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colderdrafts · 4 months

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11 - Birds of a feather

Underground visitor, gn reader x monster (male drider). Sfw. First Previous Next

The weaver sits in a corner of an empty room, covering the empty spaces between the walls bit by bit. The slow process is repetitive and maddening, seemingly without purpose. Trying to finish a canvas that can’t be completed. Something to pass the time.

Time that has and will continue to stretch, seemingly forever.

You find it’s very cold here. Cold and stale, a stench of decay hanging in the air, accompanied by a metallic scent of blood. Still, this is what they know. This is the only thing they have known.

Perhaps removing the corpses littering the room could help? a thought pops into your mind. You glance around and, surely enough, find them lying haphazardly in the dirt, limbs twisted in wrong directions and unmistakable crimson splattered across the ground. Some of the them have fur, some of them don’t. How odd.

Your hands come into view. Right, you still have hands. You can do things with them. The weaver in the corner patiently watches to see what you’ll use them for.

You lean down, and grab the ankles of one of the corpses. The potent stench is almost enough to make you gag as you start slowly pulling it out of the cave.

Do you ever clean up after yourself? you ask mentally.

No one responds.

Click-click-click-click – there’s a noise of movement somewhere nearby, and you look up to find the weaver is gone. They do that sometimes.

You focus on your task of getting the smelly item out of your home. This is your home, right? Right. You think so. So you should probably keep it clean.

So you pull with all your might. The corpse starts falling apart a little bit, limbs so torn and fragile it’s difficult for the body to keep itself together. You can feel it staring at you with lifeless eyes, but you don’t worry too much about that.

How troublesome. Is their right leg in the hand it’s supposed to be in from this angle? Do humanoids usually have so many of them? You’ll have to pick that finger up later. Annoying, but that’s just how these things go sometimes.

You pull it fully outside, and drag the mangled corpse towards the river. That river has always been there, and has always been a good way to get rid of filth. There’s already a corpse in there, stuck on the bank. That one was drowned. How considerate. That way, you don’t have to bother dragging them.

With a last push, you tumble the corpse into the flowing, dark water. The splash seems oddly dulled to you, not leaving any water droplets in the air like it should. It’s like the river is just a gullet that swallowed it whole.

Very good, the weaver purrs from somewhere behind you. Very, very good.

You watch the corpse calmly flowing down the river, bobbing up and down like the depths can’t decide if it should keep it or not. A surge of pride fills you. You did the right thing.

A hand finds the nape of your neck and rests there, a thumb brushing gently over the side of your throat. A shadow looms over you as a large body slowly starts curling around you. You let it. You can trust it won’t strangle you.

It’s important we throw out what we don’t need, even if it’s scary, the weaver whispers. We’ll feel so much better once we do.

Where is this? you ask, staring at the river. Suddenly you find you’re not sure.

It’s a home, the weaver gently reminds you. Your home.

As promised, standing tall and loudly colored in red, sticking out like a sore thumb, is a large tent smack in the middle of the marketplace.

The common-folk booths you’ve visited previously have been moved around to make space for it, stacking closer together. Still, the patrons you're familiar with don’t seem particularly bothered this massive structure has appeared out of seemingly nowhere.

You re-adjust the satchel at your side, taking some time to balk at the impressive sight. It’s still early, the noises of idle conversation and the smell of freshly baked bread filling the space.

This is it. Supposedly the place where you will finally figure out a way to get home.

Dren and his eggs are with you, the latter safely tucked beneath his abdomen. It’s been a busy morning preparing for this last stretch of your adventure. You're exhausted from a sleepless night full of strange dreams you can’t remember, missing a touch of caffeine to ease your troubles. But you're on the doorstep of answers, and you're not turning back now.

Dren glances down at you, a silent question. You nod. You're ready.

He quietly reaches over you to open the tent (making the opening big enough to fit both of you) and steps with you inside.

You're met with a burst of stale, hot air, dry and dusty like a desert, a startling change from the cool humidity outside. It almost makes you sneeze.

You’re distracted as the inside of the tent immediately demands your full attention.

The exterior gave you an inkling to the sheer mass of the structure, but it didn’t do the interior justice. The harpy's tent is huge. All around you are rows upon rows of shelves, full of all sorts books and gimmicks in all colors of the rainbow, none of which you can pinpoint any particular use for. The shelves are generously spaced from each other, which is probably customary to accommodate bigger species like Dren, you'd assume. Crystals and gems are faintly glinting in the lantern lights dangling from the ceiling posts, herbs and spices you don’t recognize placed on the rows, closely stacked to make room for them all.

At another time, this would be a place you could spend hours walking about slowly to investigate, just taking in everything. You almost get lost in the shelves, the sound of Dren’s steps on your heel as you browse.

"This is incredible," you whisper to him, your hand absentmindedly coming to rest on his front leg. "Look at all this stuff!"

Dren hums an affirmation, but seems more occupied with tracking your surroundings. Particularly, it seems he’s looking to the ceiling.

“Something wrong?” you ask him, following his eye.

“The lanterns are too close to the wooden posts,” is his curt reply. “It’s a fire waiting to happen.”

You suppress a laugh, and continue your browsing.

Eventually, you come across what is probably supposed to be a counter – it’s hard to tell with all the tools, books, fabrics and more that’s stacked on top of it - at the back of the tent.

You clear your throat. “Hell-?”

A feather-covered face with a large hooked nose peeks out from behind a stack of books on the counter. Pupils set in yellow eyes visibly dilate as she smiles at the sight of you.

"Hello, hello, hello! So rare to see your sort! How exciting!" her melodic voice echoes through the room, speaking in a stuttering rapid fire.

The patron straightens up and steps into full view. Pale, patterned wings are in place of regular arms with claws on the ends, and she walks on feet like a bird’s. This must be the harpy the barkeep told you about.

She seems giddy as you step closer, and she looks behind you to stare at Dren. A subtle grumbling chitter emanates from him at the sudden attention.

"Well, well!" the harpy grins at him. "You scaries never shop in here, no. Never wants to talk to me!"

Dren shakes his head, stepping a little closer to you. "I didn't know you were here, and I've had no need of your wares."

The harpy pouts at him, but then focuses back on you, curious. "Ah, but your human does, does it?"

You stare at her for a beat, startled she actually called you 'human'. Dren seems taken aback as well, and the harpy grins at your shared confusion.

"It's probably not obvious you're 'not from around here' to anyone who doesn't know magic stuff," she leans in close, mock-whispering. "Don’t worry, I won't tell anyone!"

You look back to Dren, who just shrugs, bewildered.

"I need some advice," you start, turning back to her.

"That much is clear," the harpy eagerly nods, pointing at you. "You’re messed up! Something is absolutely wrong with you! But what will you be paying?"

You resist scoffing at the rude remark, and reach into your satchel to pull out some crystals. The harpy puts up a clawed finger to stop you. Her wing knocks a spoon off the counter with the movement.

"Nope! Not interested in those useless blue deal-crashers!" she states, shooing at your hand like trying to get it to back away from the satchel.

"Then what do you want?" you ask cautiously, withdrawing it.

"Something for the same thing," she smiles broadly. "Knowledge for knowledge! I'll share what I know, and you'll answer my questions about the human world. Easy!"

Easy?

You look at her for a second, weighing your options. You have been warned that knowledge sharing can come back to bite you in the ass. You're not too sure what she plans to gain with that information.

On the other hand, if she’s someone who deals with magic and knows about humans, she might just be genuinely curious what a human could tell her. This might be a once in a lifetime opportunity for her.

Still, if that's the only thing that can give you some direction on your personal struggles, perhaps that's the price you will have to pay.

"Fine," you agree. "It's a deal."

The harpy beams. "Great! Equal trade! And you’re so polite, wow. Alright, let's get dealing. I'll even let you go first. What do you want to know?"

"How to get back to my own world," you say quite flatly. "And how I got here."

"That's two things," the harpy muses. "Anything else?"

You think for a second. "Are there any other humans here?"

"Three," the harpy counts on her fingers.

"How could you tell I'm - 'not from here'?"

"Four!" the harpy chirps. "Is that all?"

"Yeah, I think so," you say.

"Good! Then I have four questions about your world in turn. It's only fair, right?"

You nod in agreement.

The harpy smiles, and mimics rolling up imaginary sleeves. The long feathers there don’t serve the illustration. "Alright, for your first and second question - Darkness!"

You frown at her. "Darkness?"

"Darkness!"

"That's it?"

"I can spell it for you? Free of charge!"

You wave your hands. "No, no - just. How does that help?"

"You got here because darkness. You'll leave here because darkness. It's pretty simple, actually," the harpy shrugs, leaning casually on the fabrics on the counter. "Most magic is. I don't get why no one plays with it more."

"Because it is dangerous," Dren says, cutting in. "If you do it wrong, you will end up destroyed."

The harpy winks at him. "You do it right, your life gets so much funnier."

How dreadfully unhelpful. You clear your throat to regain the harpy's attention.

"I've spent a lot of time in darkness these past few days. Nothing has happened," you argue. “So what’s the deal?”

The harpy shakes her head, plumage on her neck puffing out. You can't tell if she's excited or itchy. "Nope! Then you'd be gone again. So you’ve spent time in the dark. There's the dark. And then there's – Darkness," she utters, waving her claws dramatically. "Don't worry. It'll return eventually. Darkness always comes back."

This is a little frustrating. "I don't understand," you let her know.

The harpy nods. "That's reasonable. You're not from around here."

"I don't understand either," Dren counters.

"You don't do that kinda magic," the harpy says, but then stares at him for an odd second. "Huh. Well maybe you can do a little bit of that kind of magic. Like a little treat. It's very vague, but it's there!"

Dren stares at her, all four eyes wide. "I've never-"

"Darkness works towards equilibrium, mostly," the harpy continues her explanation, cutting him off. "No magic in one place, all the magic in another? We sort of balance each other out, and darkness grows in the spaces between us. Your world’s removed, though. And it needs us both to thrive. So, sometimes, it just reaches out, grabs on, and pull-pull-pulls. To sort itself out. It's how most of you humans get here. And it'll be how you get back."

"Grabs and pulls-" you repeat, bewildered. Does that means the dark storm that yanked you through space and time just operates at random? How would that help you get back? "Wha- I didn't do anything to make it take me here! Do I just wait until it randomly decides to take me back? And when would that be? Can’t I like – activate it, or something?"

"If you can attract it, sure," the harpy shrugs, like it’s the most simple thing in the world. “Going back to where you first appeared would probably be a good place to do it.”

Apparently done with her part of this, she swiftly moves on: "Third question! The answer is: Yep, there are other humans here."

The whiplash way in which she talks keeps you on your toes. "Really? Where?"

"That's almost five, you know! But you seem nice, so I'll give you this one," the harpy replies. "Like I said, your kind comes and goes all the time. You're the first one I've seen alive in this little corner of the world, though. You’d probably have to go on a trip if you wanted to find another one."

Somehow that alleviates a little bit of the anxiety, despite no one being in your current vicinity. You already knew there were others, but it’s a reassurance none the less that there might be someone else out there in the exact same situation as you. You have an ally in Dren, but no one who'd really understand completely. Finding another human somewhere would certainly bring a lot of peace of mind.

"Four!" the harpy barks. "You're not a sentry, so you must be a human. That one's pretty easy."

You blink. "I - kinda thought they were the same?"

"Blue moons, no!" the harpy laughs. "You, most certainly, are not. You, my otherworldly entity friend, have no magic of your own. None!" she says cheerily, peering at you with interest. "That’s why darkness interacts with you, equilibrium and all that. It's quite fascinating, really.”

"What does non-magic have to do with anything?" Dren supplies your question. “They appear the same to me.”

The harpy looks up at him. "Well, you of all scaredy scaredies should know that, Scary. The bonds you craft for sentries are just that. Magic! The only magic sentries get. Ain’t got it, ain’t a sentry."

So that's how she could tell. Seems it is like a position in a job - you just happen to not have the required qualifications.

Yet.

You quickly strangle the thought. "So I'm not a-?"

"Nope! Well..”

The harpy leans forward and stares into you for an uncomfortable moment. There’s something in her eye then, something that makes your heart rate pick up just a little bit. It’s like something inside you shifts uncomfortably alongside you at her scrutinizing.

“You’re not-,” she starts, grimacing in discomfort. It’s like she’s in pain. “But there’s still something wrong with you. There’s something inside you that might be magic – but it’s unfinished. Very attached, but like it's stuck. It's like a small hitchhiker.”

You can practically feel the ghost of it's usual tightening, like it's simply responding to it's name being called. Morgan has already somewhat explained this to you, but the fact that someone outside can see it, validate it - it's like the doctor finally giving you the words to explain a disease.

Makes it tangible, yes. But also more real.

Dren seems to think so too, from the subtle way his grip on the ground beneath drags claw-marks through the dirt.

“..or a parasite,” you grumble, your thoughts returning to the red-eyed menace and how dreadfully nice their hands on your skin felt. Wait. “Can we make it five?” you ask the harpy. “I just thought of something else.”

“Five whole questions, huh? Your pockets are burning today!” she rubs her chin thoughtfully and hums. “Okay! BUT – I want my fifth question to be answered by Scary.”

Dren folds his arms dismissively. “And what would you gain from that? I’m certain I cannot tell you anything you don’t already know.”

The harpy shakes her head at him. “That’s my concern! Now, will you cover for your human here?”

Dren shrugs and nods. “I will.”

The harpy beams. “Good! So, number five?”

You hesitate a moment, not eager to share this with the harpy with Dren here. He loathes Morgan on a good day, and you’re not sure how he will respond to what you’re about to say. But you also know better than to keep him in the dark -

“Go away for a bit, Scary!” the harpy suddenly chirps, as if reading your mind. She impatiently shoos Dren off with a flick of her wing, and looks at you intently. “This is gonna get spicy.”

This time you don’t hold back and openly scoff at her, but the harpy ignores it.

“Well? Do you want Scary here or not?” she challenges.

Perhaps she has a point. You do probably need to talk openly about this with someone who isn’t Dren. You glance back at him, somewhat apologetically. “Actually-”

He looks reluctant, but shrugs it off easily. “Then I shouldn’t pry. Call me in when she wants to ask me a question.”

He turns and leaves to wait outside.

The harpy waves at him enthusiastically, and turns back to you, eyes full of anticipation. “So~?”

You sigh. “You said there’s something wrong with me, and you’re right. When I clashed with another Drider, they did something to me. They had some sort of – power.”

The harpy leans closer. “Oh? Do elaborate.”

“Like they were trying to lure me in. And – it was like I couldn’t refuse.”

“Couldn’t? Or didn’t want to?” the harpy grins.

You cringe. “I - I don’t know. Dren stopped them, but now – I still keep feeling it. There’s just this constant pull, and I feel like I have to go somewhere. Seek them out again.”

The harpy eyes you sympathetically. “And it’s getting harder to resist?”

You nod. Frankly it’s a little embarrassing, and it doesn't make any sense.

Morgan is not a good person. Abrasive, callous and selfish, they’re a walking red flag waiting to be planted in your skull. They tried to manipulate you and grab you against your will, and would have done so, had Dren not interfered. Parasite or not, why on Earth are you drawn to them like this? “So I want to know for sure; what did they do to me?”

The harpy rests her head in her clawed hands, looking smugly at you. Her demeanor brings to mind an odd resemblance to a school girl indulging in the latest gossip. “They tried to create a bond with you, silly! How nice.”

You scowl at her. “It most certainly was not.”

The harpy chuckles. “Okay, okay! But, yes, that's regular Scary behavior, I’m not really surprised. But since Scary out there made sure they didn’t get to complete what they were doing, that could explain what you’re experiencing now.”

You cog an eyebrow at her, prompting an elaboration. The harpy leans in closer.

“My best guess is a little piece of them stayed behind inside you, and vice versa. That little longing for a safe spot to retreat to? A need to feel loved and cared about?” she grins, and pokes at your chest. “It’s still in there.”

The energy inside you shifts like an affirmation. You feel nauseous.

The harpy watches your discomfort for an uncomfortable moment, like she’s investigating your sensation. She ruffles her feathers, like shaking it off.

She continues: “Scary magic is all about manipulating and trapping emotions. And in many ways, magic IS emotion – but! You don’t have any of that kind. There’s no other magic in you ‘in the way’,” she nods toward Dren outside. “Scary out there has direct access to the core of what makes you – well, You. That’s why you can bond so easily.

"Longing, love, fear – all those things pile up in a neat little bubbles and settles in your heart. They’re just able to weave the threads that captures those bubbles and ties them together. Connects them. Stuck! Like little loving flies.”

Dren did say you’re capable of maintaining a bond no other species can. It seems there's simply nothing in you stopping them from creating one.

Perhaps it’s sensible his kind finds it hard to resist making use of that fact, since you’re the only thing that can ensure they won’t be brutally maimed by most other residents of this world.

“It doesn’t sound like love,” you say pensively, taking it all in. In some way, it doesn’t.

“Maybe not,” the harpy says, studying you. “But a plead to not be lonely? An immense desire to protect, care and provide for? How could it be anything but?”

It ticks the boxes, most definitely. The thing inside you keeps making nauseating turns, and you mentally reach out to Dren again, anything to halt the unpleasant sensation. The pressure is building again, and you feel your body growing anxious, like you have a need to move.

You find to your horror the need has a direction.

"And I can’t do anything to get rid of this," you state, balancing the edge of a pleading question. You clench your clammy hands. "It hurts. All the time."

"I think you already know how to solve the pain," the harpy says, once again gesturing to Dren outside. "But really, you should talk to the ones who actually create the bonds. They'd solve it better than me. Even I can't sever their threads."

"I did. They said the same thing," you mutter. "Until one of us dies, it'll keep going."

"Well then," the harpy grins, tilting her head in a quick motion. "Then one of you just have to die, don't you?"

You also already know how to solve that pain.

"My turn!” the harpy chirps suddenly, once again commanding your attention elsewhere. "1. Where did you first appear when you got here? 2. How much do you have to go back to? 3. What is the most common utility item of your world?"

“Christ, hold on!” you complain, taking a second to re-wire your brain for your end of the bargain. The harpy simply looks at you expectantly, like she didn’t just drop a bomb of info on you you’ve yet to process.

It's not exactly what you expected her to ask. You’d been mentally prepared to maybe explain what a car is, or something. You take some time to think back.

Well, there's the forest you first appeared in. The new area you'd moved to, the rumors that people vanish from that forest. You'd not believed it at first, but it seems now this darkness thing most likely have been to blame.

“Sometimes, they don’t come back,” you echo the warning quietly as you describe to her what happened. “I wonder if anyone’s still looking for me.”

“Not you turn to ask questions!” the harpy reminds you.

You glare at her, reluctantly moving on to the second question. You tell her of your home, feeling a bit of longing for what you're familiar with, friendly faces you miss, a hug from someone dear to you. The pain of not knowing if it's lost forever. The harpy patiently watches you unload it all, wholly focused on your spiel like she's trying to categorize it a special place in her brain.

You realize after a beat it may have turned a bit too personal for your liking in front of this complete stranger, and quickly turn to the third question, something a little safer.

"A phone," you settle on, absentmindedly reaching for it in a jacket pocket that's not there. “It’s a device that allows you to communicate over very, very far distances, written or spoken.”

"Interesting! Do you have one?" the harpy asks excitedly.

You shake your head no. "I dropped it."

The harpy pouts. "What a shame! I would have offered you a good trade for it. Completely non-magic items aren't so easy to come by here, you know?"

"Sorry. It's gone," you shrug. Not that you’d have any particular use for it while you’re here. It's doubtful there's any cell service.

The harpy leans toward you. “4. Do you actually trust Scary out there?”

You look at her in shock. “Of course I do-n't.”

The last part of the word leaves you mouth like it was forced out. Some outside pull yanking at your vocal cords. You grasp at your throat and cough.

The harpy smiles knowingly and laughs. “You can’t lie when we’re doing a bargain, you know. That’s against the rules.”

But it’s not a lie.

You glance at Dren, patiently waiting outside. Of course you trust him, he’s the reason you even got this far. He’s been actively fighting himself since the day you got here, helping you trough this, frankly, crisis situation, despite not owing you anything.

Is this just another one of Morgan's tricks? They’re affecting you this much?

“Can’t say it’s surprising, really,” the harpy says. “They do tend to have that effect on most people. Well, the ones they leave alive, at least. Maybe you'd do well to investigate them a bit more.”

You look back at her, confused.

She shrugs nonchalantly. “Up to you. Now! I’d like to ask my fifth and final question, please.”

She looks beyond you, leaving you to deal with this revelation on your own, cupping her mouth to yell. “Oi, Scary! Get back in here!”

Dren returns, the bags under his eyes seemingly more prominent than they were ten minutes ago. “No need to shout.”

“SO! Fifth question. When your human finally figures out a path away from here, will you let them take it?”

Dren cogs an eyebrow, four eyes blinking at her in succession. “Yes? Of course. I made them a promise.”

"Well then, you've got some strong morals, don't you?" the harpy grins. She winks at you. “Done deal.”

Dren turns to you, ignoring her. "Did you get the information you needed?"

"Somewhat," is your short reply, eyeing the harpy.

She smiles at you. "If you have other questions just come back to see me again! Actually, I think I'll stay around for a bit here. This area just got a lot more interesting."

You’ll slightly hope you won’t need to make use of that.

You say your goodbyes as politely as you can muster, and turn to leave the harpy’s tent. Dren once again reaches over you to open the front, and you step back out into the cool humid autumn you’re accustomed to. You breathe in the fresh air, letting it wash some of the nausea away.

You leave the tent behind with an odd feeling, once again noting the way creatures of folk-lore casually step around you, whenever you pass by. Like you’re seeing it all again for the first time. Strange. Have you stopped to wonder why they’re so afraid of Dren's kind? A wolf-person would certainly be capable of dealing damage, too, so why would a Drider get singled out?

You glance up at Dren walking calmly next to you. Him, with all the capability in the world to crush you. You, trusting that he won’t. Is that the kind of love Morgan was talking about?

You leave the marketplace soon after before activity gets rambunctious and Morgan gets any ideas to make things worse. Other than the uncomfortable churning inside you, you haven’t seen the shadow of them today, fortunately.

“What do you want to do now?” Dren asks you once you’re safely obscured by the forest, on the road back to his home.

You mull it over. “I want to go back to the place where I first appeared here,” you tell him, feeling the thoughts click into place. “I think I may have an idea.”

“Oh?” Dren inquires.

“Darkness, and my ticket home, is attracted to non-magic items, right?” you elaborate. “Well, I just happen to have lost one of those not far from where you and I first met.”

“..I see,” Dren says, slightly hesitantly. He rights himself, perhaps shaking off the experience with the Harpy. “What are we looking for?”

#colderwriting #happy holidays everyone <3 #man I've missed this #drider x you #monster x reader #drider #drider x reader #uv #terato #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster x human

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itsokbbygrl · 29 days

Text

Just Stay.

- A GN!Reader x Jackson!Joel Miller story

For my wonderful, lovely, kind, hilarious friend, Jo (@morgaussy/@merci-killing), who wants nothing more than to worship that old man. I hope this is to your liking ♡

Tags: 18+ MDNI, explicit content, BODY WORSHIP, slight size difference (reader is described as shorter than Joel), reader is generally able bodied and has hair but is otherwise not described, oral sex (M receiving), heavy petting, lots and lots of kisses, body hair appreciation, domestic fluffy smut, two goobers deeply in love, kink discussion (daddy kink, and per jo's request, "A secret barely there splash of mommy kink"), grief mention, TLOU2 Jackson Era (post-Ellie run away era, pre-snowstorm)

WC: 4.6k

A/N: this is full of lazy writing technique and i am aware! there is POV switching whenever i say so, get in both their brains, die mad about it POV purists :)

Warm water, straight from the tap. Straight from the tap and into the basin where Joel Miller’s aching muscles are learning to relax, still, years after their first reconnaissance with a god’s honest bath. He can’t quite believe it. More than 20 years after the end of the world, where people starve and maim and kill and hunt to survive, there are still hot baths. He takes a deep breath and sighs in relief, letting himself sink lower beneath the surface, only the top of his broad chest and shoulders remaining above in the cool air of the home. He closes his eyes for a moment, soaking.

The jiggling of the sticky front door knob calls his attention. An alertness solidified in a world consisting only of predators and prey. Kill or be killed. He knows, rationally, he’s safe here. His eyes clock his hunting knife laid safely on the vanity anyway.

He listens to the familiar sound of your steps, the way you insist on toeing off your boots at the front door, the soft pattering of sock clad feet as they maneuver around the first floor, the creak of the loose floorboard near the kitchen island that he’s been meaning to fix. He can tell just from your movements that you’re hankering for a cup of tea—hearing the cabinet door close softly, always gentle, the ceramic clink of the base of your favorite mug coming into contact with the stone countertop, the metallic clang of the filled teapot as you set it atop the stove. He relaxes further knowing you’re home, safe.

The water is just turning tepid when he hears the stairs creak, signaling your imminent arrival. He pushes himself back up to greet you, the cooler air causing his wet skin to break out in gooseflesh. He turns his head to find you standing quietly, hip propped against the vanity, warm mug cupped between your palms, eyes trained on him already, his favorite soft grin gracing your lips, plumping your cheeks.

“Whatcha doin’ there, starlight?” he asks.

“Just admiring the art,” you respond, raising your mug to your mouth and taking a slurping sip, careful not to burn the fragile skin of your lips and tongue. The response makes him chuckle and flush, blaming the pinkness brought to his chest and neck on the temperature of the water if pressed.

His starlight. A beacon in the dark, guiding him home. He found you at a time when he thought he’d lost everything. Ellie had run off, and, terrified, he’d run after her. Once she’d been found, she’d confessed how she hated him for the choices he’d made for her, how she didn’t want to be part of his life anymore, and he’d agreed to her terms as long as it meant she’d be safe and home. He’d spent the entire ride back to Jackson fighting off the grief that threatened to overtake him. He wasn’t sure how he was going to cope this time, losing another daughter. At least this time he knew she was alive, could watch from a distance as she grew, could talk to the other townsfolk and get updates on her life, make sure she was ok.

That was where you came in. You’d been serving at the local watering hole, The Tipsy Bison, when he’d come in for a drink. You’d poured his whiskey neat, just as he’d requested, and quietly left him to his thoughts as you tended to other patrons. He sat quietly, sipping his drink and listening to your conversation. His ears perked up when he heard you mention your students having a hard time with an assignment you’d given recently. He knew everyone in town shared responsibilities, should’ve figured you would have more to offer to Jackson than to only be a bartender. When you came over to check on him, see if he wanted another pour he assumes, he cleared his throat and asked about your other role as a teacher and your entire face lit up as you gushed about your kids. He tried to listen, but found himself lost in the feeling of being a kid again, the awe he felt the first time his dad had taken him and Tommy out to the wide open Texan countryside and shown them how bright the stars could shine.

He tuned back in when he caught you talking about one student in particular you had connected with—his Ellie. How she was a natural writer, so creative, always scribbling in her journal. Mostly doodles, but over time you described how you’d earned her trust and she’d opened up a little more, shown you some of her poetry, how you’d encouraged her to keep writing. You talked about how she was quiet, shy, kept to herself most of the time, but she had a lot to say on paper. Joel tried to tamp down the proud tears that threatened to well at the news. She was ok. She was going to be ok.

Joel kept going back and you were always there for him, greeting him by name with a soft smile, pouring his glass of whiskey before he’d even had a chance to take a seat on one of the old wooden barstools. You’d formed an easy friendship and before he knew it, he was inviting you over for dinner. You’d gone a little speechless and he worried he’d overstepped, but then you’d let out a breath you must have been holding and giggled, burying your face in your palms for a second before you found his eyes again and the way they shone for him was nothing short of celestial. You’d agreed, and the rest is history.

“You wanna get in?” Joel asked, motioning to the tub.

You shook your head. “Not today. Just want to keep you company if that’s alright.”

“Course that’s alright, sweetheart. Make yourself at home,” he said before going back to relaxing, closing his eyes.

You watched him ease back into contentment in the water before you moved, opening the cabinet below the sink and stealing a couple clean towels. You placed them on the floor next to the tub before kneeling atop them. You took a long drink from your mug of tea before placing it aside. You looked over the products on the tub ledge and grabbed the shampoo. Quietly, you leaned over, laying a soft kiss to Joel’s exposed shoulder before whispering in his ear, “Tip your head back for me.”

He did as instructed, sitting up from the wall, keeping his eyes closed and tipping his head back. You grabbed your mug of tea, draining it before quickly rinsing it in the water, filling it and carefully soaking his sweat damp curls, using your hand to ensure none of the water dripped forward onto his face. You then uncapped the shampoo and squirted a small amount into the palm of your hand. You lathered your hands together, causing the shampoo to begin sudsing, and brought your fingers to his scalp. He hummed in bliss as you began massaging the soap into his tresses, the day’s tension easing from you both as you cared and were cared for in return.

After a few minutes of gentle ministration, you guided his head back with your fingertip under his chin before rinsing the suds from his locks. You then reached for your bottle of conditioner, something you typically reserved for special occasions, and squirted a dollop into your hand before softly carding it through his hair. You let it sit for a bit, rinsing your hands in the water and allowing yourself a moment to admire the man in front of you. He was remarkably beautiful—strong, broad, sun speckled chest giving way to a softer stomach coated in a fine layer of soft brown hair that drew your eyes southward to where his thick cock laid softly against the crease of his thigh, his legs strong enough to walk or ride for miles. Scars littered his skin and you mentally pressed a kiss to each one as your eyes worked their way back up to his face. His eyes met yours there and he leaned forward, capturing your mouth with his own. He held you in place with his palm in its favorite place, cupped around the side of your jaw, thumb finding its place in the divot next to your ear. He kissed you deeply for a few more moments, pouring all of his affection for you into it. You smiled, effectively breaking the embrace, and left him with a final peck to his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, before maneuvering him once again to rinse the conditioner from his hair.

Once clean, you helped ease him from beneath the water, wrapping him in one of the towels, now body-warm from where you sat, using the other as a soft barrier between his wet feet and the cold tile floor. He lets you care for him without a word, chest warming as you dry his body and leave sweet kisses in the towel’s wake as you go. He laughs good naturedly when you try to comb his hair back and have trouble reaching, bending down to make the job easier. His heart swells when he sees you grab your precious jar of aloe from the countertop, swiping your fingers through the gooey substance and working it between your palms.

“Can you sit on the toilet for me, please?” You ask. He plants a kiss on your head and complies, thankful for the warm towel you wrapped him with saving his damp skin from the cold porcelain. You stand between his spread thighs and begin your work, piecing together a clump of curls and twisting them around your finger, effectively applying the gelled aloe before giving the little ringlet a squeeze and moving onto the next piece. Joel sits calmly, loving the feeling of your fingers in his hair, the way you love him so simply. He wonders, as he often does, how he got so lucky to find such goodness in a world gone so rotten.

You take your time, dipping back into the jar of aloe you harvested earlier that week as needed, ensuring each ringlet receives the care it so deserves. You love doing this for him. You love this man—this man with his reputation for violence, this man with a karmic debt that may never be fully repaid, this man whose hands were made to create, not destroy, who patiently sits with children as he teaches them to play the guitar, who misses his daughters more than anything in the world. Joel Miller, who protects the least of these with his gun and his knife and his bare hands. The same hands that delicately carve in his workshop, drafting some of the most intricate pieces of woodworking you’d ever seen.

You finish the last curl at the base of his skull, just behind his ear. You give it a little tug and watch as it springs back into shape, smiling at the sight, before leaning down to leave a kiss there…and there and there as you move down the column of his strong neck. You feel his large palms grip your hips and you move your kisses northward, along his jaw, to his mouth where he meets you, urges your mouth open to lick inside and explore. You pursue a deeper physical knowledge of him in return, giving as good as you’re getting, tongue dancing behind his teeth, cataloging every crevice, every bump and ridge, deciphering the taste of him as if he were a fine wine—notes of apple and coffee and his 5pm pour of whiskey and something uniquely him.

You feel his hands roaming, making their way to the front of your jeans, pushing the button through its hole and tugging down the zipper before stuffing his hand inside. He gives you a few firm strokes over your underwear, just to feel, to be so close, and you allow him to explore for a moment before you break your kiss to rest your forehead against his.

You shake your head softly when he attempts to move his hand beneath your cotton barrier and he stills his hand. “Not tonight,” you say quietly, “you first,” and you step back before sinking to your heels in front of him, grabbing the towel from in front of the bathtub and placing it under you before kneeling forward and meeting his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, mouth shiny and flushed with arousal, his chest and neck blushed a beautiful pink. You think he’s never more beautiful than when he’s about to get his cock worshiped by your reverential mouth.

You reach up and gently unfurl the towel from where it’s tucked at his waist, allowing the soft graze of your fingertips to lightly tickle the skin of his stomach, the muscles beneath contracting in their wake. You unwrap him like the gift he is, allowing the towel to open fully, exposing all of him to the room. You take in the sight of him, hard and drooling at the tip, thick thatch of curls nestled at the base, strong thighs parted to cradle you between them. You turn your head to the side and lay a kiss to the inside of his knee, up his thigh, right to the crease of his sensitive groin, before repeating the motion on the other side. You hear him groan and look up to find his head tipped back, already losing himself to his pleasure. You’ll never get over how easy he is for you, how much he clearly loves the way you love him. You repeat your favorite vow to whatever god is listening, to love him forever if they’ll be so gracious.

You reach up to grip the heavy weight of him in your palm, curling your fingers around him as much as you can, and give him a few gentle strokes, the velvety soft skin warm in your hand. You feel his pulse combine with your own as you glide your thumb along the veiny underside. A fresh drop of precum oozes from the tip and you’d be remiss to let it go untasted, leaning forward to meet the spongy head with the wet warmth of your tongue and lapping at it, thankful for its musky, salty gift. You’re sure at some point you’ve stepped out of your body because everything goes quiet as you taste and taste and taste him, lathing your tongue over and over the weeping head while your hand continues to stroke, kissing the very tip of him gently before trailing your lips along the length of him, down to the base and tonguing back to the top, mirroring your actions on the other side, lifting him to give attention underneath, not wanting to leave even a millimeter of him unfound by your mouth.

“God, baby, there you go, so good at this,” Joel’s praises bring your head back above water, but all you want to do is drown. And so you do. You flick your eyes up to meet his before opening your mouth wide and allowing the thick length of him inside, sliding him along your textured tongue, and closing your lips around him tightly. You hold him there for a moment, watching his face as you roll your tongue along the underside of his cock, sucking in a stuttered pattern, allowing the pillowy softness of your inner cheeks to hug him briefly, before pulling off and refilling your lungs. His eyes glisten just as yours do. He cups your face in his palm and you turn to kiss him there. He pushes his fingers into your hair and gently scritches at your scalp. You close your eyes and lean into the gesture before returning to prayer at your altar.

You take him as deep as your jaw will allow over and over, not caring for how messy things are getting as you continue the push and pull, saliva pooling on your tongue and dripping along his length, down the corners of your mouth, off your swollen lips and onto the towel below. You can hear him moaning with abandon now, knowing he’s loving this as much as you do. You tenderly roll his sac between your fingers and he tugs at your hair, so you continue your ministrations as you suck.

“Shit, baby, gonna make me cum,” he warns. You pull your mouth off him and continue to stroke him with your hand.

“Cum in my mouth. Please, want to taste you, want to, want to,” you stutter, mind focused solely on him, making him cum, easing him into blissful release. You open wide and take him back inside, closing your eyes and losing yourself to the feeling. You grab his other hand with your own, holding tight to each other as he helps guide your head exactly where he needs you. You suck and suck and suck until he grants you the prize you’ve eagerly anticipated, and he does it so beautifully. The sounds he releases from his throat resonate against the tiled floors and walls of the room, reverberating into your bones. His lashes fan and grace the tops of his cheeks where his eyes are squeezed tightly shut. His pillowy lips part, the plushness marred by his own teeth marks, bitten in an effort to not give too much of himself away too soon. He tastes so deliciously of man—clean, soapy, salty, musky—as he releases onto your tongue, into the back of your throat, and you make every effort to gracefully swallow everything he gives.

Once he’s finished, you softly suckle the last of your combined fluids from his length, ingesting them to become one together inside you. You leave a parting kiss to his length in thanks for all he’s given you before you allow Joel to haul you up to meet his mouth. He kisses you fiercely, tasting himself there. You know him almost as well as you know yourself, and you know he’s itching to return the favor, but you slow him, softening the kiss until the temperature returns to a simmer. He holds you there against his bareness, one arm keeping your head against his chest while the other strokes your back and you mirror him, fingers running gently all along his back. You feel more than hear when he speaks as it rumbles from his chest.

“Thank you, darlin’. Love you, more’n I thought was possible,” he says. You sigh and kiss his chest, wrap your arms around him tighter.

“Feeling’s mutual, my love. I promise,” you assure him, giving him a final squeeze before stepping back, keeping his hands in yours, not wanting to completely break contact with him just yet. “Come with me, we need to get you dressed.”

You lead him by the hand to your shared bedroom and sit him on the edge of the bed. You turn around and find the dresser where you keep a majority of your combined clothes—yours on the left, his on the right—and pull out a well worn tee and pair of grey sweatpants. You bring the clothes back over to him, setting the pants aside for the moment, and unfolding the t-shirt.

“Arms up, baby,” you instruct. He complies amusedly, raising his arms above his head while you drape him in soft cotton, paying careful attention to the collar, ensuring it’s stretched wide to not disturb his drying curls. Once the shirt is tugged down to cover his soft belly, you move to his pants, scrunching up one leg and feeding his foot through before repeating the motions with the other side. “Stand, please,” you request. He stands, allowing you to tug the waistband up over the swell of his ass, carefully pulling the material over his front to not accidentally overstimulate his now soft cock. You eye him up and down, nodding in approval of your handiwork. “Beautiful,” you say under your breath, not intending for him to hear, just for yourself.

Joel doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way—so deeply cared for. For as long as he can remember now, he’s been the provider, the protector. He hasn’t had a moment to slow down since before Sarah was born, 30 some odd years ago now. And it feels…nice. He feels small in some ways, but not diminished, never with you. No, he feels almost young again, experiencing this kind of selfless love that he’s only ever experienced before from a parent, and something clicks for him. He sees you near the hamper, changing out of your day clothes and into your own pajamas and he gets you, understands you on a deeper level than he had just hours before. He lets you finish your routine and make your way back over to him, anticipating you getting into bed, but instead he’s met with your hand reaching out for him. He takes it in his own, he’ll always take it when it’s so graciously offered.

“C’mon, let’s have a snack, worked up an appetite,” you say jovially. He snickers, thinking to himself that he fed you pretty well not 10 minutes ago, but he’d follow you to the ends of the Earth if it meant you’d keep smiling at him like that.

You lead him downstairs to the kitchen and sit him in his chair at the breakfast table he made just for you. While you putter around, preparing the two of you a small meal to share, he thinks about how beautiful you look in the morning light, the early sun catching on your hair and in your eyes. And you, you give the sun a run for its money with how you shine, bright and golden, warming everyone you come into contact with. You make it so easy for him to forget where you all are, when you are. Nothing is simpler than time spent with you. And now he knows you even better and he isn’t sure yet how he’ll quite thank you for that.

In what feels like just a blink, Joel watches as you plate a simple late evening dinner of eggs and toast for the two of you, an old favorite of Sarah’s, nothing sillier to a child than having breakfast food while the moon sits high in the sky. You bring the plates to the table and sit across from him. He hooks his foot around your ankle as soon as you’re settled.

“Thank you, sweetpea. You didn’t have to do all this,” Joel tells you as he accepts the proffered fork.

“I know,” you respond, stabbing a bite of your scramble with your own cutlery, “but I wanted to,” you finish simply, popping the eggs into your mouth with a smile. Joel returns your smile and digs in.

The two of you quickly polish off your plates, leaving nothing but the crumbs from the bread you’d baked a few days prior behind. Joel moves to clear the table and you allow him to, but join him at the sink, grabbing the dish towel from its place draped over the left half, falling into your regular routine—Joel washes, you dry.

“You know,” he starts, “I think I understand you even better now, after today.”

You turn to look at him with an amusedly confused face. “In what way?”

“You know how sometimes you ask me to be your “daddy” in bed? I love you and I would do almost anything for you, so I’ve never had a problem with it, and I love how it seems to make you feel, but I didn’t fully understand it before,” he pauses, giving you time to respond if you felt you needed to, and turns to see you’ve paused with plate in hand. He fully turns his body to face you now. “I think I get it now. The way you took care of me tonight? It was…almost parental? But it wasn’t at all at the same time. I think,” he tries again, “I think the only other time in my life I’ve experienced that kind of selfless…devotion, I guess…was from a parent. And obviously you’re not my parent, but…fuck, I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?” he asks self-consciously, unable to meet your gaze.

You bring your fingers to his chin, lifting his eyes to meet yours before you speak. “You’re not fucking anything up. You’re right, that’s why I like it, why sometimes I need it. It’s the way you take care of me. You make me feel so incredibly safe, Joel,” you answer him.

Joel pulls you into his chest, gently rubbing your back. “It makes me so, so happy to hear that, my sweet starlight. Always want you to feel safe, loved, taken care of here.”

Your hands snake up the back of his shirt, needing to feel him closer, flesh on flesh. “The same goes for me, you know? If you ever need, or want…I want you to feel that way, too. I love taking care of you, too.”

Joel leans down and kisses the top of your head, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of you, wanting to solidify this memory for as long as his mind will allow him to hold it. He considers leaving the dishes in the sink to be tomorrow’s problem, wanting nothing more than to return to bed with you, but he knows he’ll be frustrated when the egg has glued itself to the pan and he has to really scrub to remove it. He reluctantly releases you from his embrace and turns back to the sink, washing the remaining plate before handing it to you to dry, and doing the same with the utensils and the old, salvaged steel pan.

Once you’re both satisfied with your work, you close down the kitchen in tandem, flicking off the lights and heading back to your room. You move to your respective sides of the bed—Joel going left, you going right—before climbing beneath the old, soft comforter. You’re both wiped from the day’s activities, opting to just turn the lights out rather than do your usual song and dance of reading for five minutes and falling asleep with the book splayed open on your chest, leaving Joel to gently dogear the page and set it on your bedside table before clicking off your lamp in fond exasperation. In the dark, you hear him shuffle, turning towards you.

“Hey, darlin’?” he asks, getting your attention.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Can you, umm, would you hold me tonight?”

“Of course I will. C’mere, my sweet boy,” you answer. Joel turns over again and shuffles back, allowing you to snake your arm over his torso and bury your face in his shoulders. He holds your arm in place and it feels…right, so nice and comforting and he gets it.

“Thank you. For everything. Never known a love like this, but you make it so easy. Not sure how I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

“Just stay, Joel,” you answer simply, “stay with me. That’s all I want, all I need.”

And he thinks he can do that. And he sends up his own prayer, his favorite vow, to whatever god is listening, to let him stay with you forever, to let him love you until his dying day, that they owe you that much at least, your simple wish. He’ll do whatever he can to ensure it comes true. And as he drifts into unconsciousness, held safely in your arms, he thinks he never wants to be anywhere else.

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