shucked it off and then tossed it onto the couch, right on top of my gun. Then he began to unbutton the cuffs of his plaid shirt.

A sensation that I thought had been lost to me long ago returned; something deep within me coiling tight at the sight of him rolling his sleeves up his toned forearms.

Then he crowded over me. His hands planted themselves on either side of my head. Joel held himself there, our chests brushed against each other, no longer enough space between us for them to swell with full breaths.

There was something suffocating about having him so near. Perhaps that’s why I welcomed it when he pressed even closer.

It felt almost as if Joel tried to cover my body completely with his and absorb me into him. He ran his hand down the side of my face, thumb grazing my cheek before he tucked my hair behind my ear. Then he pressed his lips there to whisper:

“If you want me gone, say it.”

“If I don’t?” I asked breathlessly.

Joel’s breath was hot against the side of my face and it faltered ever so slightly before he spoke again.

“Got something that might help you sleep.”

We stayed like that as his statement dissipated in the air like smoke. Even when it went, the scent lingered: heady and overwhelming.

I lifted my hand tentatively and let it fall on the back of Joel’s neck when he didn’t flinch from it. I don’t know I’d expected him to. I ran my hand up and my fingers collected drops of water until they curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

In answer, Joel ran his lips down the shell of my ear and then nipped the lobe with his teeth. My eyes fluttered shut at the slight sting.

Joel was solid, tangible enough that he grounded me. He was something that wasn’t going to slip through my fingers. And yet he was utterly detached from me, after this, he would drift away untethered.

I knew whatever happened between us would be fleeting; melt away with the sunrise like frost. I wanted it that way.

My hands fell away from the back of Joel’s neck as he pulled back. Not far, just enough so that he could grab the band of my sweatpants and tug them down, my underwear going with them. He reached the curve of my ass and lifted my hips so that he could pull the clothing free.

I shivered at the rush of the freezing air of my exposed flesh, but Joel was already crawling back on top of me, his warmth returning. I stared up at him as he took two of his own fingers into his mouth. He pulled them free and they glistened with his own spit. Moistness gathered between my thighs accompanied by an agonising throb.

Joel pressed his chest to mine, my hardened nipples pressing through my t-shirt and into his.

When his fingers ran through my folds, my head fell back. He wasted no time, pressing firmly on the way down before he pushed them inside of me. He held them there, no doubt feeling me pulsing around him.

His mouth fell against my neck, not kissing, but holding me flesh between his teeth as he began to pump his fingers. The movement was almost languid, his digits rippling inside of me.

My breath stuttered and my hands lifted, falling on either side of his neck just for something to hold onto.

Joel’s mouth closed into an almost kiss against my pulse point and the little hum he let out vibrated through me.

The tightness deep within me intensified, but just as I began to grow close, he pulled his fingers out of me, leaving an ache in his wake.

But then there was the clink of his belt buckle and his hands fumbled to pull it free. I moved to help him, my fingers brushing against his own that were slick with me.

He submitted to my help and his hands returned to either side of my head as I pulled the belt free of the loops and let it drop to the ground. I went to work on the fly of his jeans, now desperate and panting, but he would not abide my help in that endeavour.

He murmured disapproval and took hand into his and held it above my head. He did the same with the other one and cuffed both of my wrists together with just one of his hands. With the other he popped the button of his jeans and the undoing of the fly soon followed.

His fingers ran through the sensitive flesh between my legs and gathered up some of the slickness there. He kept his eyes on my face as he took himself in the same hand and spread my arousal over his hardness.

My t-shirt had been shucked up to reveal my belly. His eyes flicked to the ugly scar just above my pelvis only briefly.

When Joel lined himself up at my entrance, I let my eyes flutter closed. It had been so long, but I didn't care. I wanted him inside me, to feel him moving. To feel pleasure. Anything to keep the numbness at bay.

Joel pressed himself inside me with a hard thrust. A low groan came from his throat and the hand holding my wrists tightened.

Our hips aligned. And then he began to move, rolling into me, the force of the movements pushed me along the floor, rumpling the blanket beneath me.

When I lifted my feet and wrapped them around his hips, intent on driving him into me even harder, Joel groaned in pleasure. His head dropped low again and his lips skimmed over my temple, then brushed over the still healing gash on my forehead.

Pressure built within me as he pounded relentlessly. The sound of our fevered joining and ragged breathing blocked out everything else, even the wind and rain beyond the house. In that moment it didn't really feel like there was a beyond. Just him.

When I murmured his name, Joel released my wrists. My hands immediately ran up his neck and over the sides of his face. Right when I brushed past the scar on his temple, he pressed his lips against the wound on my forehead.

He thrust into me with such a bruising force that my pleasure burst, my release rolling through me in a violent shudder. I dug my nails into Joel’s hair and his thrusts became sloppier, slowing until he was just grinding his hips against mine.

His hands mirrored my own and he cradled my head, his forehead pressed to mine as he came inside of me.

We stayed like that, our sticky skin pressed close, until our breathing calmed.

Joel pulled out of me and then sat back on his haunches. I felt him looking at me so I shut my eyes again.

I don’t remember much after that before I drifted off.

:✮:·

When I woke up, I was alone. There was an ache between my legs, but it wasn’t painful. I was fully-clothed and tucked beneath the blanket. Almost warm.

But, while I was glad that Joel was nowhere to be found–it had felt like an unspoken agreement between us–something else was missing.

My gun was gone. Again.

Bastard.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x oc #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #the last of us #joel miller smut #smut

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gouraminnow · 16 days ago

Text

Birds of a Feather

(Entirely platonic | SFW | Marco & OC) Marco the Phoenix is found by an orphaned harpy child that mistakes him for one of their own kind. It takes less than a day to commit to adoption- he really is taking after his father.

Warnings: Past world government/celestial dragon related incident, drugging/sedation. This is self indulgent fluff catered to me and exactly one other person she knows who she is. Hi <3

Marco had just wanted to stretch his wings. The winter island they’d all stopped at was beautiful- sloping hills, valleys and deep forests blanketed in thick snow, with the soft orange lights of the small town that had only recently sprung up. They weren’t going to be here very long- at least they didn’t plan on it. Apparently, there were some nice hot springs in more remote areas, and some of the others had asked him to see if he spotted them on his flight. Whether or not his brothers actually wished to commit to the hike when there was booze to be had in town was another matter, but he enjoyed the airtime anyway. The clear wintery skies were quiet and refreshing.

Cresting over a hill and peering down into a valley, he spots the stacked hot spring pools overlapping like fish scales.

But he also spotted something else.

When he swooped lower to get a look at the layered pools of the springs, he also noticed a small white shape- scampering through underbrush, between trees, trying to keep up with him despite being grounded. He can’t get a good look from up here- but whatever it is, it’s awfully little and makes no attempts to conceal itself. He dips again, going lower in an attempt to catch a glimpse of this thing- aiming for a clearing between some pools up ahead, he turns in a wide arc, flaring his wings out to catch the frigid air and slow his descent. He kicks up a healthy plume of snow when he lands, and takes a second to shake himself off. He stands still, arms still transformed into wings as he searches for any movement- though he doesn’t have to wait long. Something white and fluffy with bits of gray and black darts right toward him with a loud trill. He steps to the side, the tiny thing skidding right past him with an undignified squawk.

The fluffy mess shakes itself off, and he’s met with the confused face of… some sort of little bird creature. It can’t be much taller than his mid-thigh. It wears no clothes, but it does have a leather shoulder bag. It’s covered from head to taloned toe in thick, downy feathers. It has wings instead of arms, but longer, more dextrous phalanges form three functional fingers at each wrist. Little black talons poke through a generous amount of unkempt plumage at both the feet and pseudo-hands, and the face- large, black eyes rimmed with orange, with bright blue circular markings on the cheeks, framed by a wild mane of… well, feathers, but it takes the place of hair. Two little tufts stick out on top of its head, not unlike the “ears” of a great-horned owl. They’re covered in gray and black stripes and speckles- impressive camouflage. He’s sure if the little beast had actually tried to be stealthy, he never would have noticed them.

But it wasn’t. It was dead-set on getting his attention. It didn’t take a genius to be able to guess that it mistook him for its own kind. He furrows his brow, watching it shake itself off and look back up at him, releasing a quizzical chirp. His mouth presses into a firm line. This was… probably a harpy chick. While harpies were typically depicted with bare faces and torsos, this was a cold environment. Probably just a climate-specific adaptation- or maybe they’re completely feathered as babies and they’ll lose coverage as they age. It chirps at him again, taking a tentative step forward, and he sighs. He’s not sure what to do here. He’s unfamiliar with whatever this species is, and he doesn’t want to inadvertently upset some territorial parents. While the little one seems to think he’s one of them, it’s entirely possible the adults would know better. He looks around- scanning the treeline, the clearing, the sky- and finding no hint of any other presence, he turns back to the creature before him, who has been inching closer and closer. He holds their gaze for a moment. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

They blink up at him. One of their little ear tufts twitches.

“... Can you understand me at all?” He tries.

They tilt their head at him, a little chrrr chrrr chrrr sound bubbling out of their throat.

Inconclusive, but probably not.

With a low chuckle, he crouches down- and that’s when they strike. They launch themselves forward, tackling Marco with a shrill cry. “Woah there,” he says as they cling to his coat, little feet scrabbling frantically as they struggle to get themselves up on top of his bent legs, sitting themselves right down on his lap. They’re not shy at all about getting settled, curling up and nuzzling his chest with a sweet trill. Marco huffs. “Well, aren’t you affectionate, yoi?” he muses, shifting his wings back into arms. Gently, he wraps an arm around the creature, supporting their weight by pressing them against his chest as he sits down cross-legged, settling them back into his lap.

They don’t really react, just continuing to nuzzle against the man. They’re awfully happy to be here, aren’t they? His hands run through the downy, speckled feathers on their back and his mouth presses into a firm line. Checking them over, he finally realizes just how dirty and unkempt they are- specifically in spots they wouldn’t be able to reach on their own. There’s an uninterrupted strip of grimy, disheveled feathers interspersed with the waxy sheaths of developing pin feathers down their spine- when he pulls his hand away, there’s a thin layer of grime on his fingertips.

“... Who’s taking care of you, kiddo?” He murmurs, only met with the happy, idle twittering of the creature in his lap. “You’re real excited to see me huh…” He’s not sure what to do. They very well could be an orphan, or even a case of a hatchling being ejected from the nest by a stronger sibling. Or they could just be very, very lost. Gently, he pushes the creature’s shoulders back, so they can look each other in the face. “Blink three times if you understand me,” he says, voice firm. They just stare, tilting their head a little bit. Marco sighs. The language barrier is a problem. He takes a second to think, letting the kid snuggle up again. How much this creature takes after regular birds was unknown but some things could be inferred. The eagerness with which they latched onto him suggested a social species- the state of their feathers suggesting flock members assisted each other in grooming. At least at this age, anyway. If this creature had parents, he needed to figure out how to locate them- but as of right now, he had no way of telling if that was the case or not.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the creature begins to rummage through their little bag- producing what looks like two small, dried pieces of meat and then holding one up to his face. They chirp, smiling brightly, practically shoving it against his chin. He looks at the creature's wide eyes, then at the shriveled, burnt looking scrap they’re offering. When he doesn’t accept it immediately, their little face scrunches up, mouth settling into a pout. They pull away, maintaining eye contact, and pop one into their mouth. They make a loud, exaggerated display of chewing(with their mouth closed, thankfully) and swallowing with an audible gulp. Marco huffs, a lazy smile spreading across his face. As unappetizing as it looks, he can smell the char on it, so at least it's been thoroughly sterilized at this point. Not that contaminants were something he worried much about with his particular devil fruit, but some things are just a matter of principle. Dubious meat is dubious. But the display was awfully cute, and he’d hate to disappoint them, so when they slowly hold it out to him again, he plucks it from their talons and swallows it whole. He does briefly taste the char he suspected, but the big grin from the hatchling is worth it.

He ruffles their hair, and they eagerly lean into the gesture. But when he tries to pull away, they grab onto his hand, hopping to their feet and gently trying to tug him along with them. “Oh? Got something to show me?” He gets a series of chirps in response, and they keep tugging. Well, he’s got plenty of time. Might as well see where they want to take him- it's probably his best bet at answering some of his questions.

Marco casually follows behind the little bird as they lead him through the snow. He’d gotten them to let go of his hand- they were so short he had to awkwardly bend down in order for them to reach it, and walking like that was very uncomfortable. At one point during their little walk, they had turned back to him and twittered with a quizzical tilt to their head, before flaring their wings out. He raised a brow, and they just repeated the gesture. “Sorry, kiddo, not sure I get what you mean…” they huff, stomping their little feet- before pointing to him and flaring their wings out a third time. A light goes off in his head. Ah, that’s what it is, huh? With a dramatic flourish of blue flame, his arms bloom into wings. He flares them just like they had, flapping a couple times for good measure- disturbing the pristine snow around the two of them in a ten-foot radius. He seems to have gotten it right- they cheer loudly, hopping up and down and twirling in a circle. He can’t help but soften at the sight- he wasn’t a conceited man, but appealing to his ego certainly didn’t hurt. After the little display he just followed along, listening to them chirp and warble endlessly. They may not understand each other, but there was no doubt they were a chatterbox.

It isn’t long before they come upon a sort of crevice between two tall pools, hidden away by some simple foliage. The little one slips right in, but it’s a bit of a tight squeeze for Marco. The first thing he notices is just how warm it is in the little cave. Makes sense to him- perfect place to make a den. The walls are a soft, reddish brown, working with the pleasant warmth to directly contrast the bitter chill outside. There are a few old wooden crates and cracked, scavenged pottery shoved against the walls of the cavern- the former of which store a variety of pilfered knicknacks, most notably packs of crayons and paints along with what looks like a coarsely-bristled brush tied to a long stick. There’s a nest further in, made of loose furs and old rags primarily- but just beyond that, on the far wall, countless drawings have been pinned up, rows of wobbly child-like sketches displayed right next to their bed. Stepping further, eyes gradually adjusting, he notices something else:

Tally marks.

Hundreds of them- tiny, shallow tick marks etched into every wall of the cave, reaching only a little higher than his knee. Something in him twists, as he crouches down to run his fingers against the clumsily scratched lines. These ones are organized in groups of seven, rather than five.

He hears another trill, the rustling of papers- and he looks back to see the little one bounding toward him, holding a drawing up above their head with a grin. They shove the paper towards him with an excited cry, earning a chuckle from the man, who graciously accepts it, raising the yellowed material up for a closer look. He goes still, a tightness blooming in his chest. In a childish crayon scrawl, the colors bleeding past the wobbly outlines, are three figures. One is the child standing before him, who is currently excitedly hopping from foot to foot in silent anticipation. They draw themselves as little more than a speckled puffball with big eyes, blue cheeks and their distinct ear tufts. The second figure is bigger, standing to the left of the child. The stripes on this figure are darker, with some browns mixed in with the black and gray stripes. The markings are similar to the child’s, with the blue cheeks and orange-rimmed eyes, but with a few key differences- namely the large tail feathers, black tipped wings and feet, with a hint of that same blue on the undersides of the wings.The drawing is actually… really good, for a kid- there’s an impressive amount of detail put into recreating the distinct markings of their family.

The third figure… confirms some of his suspicions. It’s slightly smaller than the second, but still larger than the child. And the plumage of this adult is primarily a bright, brilliant blue, save for white patches on the belly and face. There’s a tightness in his chest as he holds the paper, eyes flitting to the ever-hopeful face of the child. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. If these harpies matched up with the same types of sexual dimorphism as many bird species, the brightly colored ones are probably the males. This is clearly a family portrait, but the little one’s parents are nowhere to be seen. And the tally marks on the wall don’t reach very high, nor do the drawings they’ve hung up- if they had someone older looking after them, more of that wallspace would probably be utilized. Do they think he’s just another harpy, or their dad specifically? Probably not- if they were able to draw out the markings their parents had, then they’re probably able to see the difference.

“Kid…” he starts, taking a step forward and crouching down. They seem to view this as an invitation, because just like last time, they launch forward and flail their way onto his lap. He sighs, circling an arm around their waist and standing back up. They barely weigh anything at all. He wonders if their bones are hollow.

Now carrying the child, he approaches the wall featuring the rest of the drawings. His steps reverberate around the small cavern, the harpy purring against his chest. He steps into their makeshift nest, settling down in the various pelts, blankets and cushions. It smells a little musty, truthfully… reminds him of the few times he’d entered Ace’s room.

He shakes the thought out of his head, instead focusing on the drawings the little one had made. It’s… a lot of drawings of other Harpies, some scribbly mountains and trees… one seems to depict a gathering of twelve, with a bonfire in the middle and the bird people taking turns roasting nondescript lumps on sticks. He’s sure it’s meant to be meat, as two of them do almost look like rabbit silhouettes. Another depicts the child in his lap playing in the springs with other harpy children- all drawn with sweet little smiles and those big, black dot eyes. All the drawings they’ve pinned to the cave wall are happy scenes with a loving flock that is nowhere to be seen. Many figures celebrating, playing together, hunting and cooking game… none depict a Harpy by itself, all of them groups of at least three. Going off of these, he was right in suspecting they’re part of a highly social species, raised as part of a crowded and attentive flock. Abandonment seems out of the question if these idyllic little pictures are to be believed- but regardless of the circumstances behind their isolation, this was clearly some sort of desperate coping mechanism. Hanging pictures of the family they missed dearly, right by where they sleep? Examining another drawing of adult harpies fending off some large, fearsome thing- mostly black scribbles, big sharp teeth and eyes- while the chicks watch from behind them- the idea of abandonment at the talons of these bird-folk feels like nonsense. He doesn’t want to say anything for sure when all he has to go off are these pictures, but some deep, small but sharp sting of instinct within him makes the suggestion of neglect feel utterly wrong. Something worse had happened, the phoenix was all but certain. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he can’t help but hold the poor kid a little tighter.

They’re completely oblivious to the inner turmoil welling up inside him, interpreting the slight squeeze as deliberate affection. Their eyelids droop and their feathers puff up as they settle against his warmth. It isn’t long at all before they’re snoring softly in his lap… Marco sighs, idly petting the little bird monster as they doze. “You make it real hard not to get attached, huh, yoi…” He mumbles, gently scratching their chin. Hmm. He wants to check something. Thinking back to their little family portrait, he leans them back and gently unfurls one of their arm-wings. Most of the feathers are still soft and downy, but he catches hints of those iridescent blue patches the mother in the drawing had right under her armpits. Checking their wings, gently detangling as he goes, he catches no further glimpses of those vibrant pinfeathers, and concludes that the child is most likely female- though he is unfamiliar with the child’s age and how quickly their species develops, so he wouldn’t know for sure until all the baby feathers were gone. Judging by the little blue sprigs, it wouldn’t be long-

Marco blinks, stopping his train of thought. When had he started thinking as if this kid was going to live with him? He hadn’t even known them for a day. Suspicious circumstances and heartstring-pulling be damned, it’s far too early to be acting this way. The ideal way this all turns out is that their real family is located, and they’re left with their kind. In the best-case scenario, he’d never even see their adult plumage, having sailed on with his family after reuniting the child with their own. If he did take them with him, he would have to figure out their specific needs on the fly, such as diet, exercise, hygiene, sleeping habits… though at least the size of the crew was unlikely to bother them once they’d integrated, if the large social groups in their artwork were anything to go by.

Marco sighs. It’s simple- he just needs to know more. And now is the perfect time, seeing as the little one is sleeping like… well, a baby. He sits up, hands raising to their shoulders to gently pry them off from where their claws dig in to the fabric of his coat- and god is the little puffball tiny, one splayed hand covering the width of their speckled back- but as soon as he tries to pull them away, he hears a sleepy little whine and their three-fingered hands bunch up the wool. He frowns- taking in the way their eyes move behind their lids, and the drooping of their ear-tufts. Ugh. Damnit, they’re far too cute for their own good.

With an exaggeratedly resigned sigh, he pulls them back in, the little one cooing contentedly as they snuggle back into the warmth of his chest. He takes a second to adjust, moving the sleeping chick up to a more comfortable position before swinging his legs over the nest’s edge and standing up. He'll just... carry them while he has a look around, since they're so attached. So, with the little chick tucked against his chest with one arm, he begins his search. Starting with the wooden crates off to the side, he’s careful- sinking into a crouch and resting the harpy in the gap between his chest and the tops of his thighs. He picks through- this one is primarily art supplies, as he observed before. Packs of wax crayons dumped into a smaller box, paintbrushes- most in poor condition, he observes, the chipped handle of one resting against his palm as his thumb rubs over the frazzled, uneven bristles spiking outward. There’s a ripped canvas with a broken frame slotted into the box- when he goes to lift it, some chalk falls from where it had likely been resting on the wooden struts. The soft clatter makes the hatchling twitch, but nothing else. There are a few paint pots at the bottom as well, but they’re mostly empty or dried out. Curiously, he finds a couple small rectangular boxes with hinged lids as well, no bigger than his palms. They’re made of a thin, light colored wood and they remind him of Izo’s makeup- a thought that proves its merit when he flips the lid up to reveal the brightly colored chalky substance they have packed away inside. This one has three colors- yellow, orange, and red, and there’s a small mirror tucked into the underside of the lid. Snapping it closed, he opens the other- a sky blue, a darker cobalt pigment, and a deep purple. Hmm. He puts the palettes back where he found them, and turns his attention to the sleeping kid again. Leaning back, he rubs a thumb against the bright blue cheek spot, then pulls it away. Nothing. Those markings were natural, then. Well, it was left at the bottom of the box. If it was something they used with any regularity it would’ve been easier to reach. But the idea of birdfolk adding a little extra pigment to their plumage is one that tickles him.

He doesn’t find much else of note. He examines the brush on a stick he had seen earlier, finds some tools such as knives and scissors. One box has netting, rope, and fishing line- a broken rod laying at the bottom in two pieces. There’s a hole in the floor closer to the entrance of the cave, covered with an old pot lid- when he opens it, he finds a rabbit, two wrapped fish, and a handful of berries in a cheesecloth resting in a bed of snow.

But then, looking back to the inside of the cave, his eyes catch something he’d missed, somehow. Peeking out from under the nest, are more scraps of paper- the crinkled, triangular corners overlapping each other. More drawings… moving back toward the nest, he crouches slowly, careful with the child as usual. Reaching out, he tugs the crinkled papers out from under the furs they’ve been hidden under-

His heart leaps into his throat. His hand, tightening its grip, further crumpling the thin material.

The first picture is of a ship bearing the familiar emblem of the world government, scribbled navy blue and white trim topped by the golden figurehead all world noble ships have. He doesn’t need to look at the rest to know this poor child really is alone. The rest of the hidden drawings, pulled out from where they’ve been shoved and unfolded by his deft hand, are devastating- not just because of the contents. All of them less precise, more frantically drawn, indents or even tears where the kid had applied too much pressure while coloring. Tiny pinprick stains of water damage, if he looks close enough. One drawing is just a large fire. In another, adults and children alike trapped under nets. One shows suited men shooting some of the creatures as the ridiculous bubble-headed celestial dragon oversees. And there was yet another, depicting the familiar bright blue-plumed male flying away with the baby in his talons, little dots as tears falling from their eyes.

No wonder they were so happy to see him. No wonder they could overlook the glaring differences between him and their own kind.

The little one shifts, and Marco realizes how hard he’s breathing. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a moment to calm himself, for their sake- but it’s not easy. Well. He’d already wanted to take the little one with him. He didn’t see a world where Oyaji would say no, especially not once Marco told him everything. And if anyone else had an issue (though he doubted anyone would, other than the typical rational concerns when it comes to having a small child on a pirate ship), they would just have to deal with it. Marco was a commander, he did what he wanted.

But of course, he still has questions. In the brief time they’d spent in town, nobody had made any mention of harpies. He knows the small village is a very recent development- four years old, if he remembered right- is it possible that its presence is younger than the tragedy that befell the birdfolk? When visiting a new place with his family, local urban legends were quickly picked up on. Proud, hardworking folk like these often want others to be impressed with the places they call home- that’s why they’d put so much emphasis on the springs. It seemed odd that nobody had mentioned that this island once contained at least one whole flock of mythical creatures.

But looking at all the tally marks on the walls, the small, clustered groups of seven, seven, seven- he hadn’t counted them, but over four years of living alone looked very plausible if he assumed the kid counted accurately. Did… the kid know there was a human settlement? He would assume they did, but then again… the distance is a lot for someone so small. He only spotted the remote cluster of pools from the air, before he swooped down for a closer look. And all of their things look old, held together through improvised fixes- nothing new that would suggest they had stolen from town. Though if they did know of its presence, it was possible they avoided it on purpose. They only wanted Marco’s attention because he was a giant blue bird. They might not differentiate between world nobles and humans in general. With that in mind, he should be cautious with crew introductions.

Well, regardless of the kid’s relations (or lack thereof) with the other locals, they were coming with him. As well as he can using one hand, he gingerly stacks the previously hidden artwork, tapping it against the ground to line them up. He wishes he had some sort of folder… tucking them into his coat will have to do for now, so he slowly leans them back- prying their little fingers out of the grip they hold so he can unbutton the front enough to slide the papers in. Something to show the others- some sympathy for his cause wouldn’t hurt.

And with that, he lets himself partially transform- Wings, feet, tailfeathers. with a flourish of healing fire- that he washes over the child, just in case. She blinks, yawning- and he watches the flickering of his own flames in their dark, glassy eyes as they widen. They smile up at him with a chirp, and he returns it. “Have a nice nap, little one?” He croons. “How would you like to go on a little flight with me, yoi?” They twitter up at him, feathers puffing up. He sets them down on the floor- which they whine about, earning a laugh from him. He shifts from foot to foot before holding one up and making a grabbing motion with his talons. They perk right up- and sprint outside. Marco blinks, moving after them and squeezing himself through the jagged opening to their little hideout. That’s something he wasn’t looking forward to when he came back to pack up their belongings.

Out in the snow, the hatchling calls out to him- they’ve laid down on their belly, sinking into the powdery substance. He’s amused and impressed they got the message so fast. He thought he’d have to take a leaf out of their book and draw a picture of himself carrying them away. He approaches slowly, holding out one foot again- and when she doesn’t move, he slowly, gingerly wraps his talons around their midsection, the first of his three front toes resting just under the armpit. He tests his grip first, lifting them up while balancing on the other foot, which earns a giggle from them. It feels secure enough, and they don't seem uncomfortable. So using his free foot to propel himself upward, he flaps once, twice, and they’re off- Marco smiling widely at the excited trill they let out. While a little awkward to carry, they’re tiny and weigh nothing to him. They soar over the trees, and Marco climbs higher- even through the sound of the air rushing past his ears, he doesn’t miss the little gasp that escapes them once he’s gotten enough air to reveal the pinks and oranges of a horizon at sunset.

It doesn’t take long. His jaw clenches when he can feel their little body growing more and more tense, the closer he gets to the Moby Dick. When he begins his descent towards the deck, Oyaji and a few others in view- they emit a loud, piercing whine, starting to wriggle. He pulls up, wings flaring out to slow himself, and sticks the landing on one foot, balancing himself before gently setting the kid down with the other. They immediately latch onto Marco’s legs, feathers bristling in agitation. Whitebeard raises a brow, leaning forward in his seat. He’s still shirtless, despite the weather. “Marco,” he rumbles out in greeting. “What’s this you’ve brought to us?” He asks, gesturing to the cowering child clinging to Marco’s legs.

Some of the others have started to gather around, wanting to see what this is about. Marco sighs. First, he reaches into his coat for the bundle of artwork. “Tate, would you mind looking over these with Oyaji?” He asks, extending his arm to the nurse, who approaches slowly. He hands them off to the nurse, who is thankfully dressed for the weather unlike his father, and crouches down to try and dislodge the kid. They whine at him when he grips them by the shoulders, peeling them off of him to the amusement of his brothers. He flashes a quick glare to the men and their chuckling quiets down. “Come on kid, you’re fine, yoi” he chides, opting to lift them into his arms. They bury their face in his chest as he sits them on one arm, turning the other into a wing which he carefully folds around their trembling body. Hopefully, hiding them from view gives them a little security.

He looks back up to Tate, and to Oyaji- he’s leaning over her shoulder as the blonde woman examines each childish drawing, her face growing more troubled with each one. Oyaji keeps the same stony expression the entire time, save for the subtle narrowing of his father’s eyes. “This one spotted me flying, Oyaji. Chased after me from the ground.” He says, watching his old man’s eyes raise to meet his own. “... They think I’m one of them. They’ve been alone for a real long time, yoi. What you’ve got right there, that’s what happened to the rest.”

“These… these are awful,” Tate breathes, still fixated on the foreboding artwork. Marco nods, mouth set in a firm line.

“Hmph. So you’re saying we’re keeping them, I take it?” the old man says, plucking one of the drawings from Tate’s hands and leaning back to examine it closer.

Marco nods. “My responsibility, of course. The kiddo’s already… attached.” He sighs, feeling them shift against his chest. “They don’t speak any… human languages. I have no way of telling them that I am not what they think I am, yoi.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the deck, Whitebeard’s stern gaze sinking to the wing concealing the tiny creature. “And you are certain there are no others of their kind left here?” He asks, the unspoken meaning clear. He is not unsympathetic- it’s the same thought Marco had. It would be better to reunite them with their species, if possible.

Marco nods once again. “They’ve been living in a small cave, and they’ve scratched hundreds of tally marks into the walls. I didn’t count, but it’s been years, yoi. I think…” he sighs, pausing for a second. “None of the townsfolk said anything about bird people. I think this event predates the existence of the village, and this child has managed to remain hidden all this time, yoi.”

His father regards him from a moment, a warmth in his eyes few others would have recognized. “Let me get a look at them. Only for a moment.” Marco nods, retracting his wing. The little one sits with their face buried in his chest, trembling. He nudges them. They whine. He sighs, leaning them back, patting their head with his free hand and gesturing to Whitebeard. They hesitantly turn their head, and he feels them tense when they meet eyes with the Yonko. The towering man gives them a small smile, but it doesn’t help much. They recoil into Marco, pitchy squeak leaving their throat. The Phoenix sighs, letting them latch onto him and covering them from view once more. “Well, that’s it, then.” Whitebeard grunts. “What d’you need?”

“Somebody find Thatch- I need him to whip something up for ‘em. Some meat, add a sedative- I’m going back to their little hideaway to pack their things while they sleep.”

Thatch is located, and is reportedly happy to assist. Marco had moved the little beast to his own room, since being around so many humans all of a sudden had utterly terrified the poor thing.He swaddles them in blankets, and intends to leave them in bed- but his face softens when a hand shoots out to cling to him once more. He sighs at the little one glaring at him from the bundle of fabric. “I know, I know,” he coos. “I wish you understood me,” he laments, lifting their swaddled form into his arms. “But this is a good thing, yoi. We’re going to take care of you.” He makes his way over to his desk, opting to at least read over some reports while he waits for Thatch. Settling the child in his lap, he picks up some papers and leans back.

A bit of guilt creeps up the back of his throat- the poor thing is still trembling. They aren’t being deliberately affectionate like they were before- no chirping, no squeaking, no nuzzling. Just laying where he put them. He sighs, using his free hand to rub their back. They don’t do anything, other than shift slightly.

It doesn’t take long before he hears three knocks at his door- making the kid flinch. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, patting them softly before speaking up louder. “Come in.” Thatch enters, carrying a covered platter on one hand.

“Hey, Marco!” the chef beams, strutting inside and setting the food down on the little corner table. The child clings to Marco’s chest tighter, at the sound of his voice. “Heard the big news- fatherhood is gonna look great on you, papa bird~” he teases in a sing-song voice. Marco rolls his eyes, adjusting the kid and standing up to face his crewmate. Thatch’s face softens when his eyes fall onto the bundle in Marco’s arms. “Aw. Still upset, huh?” He says, considerably more subdued now.

“Yeah,” he affirms, patting the bundled creature on the top of the head. “Can’t blame the poor kid- they don’t understand a word we say, so it’s not like I can do much to reassure them, yoi.”

Thatch sighs. “Well, I got the message,” he says, one hand on his hip as he removes the lid with a flourish. The child doesn’t move, but Marco can hear them sniffing. Thatch prepared various types of meat, cut into thin strips, arranged almost like a charcuterie board. There’s a peeled orange and some mixed berries as well. “I’ve got some cured meats, fruits, and I grilled a bit of pork- that’s what's got the sedative in it. Thought about doing chicken, too, but y’know…” He gestures vaguely, and Marco snorts with a shake of his head.

“Thanks, Thatch. And don’t leave just yet, alright?” He says, sliding into a chair. Thatch pulls up one of his own right across from them.

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘em, anyway. Everyone up top is gossiping.” He smiles, leaning back and propping a foot up on the opposing knee.

Marco returns the smile. “It’s your lucky day, then. You’ll be the first crewmate I introduce, yoi.” If he wants the kid to learn that the others won’t hurt them, the chef is a good place to start. He pries their little talons out of his shirt, shushing the undignified whine the action draws from them. He pulls the blanket down so it’s bunched around their waist, and spins them in his lap to face the tray of food. Thatch’s eyes widen, and a soft gasp falls from his lips.

The kid regards him warily, leaning back against Marco’s chest. Their ear tufts are drooping back, and their talons find their way to the arm around their waist. “Hey there, little one. Oh, aren’t you cute?” Thatch greets, offering a small wave and a reassuring smile. “I heard all those brutes upstairs gave you a scare, huh? Poor thing,” he coos, before pushing the platter closer. They tense, but lean forward, sniffing the air. “Go ahead, kiddo, all yours.”

The hatchling is hesitant. Their little hands rise from Marco’s forearm, and both men watch their fists clench and unclench. When they turn back to look at Marco, their little face is scrunched up in worry- even if he can’t see their eyebrows through their thick, messy hair, he can tell they’re drawn tight. He gives them a relaxed smile, and slowly reaches out to pluck a piece of salami off of the plate. He makes sure they’re looking when he eats it, chewing slowly. He nods to Thatch. “You eat something too, yoi,” he says. The other man nods, opting for an orange slice. The kid’s little ear tufts perk up, just a little, and they lean forward. Some of the apprehension is beginning to melt away, but they still aren’t going for it. They look nervously back and forth between both men, head swiveling on their little neck. So Marco reaches out again- another piece of meat in his hand, holding it to their mouth as they had done to him. Slowly, they lean forward, biting the edge, and Marco lets go. It doesn’t even take a full second for the kid to realize how good it tastes, snapping it up instantly. They chew, swallow, lick their lips, go to reach for another-

And they freeze, just shy of touching the food. Marco could groan, but he doesn’t. Thatch gives the kid a nod, and when they look back to Marco, he does the same. Their dark glassy eyes go wide for a second. They pick up a blackberry, looking at both men for any reaction before eating it. This repeats a couple of times before they finally give in and start eating like the damn place is on fire, much to Thatch’s delight. The cured meats and fruits are snapped up in a flash, the thin prosciutto torn to shreds as they indulge. The pork is a bit chewier, taking them a little longer, but they eat everything before the drug even starts to set in. They’re licking their talons clean when Thatch pulls the platter back, and stands up. “Well, that was impressive,” he muses, smiling down at the child. They don’t cower against Marco anymore, instead leaning forward to chirp quizzically at the tall man. “Yep, I’m talkin’ to you, honey,” he laughs. “You’ll give Ace a run for his money, I know it.”

“Hope so. All of this is fluff, they’re a scrawny little thing underneath, yoi” Marco chuckles, rubbing the top of their head, relaxing when they lean up into his touch again. He was right. Food is a good way to help most creatures feel secure.

“What do you need hope for? You know I won’t disappoint! They certainly seemed to like it, didn’t they? Oh, just look at them,” Thatch coos, watching as their eyes squint in satisfaction.

The two speak a little longer, Thatch telling Marco that word had spread quickly. Oyaji had already given them a nickname, referring to them as “Pipsqueak” and sternly instructing his sons to leave them be for now. Marco told Thatch more about his encounter in turn- the way they’d exuberantly tackled him, the cave, the way the happy drawings had been pinned up by their bed- that particular detail had him dramatically slapping a hand over his heart. “Sent off to find some hot springs, and you come back with an orphan. You’re really taking after the old man, Marco.” He says with a sly smile. It doesn’t take too long for the kid to start nodding off- after around five minutes, there’s a big yawn, and they’re snuggling up to Marco again. He wraps an arm around them, gently preening their wings with his fingers. The speckled little creature all but melts against his chest.

“I think that’s your cue to get going, yoi,” he says.

Thatch sighs, dramatically slapping his hand over his heart. “So it is… how cruel.”

“Oh don’t pout about it, yoi. I actually let you see ‘em didn’t I? And you’ll be bringing them plenty more meals, I’m sure.”

“Of course I will! I’m aiming for the title of Favorite Uncle, after all!”

“You’ll have some stiff competition, yoi.”

“I’m a chef, my dear brother,” Thatch beams, spreading his arms. “Kids love food. Everybody loves food. I like my odds.”

Marco wouldn’t say it, but he did, too. Instead he just smiles, lifting the child into his arms. They rub a blue cheek against his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, yeah. Now go, yoi. Shoo. I’m sure I’ll be up shortly.” Thatch chuckles, gazing tenderly at the child before shaking his head. As his weathered hand grips the brass door handle, he shoots his brother a knowing smirk.

“You sure you’ll be back in time for them to wake up? I’m a busy man, but I’d be happy to keep an eye on-”

“I said shoo, yoi! Get on with it!”

Thatch laughs, the door swinging closed behind him with a creak. Marco sighs, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. Turning his attention back to the kid, he holds them closer and stands up from his seat. He listens to their soft breathing, trying not to let the patch of drool seeping through his shirt bother him. He sets them down on the bed, carefully unwrapping the blanket to tuck them in properly. He lays them against the pillow, huffing at their drowsy face, their mouth still hanging open. He pulls the blanket up to their chin, patting them on the head. They nuzzle into his pillow, sigh, and quickly slip into slumber.

He stays for a moment, warm hand resting on top of their head as they doze. “Big day for you hmm?” He muses. It didn’t take long at all for him to commit to this, did it? He wishes they understood him. That he didn’t have to do things like this. But at the very least, his intentions were altruistic, and the child suspected nothing. And when they woke up, they’d have all their drawings hung up within view of their new nest.

#one piece #one piece fanfiction #marco the phoenix #Marco mother hen moments #He's a dad now #you could make equal arguments for whether he adopts the kid or the kid adopts him honestly #thank you to hannanbarberra162 once again for talking about baby birds with me :)

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hellishjoel · 1 year ago

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blue collar man

4.1k / joel miller x f!reader

← masterlist

Summary: Your boyfriend Joel is up to his ears busy with his contracting business. Tired and sore, he comes home to learn you’ve made the rest of the night all about him.

Warnings/Information/Heads-Up: Fluff, mentions of sex (but no actual sex), mentioned age difference, fluffy fluff fluff because blue collar man Joel Miller deserves it! He’s running a biz-ness!

A/N: based on this lovely request! I hope I could bring your request to life, I breezed through it so fast because I love him, he’s baby.

“Thank you for today.” He murmured into the pillow. You barely hear it, but even if you didn’t, you feel it in the way he holds your hand and keeps your arm settled around him. “Thank you for everything you do, Joel.” You whispered back, your forehead on the top slope of his back as you take in the smell of his body wash combined with the lotion, his body falling slumped in your protective hold.

Joel had found a lot of success with Miller Contracting over the summer months. Business was booming and his early mornings until late nights were dedicated to working on multiple projects to get things done on time for his clients. Joel worked on referrals mostly, so when he finished a client’s remodeled hill country home in late winter, the client had raved over Joel’s professionalism and hard work to their friends and now he had a list of upcoming projects.

Truthfully, you didn’t know much about contractors until you started dating Joel. You quickly began to understand the vastness of his duties. One day he could be working on home renovation projects where he was doing demolition like removing the walls or floors, electrical and plumbing work, flooring installation, even down to the last coat of paint.

Other opportunities were commercial like on a small office building downtown where he did site preparation, set the foundation, worked on the beams and columns, all the way up to finishing the roof. Whatever he couldn’t do himself that was a bit more specialized, he hired subcontractors to work on like heating, ventilation, and air conditioning.

What he hated the most was landscaping projects. He’d have to do the design layout of a large backyard garden and plant trees and flowers or work on seeding grass if it was a particularly hot Texas summer. Then he would add irrigation systems like sprinklers, pathways for people to walk on, pergolas for outdoor hosting, finishing it off with pretty and unique outdoor light fixtures. God forbid the client wanted a pond.

“Do you know how annoying koi fish are? They just… stare at ya while you’re tryin’ to work.”

You had grown to love the handy man that Joel was. Before you were moved in to his place, your shitty little apartment needed so much love that your asshole landlord never took the time to come and fix. But Joel would. That was his form of romance. He didn’t bring you flowers or chocolates on the first dates. Joel was replacing your leaky shower head and tightening your jiggly door knobs. He also managed to match the paint color on your walls so he could cover up the scrapes he made after he railed you into your mattress so hard that the frame made a few chips.

You were so happy to see his business getting the high recognition it deserved, however, Joel was taking quite the beating from it. You could tell by the way he slinked back into the house at the end of the night, his frame hunched over and walking with a slight limp.

He was sore, muscles aching and knees screaming at him. His joints were swollen by the end of the day and his sweaty, sticky skin ached for a refreshing shower.

The hardest part was always trying to shut off his mind when he got home. He was already thinking about the next day. What didn’t get done on time, what shipments of supplies were expected, how the delays would set the project back. He needed a break.

“Can’t take time off right now, baby. I’ve got deadlines to meet.”

There was this one specific project that was giving him hell. He called it the Astor because it was on Astor street. Every night this week he had come home beyond late because of the problems with the Astor. First it was that the project was exceeding the client’s budget, so they were giving him grief about that. Then it was labor shortage stuff, not being able to get people out there which then in turn caused timeline delays. With the client out of the country most of the time, Joel was receiving little to no communication from the owner. He was fighting permit and regulatory issues with the city, every day it was something new that caused a headache behind his eyes.

His dedication was admirable, but you knew that him being so physically and mentally clouded wasn’t good for him or for Miller Contracting.

You didn’t know shit about contracting, but you did know Joel.

You had texted him earlier in the day to drop whatever he was working on no later than 5 o’clock in the evening. You never did that, never told him to leave work early. But the last thing he wanted was for him to come home and have you upset with him. That was worse than any project issue.

Tonight would be about Joel. Anything you could do to make the stress melt away, you would try.

Joel pushed open the front door once home, a heavy sigh leaving him as he closed the door back in place and set his lunch box and keys down on the entry table.

“Joel?” Your voice echoed from the kitchen.

“Hi, baby.” His voice was low from the lack of energy.

Joel slowly moved down on one knee, a heavy breath exiting through clench teeth as his kneecaps throbbed while he untied one boot, then the other. They were covered in dust even down to the creases, steel toe covers making his feet sore.

“Hey, how was your day?” You asked as you grabbed a dish towel to wipe your hands with before tossing it on the counter, greeting him halfway as he made his way through the living room.

You were up on your tippy toes for a kiss, not wanting him to have to bend over and exert himself. He hated when you treated him like an old man, but with this job, you always teased him that it was coming sooner rather than later.

He kept his hands to himself, knowing they were a bit greasy and sweaty. His overgrown beard hairs tickled your face as you peppered him with a few extra kisses, one of his eyebrows playfully raising.

“Was fine. Did you see what I texted you?” He asked as he looked down at you, watching as your fingers grabbed the hem of his shirt, helping lift it off his head.

“Mhm. The HVAC guys didn’t show up until noon even though you scheduled them for nine in the morning. Did you see I texted you back? Five hours ago.” Your teasing tone made him crack a smile.

Joel was bad at texting. Typical guy thing, typical older guy thing. He said he wouldn’t even have a phone if it wasn’t for work and if Sarah didn’t insist on how texting was the new way of communication. Even though you texted him ten minutes after his initial one, his phone was already back in his pocket and he had long forgotten about your conversation as he returned to his work day.

His response came out in a chortle, a heavy breath through his nose since he was too tired to chuckle.

“Sorry, baby. Just wanted to complain, I guess.” He said as he watched you fiddle with his Miller Contracting shirt that had a worn in hole by the neckline. He went to reach for it, wanting to toss it into the dirty clothes bin, but you were quick to hold it to your chest.

“I’ve got it.” You said as you went to give him a soft kiss to the open plane of his chest, smiling at the salt and pepper chest hair he was sporting. It looked so good on him. You walked off to the bedroom and did it yourself, grabbing him a fresh shirt for the rest of the evening, a pair of boxers, and his worn dark plaid pajama pants he liked.

Joel’s curiosity had gotten the better of him. A heavenly smell was drawing him into the kitchen, his eyes lighting up at the sight before him. You had green beans in a frying pan and a gravy softly bubbling in a sauce pan. Then in a skillet was the most perfect looking chicken fried steak, the coating coming to the perfect crisp. He pulled the oven handle open just an inch to see golden biscuits rising.

“I put clean clothes on the counter in the bathroom, go shower, handsome.” You said before returning to the kitchen, frowning as he found his dinner before you had a chance to plate it.

“Joel.” You playfully scolded, pinching at his hip. “You’re ruining your own surprise.” You teased as you shooed him out of the kitchen, hearing an audible grumble in his stomach. It made you sport a proud grin. It was his favorite meal, said it reminded him of his mom’s cooking growing up with Tommy.

“I’m making mashed potatoes, too.” You said as you drained the water the potatoes were soaking in, putting them in a new bowl and getting out some milk and butter.

“You’re makin’ me hungry.” He hummed with a small, tired smile as his hands came up loosely on your hips.

His hands on you instantly made you grin, gently shaking your head at him as his head came to rest by your own.

“You’re distractin’ me.” His low voice carrying the weight of his day.

“No, you’re distracting me.” You made clear as your elbow playfully dug into the core of his stomach.

“Go shower, please. You smell like drywall dust… and paint.”

He rolled his eyes with his smile still lingering.

“Yeah, okay. Thank you.” He said as his lips dropped down to place a sweet kiss of sincerity at the base of your neck, a shiver rolling up you as you let out a huff and returned your focus to your five-star meal.

You heard the water hit against the shower wall and his small radio crackled to life, finalizing the last touches to Joel’s favorite dinner.

Joel came back to the living room in the clothes you had set out for him, his hair slicked back wet from his shower. God, he looked so good.

“Here.” You handed him his plate, seeing his lips part in excitement. His stomach let out an audible rumble. He probably didn’t have a spare minute to eat his lunch today, poor thing.

The two of you settled on the couch, Joel expecting you to turn on one of your shows since a new episode came out today.

“Do you uhm.. Maybe wanna watch one of those movies where they’re flying the jet planes? You said you wanted to show me it a while ago.” You offered, glancing over to see him already inhaling his food with the fork scraping across the plate to not let a single bit of gravy escape him. But your offer made him pause.

“You wanna watch Top Gun? You hate Tom Cruise.”

“Well, yeah, he seems kind of like a douchebag, but it’s okay.” His eyes narrowed on you as he thought about your offer but ultimately shook his head, shrugged, and kept eating.

“‘t’s fine, you can put somethin’ on.” He said as he stabbed a green bean, smeared some mashed potatoes on it before putting it past his lips.

You took a deep breath and issued him the remote control.

“You pick something tonight, honey. It’s your night.”

That caught Joel’s attention. His head whipped a little to fast towards you, his thick eyebrows furling at the concept.

“‘t’s not my night. It’s a Thursday.”

The look you gave him set him straight.

“Okay, okay.. It’s my night.” He declared in playful defense, taking in a deep breath through his nose and opted for some old Western show he liked. You didn’t care much for it, but Joel did.

Once you two finished dinner, plates stacked on the coffee table and discarded, your head was on his shoudler and your hand ran slow, soothing circles over his chest. You could feel him breathing deeply, relaxing with you.

You asked him questions about the main characters, showing genuine interest. Even going as far as to add a dramatic gasp when a shot was fired from a cowboy’s revolver which made him let out a hearty laugh.

“You’re so full of it.”

He was talking with a huge grin, you could hear it in how he spoke, and it warmed your heart.

Towards the end of your night, your hands were in yellow dish gloves as you washed your plates from dinner, sliding the clean ones between the dividers of your drying rack.

Joel slipped his strong arms low around your waist, his burly shoulders pressing into your own as you nearly toppled over with his presence

“Thanks for dinner tonight. Hit the spot.” He said as he kissed your cheek then on a spot where your jawline met your neck, right by your ear. His beard hairs tickled. You could feel that they were freshly trimmed now, he probably felt a lot better.

“Night’s not over yet.” You hummed, a playful smile on your lips that he was quick to take notice of.

“Oh?” His voice dropped an octave, rolling your eyes a bit as you dug your elbow into his stomach for the second time tonight to put some space between you.

“Okay, cowboy. Relax. How about you go to the bedroom and take your shirt off. I’ll be there in a sec.” Your choice of words were still leading him in a different direction, you almost felt bad. But it was funny watching him get worked up.

After finishing the dishes and blowing out the eucalyptus scented candles, you peaked into your bedroom. Joel was still cautiously removing his shirt, moving slow as to not disturb his aching muscles. You hated seeing him come home every night like this, as if his body had just been in a fight and taken a brutal beating.

Joel undid the clasp of his watch, the band and watch face dirty and making digging a bruise into his wrist, but it told the time. He felt better after his shower, having made it a steamy one to relax the stinging in his upper neck and shoulders as well as his lower back.

His belly was good and full, happy to have something homemade rather than a quick pizza in the oven or just a cold bottle of beer before bed.

You were taking care of him tonight. Not that you didn’t every other night. He was actually giving you the time to take proper care of him. It felt off at first, taking on all the attention he usually reserved for you after long days. But maybe it’s what he needed.

His head turned as he felt a warm pair of arms circle just above his plaid pajama pants, your soft fingers undoing the knot he had tied in the front of them.

“I would’a taken my pants off for ya if you’d just ask.” His tone taunting, stepping out of the soft material before spinning in your arms and attempting to scoop you into him.

“Lay back, goofball.” You said with that gleaming smile of yours. Made his stomach twist. Whatever you had planned, you obviously wanted the lead on.

He did as instructed, happily falling into the comfort of the mattress with ease.

“Close your eyes, please.” Your voice was sweet like honey. He’d follow it into the shadows, into hell, more likely into heaven since it’s where Joel thought you belonged.

He could already fall asleep, though it was no later than eight. He felt the bed dip first at his legs, your body shifting up to sit by his hip. His hand naturally felt out for you, his warm palm holding you at the curve of your lower back.

When Joel was given the okay to open his eyes again, he was surprised to see a few candles lit around the room, the golden glow adding a bit of ambiance.

He watched as you squirted a few pumps of a lotion in your hands, circling it up in your palms to make it a little warm before you started to lather it into his calves.

The sensation made his breath hitch. You were giving him a massage? He sat up on his elbows and watched the white-ish cream get all wrapped up in his dark leg hair.

“Darlin’-”

“Shh.”

He tightened his lips, feeling a bit futile all of a sudden. There was a pause before he spoke again.

“Don’t have to do this for me.” He insisted, his eyes on yours, but you were focused on adding subtle pressure to his calf muscles.

“Know I don’t have to. I want to. Lay back down.”

You wanted to. You wanted to take time out of your evening and bathe him in attention. You had cooked one of his favorite meals, and to perfection he might add. You also let him watch a show he wanted to watch, something he knew you didn’t have a taste for. But you were intrigued anyway, to show you cared.

He was so comfortable and at ease, the problems of today didn’t seem to matter much anymore when you were here to greet him so lovingly.

Your fingers kneaded gently into his skin, Joel’s eyes dipping closed as he began to sink deeper into the mattress. Of course he couldn’t just do nothing. He had his warm palm splayed on your back where the shirt you were wearing was riding up a little bit. You smiled at the gesture. No matter how much effort you tried to dedicate to Joel, he was still showing his care even when he was dead exhausted.

You worked the lotion up into his thighs, the slight tug on his hairs making his face crinkle a little. You dared not to get too high, again, not to give him the wrong idea of where the massage was heading. It was okay to be just attentive to his needs for tonight. You could relax him in other more sensual ways another time. He needed something a little deeper.

You leaned down and peppered sweet kisses up his torso and over those salt and pepper chest hairs you admire so much, stopping just at his lips with a small smile.

“So handsome.” You praised in a whisper, kissing him with a grin on your lips.

He hummed softly and moved his hand to gently cup the back of your head, keeping your kind presence in his proximity just a moment longer.

“I’m getting too old for you.” He whispered back in a teasing tone, making you bubble up a laugh in your shared space.

“You’ve always been too old for me.” Your thumb gently glided over his chin and admired a small white patch just at the base where his neck sloped down. “But I’ve never minded. Because you’re a good man. A hard working, blue collar man. It’s very sexy.” You teased with a smile, happy to see one blossom on his lips as well.

“Thanks for treatin’ me so good tonight. This week’s been…” he let the sentence die before shaking his head.

“I know, Joel.” You said with a small nod before pressing a gentle kiss on his lips again before sitting up straight.

“Wanna roll over and I’ll do your shoulders?”

He let out a breathless laugh as he looked up at you. “Please.” Like you had to ask.

He wasn’t used to this sort of treatment, but boy, maybe he should start asking for it.

Joel moved to lay on his belly, letting out a short groan in the process that made your chest flutter.

You let out a short huff before you straddled his back, topping yourself right on his butt after getting a short groan from Joel for being on his tailbone.

More lotion was squirted into your hands before you started to apply it across the landscape of his back.

“We should do a skincare night.” You said, feeling his body shudder at the cold lotion.

“Uh what?” Joel’s voice muffled against the comforter, his head to one side so he could see you just out of his peripheral.

“You know what skincare is, you see me do it every night.”

“I don’t know what the he-ll you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” He said, his words stuttering as you pushed particularly harder in his lower back. Jeez, it was knot after knot under your fingertips.

“Ugh, Joel!” You whined as your motions paused.

Joel had a habit of doing this. Declaring he had no idea what it was that you were talking about, making you tirelessly explain for several minutes, before he goes ‘Oh, why didn’t you just say that? I know what that is.” It made you roll your eyes each and every time.

“You’re handsome, but you don’t listen.” You hummed out before cupping your hands at his shoulders and doing circles with good pressure, your upper body weight being put into his stern muscles.

“All I heard you say is that I’m handsome.” He moaned into the sheets, a blush creeping on your cheeks at his comment, but also his heavenly moan.

“It’s.. where you apply skincare to your face. You know, using a cleanser, applying an exfoliator, moisturizer..”

This was when Joel started muffling random nonsense into the sheets and you playfully pushed into his crying shoulders harder until he let out another long groan of discomfort.

“Okay, okay, I know what you’re talkin’ about. Skincare. I don’t need it.”

You tutted, shaking your head as you held in a laugh.

“Everyone needs it. Every. One.” You said as you leaned down and kissed the back of his head where his curls were starting to form.

“Especially you, Joel! Your pores are so big, you’ve got dust and dirt getting all in there. And it’s been so hot outside, your skin’s drying up. Gotta take care of your skin baby.”

“Why? So I’ll look young agian?” He teased as he reached a hand back and squeezed your hip as well as he could from his position.

“Because it’s good for you. Makes me feel good after a really long day.”

You could feel his eyes on you, a throat hum leaving his lips. “Thought I made you feel good after a really long day.”

A huff left your lips as you were back to doing circles into his shoulder with your thumbs. “Shut up.”

The last of the lotion had sunk into his skin, the massage hopefully healing more than just his dry skin.

Night’s like this with Joel were rare, but exceptionally special. He had energy to talk to you about everything under the sun, something you didn’t expect to transpire with your age difference at first. You discussed your mutual plans for the weekend, a barbeque at Tommy’s house. Joel was insisting on you wearing your new bikini, green to match his beautiful eyes. He could be such a horn dog.

He wanted to stay up as long as he could, but the long day he endured couldn’t help but put weight on his eyelids. His words turned to mumbles, his arms snaking around your waist in his silent gesture to fall asleep with you.

You shook your head with a small, tired smile, your hands planting themselves on his forearms to put a stop to his motions.

“Turn around.” You whispered, the notion making his tired eyes pop open with a “huh?” leaving his parted lips.

“You heard me, old man. Turn around.” You said as your hand roamed over his warm hip.

Joel assumed you didn’t want to cuddle tonight, maybe he was too warm for your taste despite the fan running above the both of you.

Joel’s chest tightened as he felt your warm body return right behind him, a bashful grin on his face.

“Are you tryna big spoon me?” His southern accent was dripping heavier than usual with the tiredness stringed in it.

The question erupted a giggle from you, Joel feeling you kiss over his taut shoulder blade.

“I don’t know how well I can big spoon you.. You’re so long.” Your arm tightened around Joel’s waist anway, his big hand finding yours as your fingers interlocked. He felt grateful in this moment, albeit a bit shy about the position. He was used to being the big spoon, it was different for him to be on the receiving end. But it was warm and settling, he couldn’t deny that.

“So I’m uh.. I’m like the ladle to your big spoon?” Joel asked. He could feel your grin on his back, your legs tangling with his own.

“Yes… you’re the ladle, but even the ladle needs a big spoon.” Joel’s blinks slowed until his eyes were closed, heavy with sleep.

“Thank you for today.” He murmured into the pillow. You barely hear it, but even if you didn’t, you feel it in the way he holds your hand and keeps your arm settled around him.

“Thank you for everything you do, Joel.” You whispered back, your forehead on the top slope of his back as you take in the smell of his body wash combined with the lotion, his body falling slumped in your protective hold.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #hellishjoel #joel miller fluff #joel miller imagine #fluff fic #joel miller one shot fluff

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cienie-isengardu · 2 years ago

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Cienie's Star Wars sidenotes

While doing research and writing down the last pieces of Funeral Rites of the Clone Troopers, it became even more clear how The Clone Wars animated TV series did a great disservice to Jedi, especially in the context of medical care for clones.

TCW has clone medics, both as part of combat units (e.g. Kix from 501st Legion) and working apparently in the medcentre as sometimes was presented on the screen.

The role of doctors treating wounded troopers was given to Kaminoans (Nala Se) and droids and sure, those two groups were part of the whole GAR’s medical system in the Legends too. However Jedi Healers (doctors), as far as I remember, were seen treating mainly other Jedi like Yoda

and even then TCW barely paid attention to force healing as an important skill.

The research about medical care for clones gives a pretty drastic idea of what was happening during and after battle which is understandable why the show destined for younger viewers didn’t go into full details about triage of wounded but considering how many dark themes were put in the same show, I dare to say not showing medical care provided by Jedi or common Republic doctors and nurses (who btw are a rare example of republic citizens conscripted into army during the war) actually is unfair. The show reduced one very important aspect of Jedi - they weren’t just generals and commanders either sending or leading troops into battle, they also provided medical help, whether they were specifically trained at healing or not.

In Legends, we could see Jedi Healers assisting the army on various occassions, working in triage area like in Republic comics series:

The triage unit, where Jedi healers labor to save the lives of the wounded, was set up safely behind the line of battle. But as the fortunes of war shift, so do the battlelines.

and worrying first about wounded even in the face of serious danger

Master Saa! We’re cut off! There’s no way to get the wounded out!

and searching for survivors

Master Saa is hurt! She pulled the trees on top of us for protection...

and working in hospitals

Follow me Skywalker. We have much healing to do. The Jedi sickbay, where we treat the most severe injuries. And our own, of course. Master Offee has saved countless lives. She seldom leaves her post to rest. But we all work long hours.

Not to mention the whole Medstar duology dedicated to padawan Bariss Offee, doctors and nurses serving in Republic mobile hospitals close to frontine - and yes, forever I’m gonna be bitter about how TCW/New Canon treated the most iconic Jedi Healer.

(The cover art for Medstar: Jedi Healer by Dave Seeley)

When padawan Skywalker arrived at New Holstice with his troops, he was immedialy called to assist in the nearest sickbay

“Are you injured, master Jedi?”

“Not really, no.”

“Good. You can make yourself useful by heading to the nearest sickbay. We need all the Jedi healers we can get...”

and for context, this is Anakin two days after after Jabiim, one of the worst war campaigns Republic experienced so far, the solely survivor of Jedi Pack traumatized both by the loss of his comrades and what happened on the planet and forced to make a devastating choice is literally told to get at work ASAP because every Jedi in between assignment was working here hard to heal the most wounded..

Though no healer himself, Anakin even force-healed injured trooper on battlefield to stop him going into shock:

Supporting the commando trooper with his left arm, Anakin warded off blaster bolts on the run. The rest of Squad Seven supplied cover, blowing STAPs out the sky with uninterrupted fire. Cody motioned everyone into a shallow irrigation trench just short of the mound. By the time Obi-Wan arrived, the troopers were deployed in a circle, and continuing to pour fire into the sky. Anakin slid into the trench a moment later, lowering the commando gently to the muddy slope. Squad Seven’s medical specialist crawled over, removing the commando’s ravaged utility belt and deeply dented helmet. [...]

The harvester’s pincers had crushed the armor into the commando’s abdomen. His skin was intact, but the bruising was severe. With only half the original army of 1.2 million in fighting shape, the life of every clone was vital. Blood and replacement organs - - what the regular troopers referred to as “spare parts” - - were readily available - - “easily requisitioned” - - but with the war reaching a crescendo, battlefield casualties were on the rise and treated as high priority.

“Not much I can do for him here,” the medspec told Anakin. “Maybe if we can get an FX-Seven air-dropped - - ”

“We don’t need a droid,” Anakin interrupted. Kneeling, he placed his hands on the injured commando’s abdomen and used a Jedi healing technique to keep the clone from going into deep shock. [Labyrinth Of Evil]

(and included request for evacuation of the wounded trooper when Cody called for artillery support)

In Republic comics series alone we could see Jedi showing concern for the wounded troopers at various moments, putting their well-being as priority:

or helping (healing) wounded enemies:

And I won't lie, it is frustrating how Legends, especially Republic comics series that had around 40 issues put so much pressure on Jedi Force healing and how Jedi care for wounded troopers while The Clone Wars (New Canon) that lasted for decade or so kinda ignored the issue? Which is unfair to Jedi and clones alike. The first are presented as less caring, at times indifferent? the latter deserved to have all the available medical help, not just Kaminoans and droids.

#star wars #jedi #jedi healers #clone troopers #legends vs new canon #anakin skywalker #luminara unduli #bariss offee #aayla secura #mace windu #i wil be bitter forever for how tcw treated bariss offee #i demand new canon to bring back the jedi force healing their troopers and wounded in general

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evelightnavi · 11 months ago

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"Shared Serenity"

♤ Featuring: Neteyam x Female Omatikaya Reader

♤ Summary: In a dense forest, Neteyam searches for you, failing to spot your concealed position high above. As he uncovers your whereabouts, a playful exchange leads to a chase until an unexpected fall down a hidden slope bonds you both in a moment of exhilaration and concern. Amidst the adrenaline rush and laughter, a serene moment under the trees unveils unspoken admiration, strengthening the connection between you two future leaders from separate Omaticaya villages.

♤ Word count: 1.4k

♢ I'm Evelight_Navi on wattpad, this is part of my one shot collection.

♢♢----------------------♢♢

"Show yourself. I know you're watching me." Neteyam said as he looked around. He was trying to find you. The forest was denser here compared to the area surrounding his village. As the flowers and plants clung tightly to the thick branches, it became challenging to find anything specific. Even finding a clear path would seem challenging if you didn't know this part of the forest. Neteyam's eyes scanned the area, hoping to catch a glimpse of your familiar posture. Ever since Neteyam arrived, you remained completely still, not moving an inch. You did your best to avoid being spotted by the boy below you.

You watched as his eyes scanned the area, aware you were more likely to hide higher up. His eyes even glanced over your body, completely failing to notice you as he searched higher. You noticed the boy below you looking particular good today. The sunlight streaming over his face and shoulders cast a gentle glow, almost making his skin sparle in the sunlight. You were certain you saw a new bead woven into his hair as he swayed his head to the right. Both of you were growing up rapidly, growing more mature every encounter you had. Both of you noticed that you were coming of age, but this all was still faster than anticipated.

"I can see you!" Neteyam yelled out, unable to locate your familiar posture despite sensing your presence nearby. He couldn't pinpoint your exact location. This frustrated him a bit, as one of the youngest and most skilled hunters in his village, unable to outsmart you. It heightened his desire for you even more. From the day you first met, he considered you a perfect match. However, over the passing years, he observed your exceptional intelligence. A woman who could outsmart him was something he had only dreamt about before.

"How could you see me?" You questioned, maintaining your hidden position. His eyes darted to the general direction of your voice. You managed to suppress your laughter as he still wasn't able to pinpoint your location. You swayed your tail, hoping to make it easier for him to spot you. His eyes trailed along your tail, moving up your body until they reached your face. You stood in the shadows, giving you a mysterious glow, but your face remained partially concealed, not fully visible. You slowly made your way down, so you would need to keep looking down at him.

"I couldn't, but I sensed you." Neteyam stated as you moved out of the shadows, now fully visible. You were tempted to express that it wasn't fair but choose to stay silent instead. Considering the time it took him to find you, with your help, of course. "You know, the Tsahik should be skilled at more than just hiding." Neteyam remarked as you were now standing in front of him. He wanted to see how you reacted on that title, curious about your feelings regarding it.

"Future tsahik." You replied, rolling your eyes in response. "You just don't know the other things I'm capable of." In reality, Neteyam didn't know. Although both of you were Omaticaya, you weren't from the same village. Neteyam was the future Olo'eyktan of his village, and you were the future Tsahik of yours. The only you two had was when both of you had time to come to the forest away from both of your villages. Whenever you were together, both of you were yourselves, setting aside the roles of being the future leaders of your villages.

"And you don't know what I'm capable of." Neteyam said as a grin slowly formed on his face. You recognized that look, and it signaled trouble. As you saw his posture shift into an attack stance, you swiftly turned around and ran away, leaving him behind. However, it wasn't for long, as you could hear him running after you. "I'm going to catch you!" You heard him yell, prompting you to burst out laughing. While Neteyam might have been faster than you, you were more familiar with the dense forest, giving you a slight advantage.

You slowed down after a while, noticing the absence of his footsteps behind you. With slightly heavier breathing, you turned around to look, but Neteyam was nowhere to be seen. His unexpected disappearance confused you, as it had never happened before. Proceeding cautiously, you took a step forward, attempting to decide whether Neteyam had lost track of you or if he was deliberately hiding. Suddenly, you caught a glimpse of Neteyam coming at you from the corner of your eye. Before you could react, he swiftly wrapped his arms around your middle while rushing towards you. The abruptness caused you to lose balance and fall backward, dragging Neteyam with you.

Instead of feeling your back hit the ground, you sensed the rush of air past you—the slope! You had completely forgotten about it. It was concealed behind large leaves, unknown to many, which made it particularly dangerous. You let put a little yell, which caused Neteyam to quickly shift one of his arms around your head to shield you, keeping the other arm wrapped around your middle. It wasn't an enormous slope, but it was sizable enough that landing incorrectly could result in a serious injury. As you both hit the ground, it knocked the breath out of you. Neteyam sat up, releasing his hold on you as he attempted to catch his breath.

"Are you alright?" Neteyam asked, still out of breath, his concern evident as he helped you into a sitting position. You took a deep breath, realizing that although both of you could have been badly injured, the adrenaline rush left you thrilled. It had your heart racing, and you were certain his was racing just as fast. "Nothing broken or bleeding. That's good, right?" You chuckled, trying to alleviate his sense of guilt. He might have assumed it was his fault, but it wasn't since he had never been there before. If anyone were to blame, it would've been you.

"It isn't your fault. I should've been more careful and not gone so close to the slope." You stated, noticing the lingering guilt in his eyes. He nodded as your eyes met, yet Neteyam looked at you questioningly as you gently pushed him back, prompting him to lay down. You settled beside him, pointing upwards. "This view is the best from down here." You smiled, gazing up sunlight streaming through the trees above. Neteyam looked in the direction where you were pointing. As you both lay there, the sunlight danced through the leaves. It casted a warm, golden glow around you, Neteyam's eyes shifted to your face. "It's beautiful." He whispered softly, barely audible to you.

Neteyam took in all the details of your features as he studied you closely. The way your eyes sparkled in the light and the faint smile that was on your lips. "Thank you for coming here with me today." Neteyam finally spoke, breaking the comfortable silence that surrounded you both. "I know we don't get many chances like this." You eyes met as you turned to look at Neteyam. His eyes were gentle as he focused on yours. His hand reached for your arm as he pulled you closer.

"It's always an adventure with you." you replied, your voice carrying a sense of fondness. The connection between you and Neteyam was something special. As future leaders of your respective villages, your lives were destined to take different paths. These moments of serenity were rare and treasured, allowing you both to let go of your responsibilities and simply be yourselves. Neteyam shifted his gaze back to the trees, losing himself in the dance of the leaves above. You glanced at him, appreciating the peaceful expression on his face. The worries and burdens that usually weighed on his shoulders seemed to have faded away, at least for now. It was moments like this that made you both forget about the pressures awaiting you back in your villages.

As the sunlight gradually shifted and the shadows lengthened, signaling the approaching of eclipse, you both reluctantly stood up, deciding it was time to head back. The playful chase and sudden fall were forgotten, replaced by a sense of calmness and understanding between you and Neteyam. Walking back out of the slope, neither of you spoke much. Allowing the weight of your responsibilities to fade into the background for a little longer. Upon reaching the outskirts of the denser forest, you bid Neteyam goodbye, each of you returning to your respective villages, knowing that the peace you found together in the forest would be cherished until your next stolen moment away from responsibilities. Both of you secretly wished that day wouldn't take long to arrive.

#avatar fanfiction #neteyam #neteyam fic #neteyam x female reader #neteyam x reader

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becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys · 1 year ago

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Hi, what do you think about this news?

BBC News - Climate: NFU Cymru opts out of farming scheme over tree planting

Interesting, isn't it?

Here's the thing: it is a fact that we need more trees than we currently have, that Wales is under-forested, and that decades of inaction mean we now have to make big changes fast rather than incremental changes safely. Given that the Welsh Government is actively trying to base modern Welsh identity on environmentalism (we are the only country in the entire world with dedicated sustainability legislation in the form of the Wellbeing of Future Generations Act, and we're third in the world for recycling rates), it was inevitable that they were going to seize the bull by the horns, so to speak, and set a strict target.

In fact, they have past form for this - there's a reason we're third in the world for recycling. I am simplifying this massively and going to make any lawyers reading this wince, but the way EU legislation works is that the member states agree something should be legislated for, the EU makes a directive, and then the member states each interpret and apply that directive how they want into their own laws (sorry lawyers). In the case of recycling, the EU member states collectively decided we needed to get serious about diversion from landfill in 2008 with the Waste Framework Directive, and then the UK chose how to go about that.

But, waste management is a devolved area. So Wales, Scotland, NI and England all got to implement it themselves how they wanted to. England didn't set any specific targets; it was more like "endeavour to be recycling 50% of waste across the country by X year." But the Welsh Government went "Right, lads, here's the targets: 58% by 2015/16, 64% by 2020, and zero waste by 2050. We'll let you pick the recycling bag colours."

(In Swansea it's green for paper, cardboard, metal and glass, pink for plastic, white for garden waste, and you get a special dark green bin for food waste with a locking lid to keep the seagulls out.)

But that meant Welsh councils had to actually move on it, with the result that we smashed those targets. We're now aiming for 70% recycling by 2025, and zero waste might be brought forward to 2030, because the government likes the model of "Shoot for the moon and land among the stars."

So like. It has worked, in the past.

BUT, the problem with setting arbitrary targets like that is that it doesn't always work, and what happens to people who get caught in the gears, so to speak?

In this case, this is a subsidy scheme. It's still in consultation, but if it goes ahead, farmers get money from the public purse for doing something "for the public good" - they need to tree plant 10% of their land, and manage another 10% as wildlife habitat. Currently, this is true for every farm, regardless of its nature. 20% of productive land removed, and you'll be paid to do so.

But, will that work for every farm? No. No it won't. The smaller your set up, the more that 20% is going to bite into profits that the subsidies won't compensate; and what if you only have productive land? A flatish farm, somewhere in Powys, used for crops rather than livestock? 20% of that is very, very different to 20% of an upland sheep farm with sections that are almost impassable and very difficult to round up the sheep from anyway, where you can simply fence off and plant up the slopes to create ffridd and woodlands. It's a one size fits few policy. I fully believe the government saying plenty of farmers are all for it - this will work for many. But for many others, it's simply not financially viable.

But what I find REALLY interesting about that article, actually, is the way the farmers are framing their objections:

(NFU Cymru) president Aled Jones said farmers were prepared to integrate more trees into farming systems - from "shelterbelts, streamside corridors to field corners". "But we will not take our productive land out of food production for tree-planting," he said.

SHELTERBELTS. That is the Pontbren effect. Pontbren taught us that farmer-led environmental schemes work, and provide additional unexpected benefits including in revenue (it was designed to simply allow the sheep to stay out year round, but the flood control and soil conservation that came with it brought their own benefits - silvopasture, how I love thee.) Now it's there as proof-of-concept, farmers want a piece of that action. They want to be more environmentally sound. But, those trees have to serve an economic purpose, not a solely environmental one; otherwise, it's not going to work for farmers.

And it's very frustrating that the Welsh Government have forgotten that crucial lesson in trying to implement this. But then, as I say, it's true that we need big changes now, and are running out of time for the soft incremental changes. I just think the two could have been married better.

#asks #environment!#WALES!#closed for cleaning on mondays

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ohdorothea · 27 days ago

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This tournament is being run by and for queer fans so please keep that in mind! Homophobes will be blocked on sight <3 More polls here and more info here! Lyrics for the songs and FAQ under the cut!

Paris lyrics

"Your ex-friend's sister

Met someone at a club and he kissed her

Turns out, it was that guy you hooked up with ages ago

Some wannabe Z-lister

And all the outfits were terrible

2003 unbearable

Did you see the photos?"

No, I didn't, but thanks, though

I'm so in love that I might stop breathing

Drew a map on your bedroom ceiling

No, I didn't see the news

'Cause we were somewhere else

Stumbled down pretend alleyways

Cheap wine, make believe it's champagne

I was taken by the view

Like we were in Paris

Like we were somewhere else

Like we were in Paris, oh

We were somewhere else

Privacy sign on the door

And on my page and on the whole world

Romance is not dead if you keep it just yours

Levitate above all the messes made

Sit quiet by my side in the shade

And not the kind that's thrown

I mean, the kind under where a tree has grown

I'm so in love that I might stop breathing

Drew a map on your bedroom ceiling

No, I didn't see the news

'Cause we were somewhere else

Stumbled down pretend alleyways

Cheap wine, make believe it's champagne

I was taken by the view

Like we were in Paris, oh

Like we were somewhere else

Like we were in Paris, oh

We were somewhere else

I wanna brainwash you

Into loving me forever

I wanna transport you

To somewhere the culture's clever

Confess my truth

In swooping, sloping, cursive letters

Let the only flashing lights be the tower at midnight

In my mind

We drew a map on your bedroom ceiling

No, I didn't see the news

'Cause we were somewhere else

In an alleyway, drinking champagne

'Cause we were in Paris

Yes, we were somewhere else

My love, we were in Paris

Yes, we were somewhere else

🫶🫶🫶

Sweet Nothing lyrics

I spy with my little tired eye

Tiny as a firefly

A pebble that we picked up last July

Down deep inside your pocket

We almost forgot it

Does it ever miss Wicklow sometimes?

Ooh

They said the end is coming

Everyone's up to something

I find myself running home to your

Sweet nothings

Outside, they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was

Sweet nothing

On the way home

I wrote a poem

You say, "What a mind"

This happens all the time

Ooh

'Cause they said the end is coming

Everyone's up to something

I find myself running home to your

Sweet nothings

Outside they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was

Nothing

Industry disrupters and soul deconstructors

And smooth-talking hucksters

Out glad-handing each other

And the voices that implore

"You should be doing more"

To you I can admit

That I'm just too soft for all of it

Ooh

They said the end is coming

Everyone's up to something

I find myself running home to your

Sweet nothings

Outside, they're push and shoving

You're in the kitchen humming

All that you ever wanted from me was

Sweet nothing

They said the end is coming (They said the end is coming)

Everyone's up to something (Everyone's up to something)

I find myself running home to your

Sweet nothings

Outside, they're push and shoving (Outside, they're push and shoving)

You're in the kitchen humming (You're in the kitchen humming)

All that you ever wanted from me was

Sweet nothing

🫶🫶🫶

The question is which song is queerer to you! Queerer can mean whatever you want it to mean; you might consider a song queer because you think it was written that way, or because of Swiftian lore. It might be queer to you because of how you relate it to your own life. Maybe you think from a purely literary standpoint the lyrics have queer themes; maybe you're just thinking about vibes!!!

If you’d like to send in interpretations or propaganda for a specific song you can send them to my inbox! All interpretations are welcome and let’s be open and kind in response to all interpretations <3

#tsqst

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wmarximoff · 2 years ago

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𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 | 𝐰. 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟

summary: no one needs to know that the president of the most admired sorority on campus has a crush on you.

warnings (18+): a brief smut, Wanda cussing like a mean girl, R being a little shit, slight corruption if you squint. MINORS DNI.

pairing: sorority!Wanda x dirtbag!reader

word count: 3k

A/N: this is definitely not my best work by far, but I'm testing the tone of sorority!Wanda until I can write her in a way I like, so whoever reads this will be my test subjects lol

masterlist|

༺ᱬ༻

A pale and motley patch of white sunbeams smearing the glass of a nearby window was what captured your attention for a few bits of seconds that, together, would complete more than the whole of a minute. The window opened to the blue sky outside, to the large green trees rooted there near the building in a healthy lawn, with brownish and thick trunks spaced by stripes of daylight that sent a forest air to that specific region of the campus, which used to be well ventilated.

A deep yawn was stifled by a mouth just behind your head, both your elbows raised across the face of the hard plastic table. In the middle of that spring semester, the white-painted walls of the tapering classroom, which inclined down in steps from student seats that sloped toward Professor Harkness's rectangular desk, into a lesser concavity when pitted against the chairs of the students, they looked chubbier and sunnier than usual, which is why you had to wear light clothing with few layers to make it through that class until the end of the term without sweating to the point of dehydration.

“Shit...” was the tiniest curse uttered under your breath.

The friction caused by the tip of your pen across the paper ended up writing an inexact word in your fast informal handwriting, which you, annoyed, tried to cover up with an eager flick of the wrist towards the right. A wide thin line had slipped above the dashed letters in dark blue ink – because you saw yourself viscerally unhappy about your succinct spelling error (since it is written “economy”, and never “econonomy”). Several other students eagerly tapped their fingers on laptop keyboards (clatter of keys pounding across the classroom), but something nostalgic in you preferred to stick with good old paper and ink.

After scribbling such inaccuracy into your handwritten notes, you resumed your transcripts of what was taught by your teacher, trying to record the minimum necessary. You chewed gum with a cinnamon-synthesized flavor, a customary practice. A pen rolled and clattered to the floor, and then someone reached down to pick it up.

Your committed gaze, therefore, migrated from the articulated writings in your notebook to the professor's figure in front of the rest of the room, leaning with her hip against her long and low table, facing a certain handful of vivacious and diligent students. Agatha Harkness kind of reminded you of the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz – maybe it was her long, thin nose, or the exotic mannerism of her hands.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, to fully understand Austen's novels it’s first important to understand the finer points about economics and mid-nineteenth-century class relations that are portrayed in the relationships between characters in several of her works.”

Blustered Miss Harkness with her thick chestnut locks, her cashmere waistcoat looking more violet than usual on this hot sunny day, her arms clasped close to her ribcage, her cream-colored button-up shirt with the sleeves perched up to her elbows.

“It's not just about dating and marriage or strong female characters that this work is about, however that is what some uninformed people out there might assume. Of course, female empowerment is a crucial part of these novels, but it’s actually important for us to recognize the irrefutable fact that Austen has always dealt with social classes in her works, and because of this she is full of important economic themes that can be pointed out by the reader. Does anyone know what I'm talking about, people? Somebody? Anybody?”

You kind of chortled to yourself, reaching into your chair for a more comfortable position than had ever been found. You could well respond to such an inquiry, so much so that you could presage the formulation of the words that climbed your throat and lodged at the tip of your tongue, prepared to be pronounced in front of the rest of the class. But you just knew there was someone else who would be frothing to answer that question.

The right hand raised in the air, greedy for the intellectual realms of the demanded explanation, had not been yours at all. And silently, just an unimportant listener, you waited for the well-known answer to come, never exposing yourself any further than was necessary like a withdrawn, flowing animal of self-preservation and self-doubt, a silly little smile forming the outline of your lips.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff ?” Agatha pointed with her chin at a few tables behind yours, two steps up from where you were. Her neck craned back, and air seized her lungs in anticipation.

Wanda Maximoff, self-absorbed and with a shrewd, focused countenance, could be found just a tiny amount of meters uphill from where you were located. She was liked, adored and revered, a name passed around campus with airs of admiration, high in the social hierarchy of sororities and fraternities around the university. She had kind green eyes, but the kind of kindness that shouldn't be confused with naivete, something Wanda didn't have at all.

She was a president, the most prudent of them all, appealing even to the eyes of the university who were excluding or not adept at the Greek way of life, known for leading the chapter where some of the girls who turned heads around resided. She was a necessity, a public figure among other young people her age. And, in front of her, you smiled small. She was the most beautiful girl you would ever meet in your life.

Among your many other classmates scattered throughout the classroom, she was the only one wearing high black stockings under a pleated skirt checked in a gray fabric, highlighting the soft skin of her legs so strictly stunning and painstaking.

The long, dark locks were thus partially held back from covering her stunning face, tucked behind the shells of her ears. Fingers with polished black enamel nails, pale extensions adorned with silver rings of the most variegated shapes and sizes, parked the digits over a keyboard of a small portable computer placed right in front of her.

Her wardrobe always looked like a venustic mix of Cher Horowitz clothes and Nancy Downs accessories, choosing to constantly alternate between the two extremes of preppy and dark, usually finding herself somewhere in the middle of the two.

“Most of Austen's characters can be classified as belonging to the middle class of society, and she has never had a problem portraying the inequality between them and members of other social classes, both lower and higher,” irises jadish seethed in a well-educated glow, since it came as no surprise to anyone just how enthusiast of Jane Austen literature Wanda Maximoff could be.

“In fact, Austen's novels portray various socio-economic factors in 19th century Britain, specifically in matters of wealth and poverty and the values of coins at the time, as well as how much capital these people could have even at that time. It was never just about love and marriage.”

Wanda finished off in superb mastery by flashing an exultant little smile, scrunching a patch of skin from her nose like a fluffy little bunny, exuding airs of quite self-satisfaction. When her emerald gaze engaged yours across that sea of heads, you offered her a funny wink with your right eye, to which Wanda only chuckled and shook her head provocatively.

“You are absolutely correct, Miss Maximoff,” Professor Harkness greeted the student proudly from the front of the students as she stood, “I couldn't have said it myself in better words than that.”

You just rolled your eyes in their sockets playfully, resting your chin in the palm of your right hand whose elbow was supplanted by the face of the table. Someday Agatha would still end up adopting Wanda if she could.

ᗢ

“Oh fuck , Y/n!” The lascivious voice growled, reverberating, like a breath of apex, through the walls of the second-floor women's restroom of the university's Languages and Literature building.

“Just like that baby, oh–!” Wanda trapped her bottom lip with her own incisors, confining a moan to the deepest core of her being, her two inner thighs constricting her ears almost deafeningly.

Even that same morning after the classroom, with the emptiness there, a faucet dripping, only the linoleum floor could hear the hums uttered by a breathless Wanda, with her mouth tightened and her face burning in red embers like a peach in her sharp cheekbones, feeling just as satisfied as you prolonged her peak smearing your entire face in erratic movements of her taut hips.

You rubbed her swollen clit against your upper lip, that little knot of nerves squirming blindly in search of prolonging that sensation of pleasure that seeped into her bones, the plaid skirt sharply bunched below her navel. The two of you were squeezed into a bathroom stall, you on your knees and she sprawled all over the sides of that tight little space.

“Fuck,” Wanda gasped in a blink of slow eyelids, very sparingly holding your head against her pussy with the open palm of her right hand, “Fuck, baby…”

Ring-wrapped fingers found themselves fondling between the roots of your hair, the other girl's head hunched back, her lip gloss smudged. When you, as serene as you could be in the face of the beautiful sight of her orgasm, sank your teeth into a light open bite on her inner thigh just to make fun of her, Wanda moaned sensitively and increased her grip of deferred fingers against the roots of your hair.

“N-no,” she squealed in a breathless fashion, her brow creased like someone in pain, “No more, please, I can't take any more.”

“Okay, fine,” you smiled before gracing the bite mark with a slightly swashbuckling chaste kiss, a silent apology so close to her abused cunt dripping in a hangover of pleasure, “I want you to walk out of here with your own legs.”

You, kneeling down to her level, turned your face away from the gap between Wanda's opalescent crotch, still pulsing on your tongue the vigorous taste of the juice coming from her pulsing vagina – the skin down your chin and around your mouth completely burnished in a brilliant radiance from the president's overwhelming orgasm just above your head, chest heavy into her thin fabric blouse, uneven breathing and vaguely wobbly knees.

You scrambled to your feet, stretching your knees inside your baggy jeans, not much to say after accomplishing your mission but offering the sorority girl a smug crooked smile, bringing your knuckles up to sweep away the wetness out of your face. Wanda looked even prettier being panting and flushed after you wrung an orgasm out of her guts.

“My God, pretty girl,” you bit back a smile at the commission of your glossy lips by her cum in a brief tone of astonishment, “You really made a whole mess of my face, huh–”

“Shut your pretty fucking mouth, you're pissing me off.”

Before you could even entertain the idea of cleaning yourself with soap and water, however, a hand pressed the skin on the back of your neck and, in a reckless way, pulled you into a rough kiss, Wanda going forward toward your face sipping from her own orgasm built up by your mouth. And then, a tongue emerged between the pulps of her lips, dragging itself through the commission of your mouth, so much more ecstatic after an extravagant orgasm.

As you parted when oxygen was needed in your burning lungs, you blinked slightly foolishly, so that both your noses were almost touching in midair as Wanda smiled voluptuously at your lethargic blinks, her upper lip pressing lightly on her rosy, somewhat puffy lower lip.

The dark gazes screwed into an invisible line, the verdant darkness taking pleasure in your goofy silence, amused by your silliness. Wanda smiled catlike, the soft fingers of digits stroking the skin from the nape of your neck just below your hairline.

“Well,” you lisped somewhat not knowing what to say under your breath, “Maybe you don't need to walk out of here on your own two legs exactly…”

And your mischievous right hand threatened to touch her again, making your way to the center of her thighs, but as overstimulated as she was, she was firm in preventing you from squeezing her one more time before your fingers crossed the hem of her skirt.

“Don't you even dare to start,” the girl finally walked away, barely managing to unfold the skirt from her upper thighs and smooth the creased fabric with her fingertips before pushing the laminate door out, her lacy panties vaguely forgotten inside the back pocket of your jeans.

“I need to study for a test because you know, unlike you I really care about my grades. We value our good academic performance at Omega Mu Zeta and I am their president, so I–”

“You need to set a good example, yeah, I know.”

Wanda, however, just threw you a glare over her shoulder, as flippant as could be, “You're annoying.”

You rolled your eyes out of their sockets dazedly before following Wanda's sweetly woody scent out of the bathroom stall. That girl was your personal glory, but she would be your undoing at some point in the near future.

“C’mon pretty girl, my grades are pretty good, if you really wanna know,” you propped your hips low beside the pale china sink she was standing in front of, taking in your own appearance reflected in that rectangular mirror on the wall.

“Not being a teacher's pet doesn't necessarily mean I'm a bad student, y’know? That's a very bad impression you have of me, it's almost even offensive.”

“Fuck you,” she stared at her own reflection in the mirror, fixing, with the tips of her fingernails painted in dark nail polish, the cherry gloss on her lips, “I'm not a teacher's pet, I just work hard in understanding the subject. Unlike you.”

You smiled, scrutinizing the sight of the emerald-eyed girl reflected in the mirror – and how beautiful she was, Wanda Maximoff with her cherry lip gloss.

“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of converting easily with those I have never seen before,” you recited aloud, your gaze never letting go of hers which, by the reflection in the mirror, turned all emerald attention to her figure with arms crossed before her chest.

“I cannot catch their tone of the conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

Wanda then turned her face towards him, and one dark brow creased mockingly towards the middle of her forehead. The makeup was very little, accentuating her natural beauty by her cheekbones and jawline curved around the edges, and the dark eyeliner was always sharp, done with exquisite mastery over the almond-shaped eyelids.

“Did you just recite a line from Pride and Prejudice to me just to prove you know what you're talking about?” she smiled a little at your boldness.

“Maybe,” you shrugged smugly.

“That doesn't prove shit.”

“Proves that I’ve read the book,” you offered her a mocking brow lift.

“How old are you, you idiot, five?”

“Six actually,” you kind of chuckled in return, “But then, did it work? Did I impress you?”

Wanda looked at you for a studious half second, scrutinizing your figure with smart green eyes shimmering the color of summer grass.

“I hate you, you little shit.”

With intensity similar to the magnetic pull of a magnet, Wanda stepped forward with her white boot and took your face from the sides with both hands, merging your lips in a rhythmic kiss in harmonic cadence, which quickly made you whimper in dizzying contentment sharpened through your veins. Lovingly, you allowed yourself a smile at the corner of her pink lips, your heart pounding in the right side of your chest as her forearms laced tightly around the outline of your neck.

The kiss deepened into a need, their tongues twining until they were both panting softly, wet foreheads touching each other. You smiled mischievously against the commission of Wanda's swollen lips.

“My room on Friday after school?” you breathed in front of her face, “Darcy is going out with someone, so... I'll have the room all to myself.”

“Y/n,” Wanda whistled your name, her frown creasing slightly at your not-so-innocent suggestion, “I really have to study for that test, you know Mr. Pym is a real dictator in his classes–”

“And who says we are going to do anything other than study?” you smiled complacently, “Geez, Wanda, that perverted mind of yours goes everywhere, doesn't it? And here I thought you were a good girl, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stupid,” she twirled with her eyes comical, bent wrists resting above your shoulders, “Seriously, I need to keep my grades up—”

But the phrase died in her throat when voices could be heard in loud laughter pouring through the bathroom's main entrance, away from the secluded area of prying eyes where you belonged together. And at that notion something shriveled and deflated inside your chest. You actually looked forward as little as you could to those moments out of situations where you could rob her of the rest of the outside world, because that meant the fantasy was coming to an end.

Wanda was the respected president of Omega Mu Zeta, she was a social figure, she was anything she could be, except being yours. She was nobody's, indeed, but that also said she wasn't yours. But when she threatened to draw her body heat away from your torso, you kept your solemn grip firm on her hips through the fabric of her gray skirt, pinning her in place.

“Y/n,” she tried, hands squeezing your shoulders, a warning that reality was piercing sharply into that little bubble that encompassed you and her.

"Friday night? C'mon pretty girl, please? We'll just study, I promise. Girl Scout word.”

A brief shadow of conflict seemed to glide through the swirls of emerald irises, deepening that clear hue of her eyes, before Wanda tipped her chin back over her left shoulder covered by a blazer with a matching print and skirt, searching for an onlooker who wasn't there, only then to turn to your face and, in such a way, sigh a lame sigh before your expectant gaze. You always brought down all the resistance she seemed to want to lift.

“Okay,” Wanda relented, her shoulders slumping into the plaid blazer, “Okay, Friday after school. But as long as it's for us to actually study, you hear me? And I mean it.”

“Sure,” you muttered in jovial good humor, “We'll study, trust me.”

“Seriously, Y/n, no jokes,” a pair of glossy velvety lips pressed against the contour of your jawbone, right next to your pierced earlobe, “Or you're going to regret this,” Wanda it whispered on a warm breath, before there it plunged a painful bite into your epidermis.

A tiny squeak of pain piped out of your throat, shrugging your shoulder closer to your jaw and away from the other girl's half-open mouth, “Ouch Wanda, what the hell, what did you do that for?!”

“For you to remember to behave yourself,” she smiled with a darkly mischievous gleam, “Now I really have to go, baby. I text you on Friday.”

And then Wanda walked away, and with her went the enticing aroma of woody perfume mixed with strawberry dry shampoo, a fragrance that couldn't be described in any other way than just scarlet, closed, imposing and absolutely sexy in the right dosage. But the next person who squealed in pain was the president herself, whereupon you playfully raised your right forearm to deliver a slap of stiff, splayed fingers against the smooth skin of her panty-less ass beneath her pleated skirt, rocking the fabric of the short garment.

When Wanda tipped her chin back to curse you under her breath “Asshole,” the tops of both her cheeks gleaming in a caustic blush, you just grinned mischievously with your tongue sticking out between your teeth. And so, you knew that on that Friday, she would pay a visit to your room. After all, you didn't need more than that.

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