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picassopedro · 2 months

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Oh my god this chapter!! I was on the edge of my seat the entire time!

I love that you can take the original plot but make it your own - familiar but still so suspenseful!

And the end of the chapter 😩 I’ve never wanted a next part so badly!!

As always, thank you SO much for sharing! This story (and all your writing) truly puts a smile on my face when I see you’ve updated 🙏🏻

*For readers - this is a MUST read!*

of beskar and kyber {chapter 14}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: The Empire will cease at nothing to gain what it wants, but you're determined to fight back at any cost. Flanked by the renown Mandalorian and those he recruited for such a mission, you willingly walk into the trap set by someone from your past.

Word Count: 12k (i'm sensing a new pattern here....)

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical gore, canon typical fighting, canon typical language, minor character death (not detailed), star wars cursing, modern day cursing, violence, fighting, description of injuries, mentions of blood, references to life threatening injuries, poison, descriptions of anxiety, descriptions of ptsd, violent reactions to trauma, dangerous reactions to trauma, references to past sa (not detailed), fire, explosions, battle descriptions, use of reader inserts given name as a plot point, um there's a whole lot going on in this but please let me know if i missed anything?

A/N: um, hi, gonna drop this and run away. okay, bye, love you

ao3 link || series masterlist || main masterlist || ko-fi

Darkness blanketed the landscape quickly, the sun setting and taking with it the sense of comfort.

In the dark, tensions seemed to rise. Bounty hunters used to working in solace and three individuals who had been on their own for as long as they could remember out of self-preservation was not a good combination to put out in the already hard to traverse terrain of the lava flats. The amber glow of the lava was bright as it wound through the rough volcanic rock of the ground, split open into wide valleys in some places. The sound of it a constant clinking that hummed in your ears as it echoed across the open land. Akin to glass shards being tossed and tumbling together.

An errant thought of hunger led to the slaughter of a goat, one of many that had been seen across the sprawling landscape throughout the day’s travels. The remnants of it on a makeshift roasting spit above the crackling fire. You had opted out, choosing to stick to the dried fruit hidden away in the pouch attached to your thigh. Cara had tried to hide her knowing smile as you slid one into Din’s gloved hand and he lifted it underneath his helmet in the guise of adjusting it. But you had seen it, just as she had seen the small exchange.

Kuiil was quiet, taking his role of caretaker seriously as he sat on Din’s right, feeding small bites to ad’ika from the roasted meat.

“I guess the little bugger’s a carnivore.” Karga spoke up from his relaxed position to your left. He was half laying down on his side, one arm propping him up and a knee bent to help steady himself. Watching eyes taking in the odd gathering of people he had assembled around the campfire. “Never seen anything like it.”

He was contemplative for a second, humming before he spoke again.

“They were ready to pay a king’s ransom for that thing. Must be for some kind of highfalutin menagerie.”

“And for you, lovely San.”

“It’s Sarad.” He’d barely gotten the last consonant of your name out before you quickly corrected him, not wanting it to be said aloud. It was risky enough that he knew it, had known it nearly as long as Din, but you didn’t trust it coming from his lips. You hardly wanted Din to use it, still conditioned to keep it a secret as close to your heart as possible, wary of it getting back to your mother, the people who already knew of your exact location and with whom you were now traveling with. Even using your self-appointed name, folded into your identity the second it had fallen from your once guardian could jeopardize your efforts to remain a shadow and go unnoticed. But the chances were more slim, less likely someone would take notice.

“Apologies,” He aimed a small smile your way, head knocking back to see you fully from his spot. “For the lovely Sarad…they were ready to decimate the town in order to search for you once they found out you had visited. The rumblings stirred by the mere hint of your presence were indeed very impressive. Is it true that you have a lightsaber?”

“The only way you’re gonna see it is when it’s drawn on you.”

“Ha-ha! Such vigor, I like it. You intrigue me, dear Sarad. But I’m sure there’s much more to know about you if you’ve managed to catch the attention of Mando here. He’s never taken on a traveling companion in the years I’ve known him. Must be something truly special.”

“Let’s go over the plan again.” Din directed the conversation away from you, not liking how much Karga wanted to engage with you. Wondering how long he had held onto your puck while he waiting for the Mandalorian to make his way back to Nevarro in between jobs, the once activated tracker and the holder of your scant personal information something he both regretted and thanked the Maker for ever having been privy to. More so the former, he would admit to you in the cover of darkness aboard the Crest.

“Alright, well, we both enter the common house. We show the client the bait. We join him at the table. And you kill him.”

“What’s the client’s name?” You interjected, warning bells beginning to wind up in your psyche. A low thrumming tone that was gaining volume as the conversation went on.

“Classified.”

“If I knew who it was, I could give you an idea if it’s going to be as simple as that. Most ranks that actively meet with those they’re trading with aren’t that high, they work as a front for the person who holds the power. The command and forces to hold up threats to ensure that deals get made in their favor.”

“Tell me about his reinforcements.” The visor was panned toward you, keeping you both in his line of sight. Unsure of how your interaction would play out, but knowing how Karga was, he worried for the man picking at unseen wounds and soft spots you kept hidden from people well. He could see them in you, picked up on them in the time he had spent with you. The conversations you both shared and the confessions given to him with trusting and willing lips.

“They’re all ex-Empire. As soon as they lose their paycheck, poof, they’ll scatter.”

“And what if they don’t?” Cara looked to you, eyes catching your own in the glint of the firelight, doubtful frown marring her beautiful features that you tried not to mirror. But it was true, they wouldn’t scatter. It was never that simple with the Empire, ruling and controlling not only with the promise of monetary compensation but the threat of violence and decimation of any who defies them.

“They will.” Karga pushed, not knowing exactly what he was dealing with and unprepared in the most worrisome of ways in how he’s concocted his plan. As if he were dealing with members of the Guild and not an once galaxy wide regime clinging to power as people believed. But it was alive and well, in some pockets and this happened to be one of them flourishing on Nevarro.

“That’s not good enough.” Din looked across from you toward the still relaxed and half lounging man. “If Sarad has intimate knowledge of how they operate, we need to heed her words.”

“Look, I get it. You don’t trust me, I barely trust you. You nearly landed a kill shot when I saw you last. But her? Mando, she could be playing us both and we wouldn’t even know it. Just trying to get her own intel to figure out how to play us all against each other and reap her own rewards from the rubble.”

“Insinuating that might as well be your resignation on this whole kriffing thing.” Cara barked, causing the others around the fire to jump. “She has more at stake here than any of us, having been forced to work with them in the past.”

“It’s alright cyar’ika. I’m used to people not trusting me.”

“If, for argument’s sake, a few of them don’t realize that I’m their best path for alternative employment and they elect to react impulsively, then these three fine Guild Hunters, along with that battle-hardened shock trooper, and one of their own ranks that has managed to break away will cut down anyone who bucks.” He sat up completely, motioned to each person he was talking about. Confident, self-assured, cocky. And oh, so wrong.

“How many will there be?”

“No more than four.”

“Bantha shit.” For all the bristle and heat in your words, you looked collected. But Din caught the way your eyes glinted as you sat between them, and it could only be compared to the way they had done back on the ship when Karga’s transmission had played. The discussion that resulted from it stirring something inside of you that despite being aware of it and doing your best to tamp down, was manifesting in ways the Mandalorian was picking up on. And it worried him, your whispered words of your history echoing in his mind.

White sabers have been purified.

Din’s hand was discreet as it brushed up against your own, the plate of beskar protecting the back of his hand cool against the tips of your exposed fingers. With a small huff, you tangled them with his own and settled down further in your spot. Comforted that the cover of night would shield the contact from those around you, even with their aided vision should they have the mechanics for night vision in their goggles, resting atop their heads as they sat across from you. The conversation quickly dissolving into an argument, one that you nor Karga surely had the energy for.

“Are you questioning my intel?”

“I’m calling a bluff when I see one. There is absolutely no reason why a quarry of ad’ika’s caliber would only warrant four.”

“He travels with, at most, a Fire Team. I’m beginning to think it would be best if we were to tie this one up and make it look like a true capture. Trust me.” He continued on as he stood, wiping his gloves on his pants to ride them of dirt. He was about to open his mouth to say more genuinely placed words of encouragement when an animalistic screech pierced the air and the flap of giant leathery wings of a beast swooped low and claws swiped at his arm.

His scream spurred everyone to scramble into motion.

It was chaos, the haunting sounds of their wings bringing them low to swipe at any weakness in your group it could find. Din bent to activate the closure of ad’ika’s pod, sealing him in safely to avoid him getting targeted. You were turning with your own blaster raised high and rushing behind Kuiil as he tried to ward off the creatures from taking one of the blurrgs.

When it had been successful, you turned to Din with the question of direction on the tip of your tongue.

Din’s hands were steady as he fired on the imposing figure closing in on you both, as you felt the swoop of giant wings behind you, and you tried to reach out for him with a call of his name. Panic making you forget that it was a secret just between the two of you, the fear of being torn apart spurring it from your lips.

A snarl fell from your lips right after his name as you felt massive claws grasp the fabric of your cloak and lift you up from the ground.

The snarl turned into a shriek of your own as the claws ripped through your clothing and dug into the skin of your shoulders, carrying you off into the air.

Legs swinging as you struggled to maneuver in the tight grip the creature had clamped over your shoulders as you tried to shield the pod ad’ika had hidden himself in. It wouldn’t have mattered if he was safe inside of it if they had still managed to pluck it up from between everyone. Wind whipped around you as you tried to gather your bearings, eyes stinging as dust and dirt whirled up all around you. The dark landscape dizzying as it lit up with blaster fire and the glint of it off the armor everyone donned and the beasts’ bodies.

You took a breath, trying to settle your overworking mind when it decided to recall the way it felt the last time it had been flung and lifted into the air. But that was different, this wasn’t an explosion knocking you off your feet and sending you sprawling a great distance from where you had been. This wasn’t the nightmares or memories that plagued you endlessly. This was a creature that had seen an opportunity for an easy meal and you had to focus and get out of it.

Faintly, you heard you name shouted, a rough and angry sounding thing echoing behind you. It fueled you, pushing you to reach up despite the claws digging in your shoulders, ripping through the layers of your cloak and clothing, scrabbling on the smooth expanse of the chainmail you had donned for the excursion. But still, it sunk in between the rungs of metal, stronger than the material and pierced skin despite the protection.

Massive leather wings flapped above you, wind whipping up and disorienting you as you felt gravity lurch. It was hauling you, taking you higher and away from the conflict. You worried just how far it could travel and tried to orient yourself before it was too late.

Hands scratching into the thick skin of the creature’s feet, you stabbed a knife deep into the joint. An ear-piercing shriek had you flinching, ears ringing as you felt it release you from that foot’s hold. The other clutched at you tightly, holding fast and digging its claws in even more. You shouted out in pain, trying to pull yourself up by the grip you managed to get on it, but the remaining claws only dug deeper into your skin.

Grunting as you let your body sag, you reached into your pouch for the saber hidden inside. You braced yourself, taking in the heights that the creature had flown to and mentally prepared for the fall. A deep breath centered your focus before you engaged the blade and swung up to sever the last leg holding tight to you.

“Mesh’la!” Din’s voice crackled forth from the comm link built into your vambrace. You didn’t stir, body aching and fire coursing through your veins as the poison from the creature wound its way into your system entirely. Your breathing was labored, a slow push and pull of too hot air as you had collapsed alongside a flowing river of lava. “They’re poisonous.”

“C-copy that,” You stuttered out, voice waning as you tried not to succumb to the fire burning you from the inside out. Laid out in the middle of the vast open planes, the dead carcass of the beast that had tried to pluck you up lay in a heap not too far.

“I can’t see you even with my helmet’s range, are you okay?”

“Claws, dug into my shoul-shoulders.” Breathing was becoming too hard, a wheezing wrapped around your words, making them raspy and hard to pick apart.

“Dank Ferrick. You have a med pack with you?”

“Won’t work on the poison, will only slow- slow it down. It burns.” You slurred, body not listening as you tried to shift it, rocks and gravel digging uncomfortably into your hip and ribs as you lay sprawled on your side. You moaned out, unable to stop the effect it was having on your tone. “Kriff, it burns.”

“Mesh’la, ad’ika, he’s-“ Static took over his connection, a cacophony of sounds filtering in from the other side, from where he must still be back at the make shift camp. “He’s healing Karga.”

“Mirdala ad'ika. Kaysh's bid jate,” You tried to breath in, but it only resulted in a harsher wheeze, pain striking long down the entirety of your chest. “N-ner kar'ta, ni liser't sur'ar. Ni liser't nari”

Clever boy. He’s so good. M-my heart, I can’t concentrate. I can’t move.

“Ni liser't haa'taylir gar. Enteyor cuyir too chaaj'yc. Mesh'la, ni'm bid Ni ceta. Gedet'ye, kebbur at taylir bat. Ni'll yaimpar at te Crest, Ni'll mar'eyir gar.”

I can’t see you, too far. Mesh’la, I’m so sorry. Please, try to hold on. I’ll get the Crest. I’ll find you.

You could hear him rustling around, gathering his things and no doubt scooping ad’ika’s small form up and securing him in his pod. Cara’s voice floated through the speaker, too distant for your tunneled ears to hear but her tone was distressed. No doubt picking up on the rising panic you could feel in Din even from the distance, so connected to him you already were.

An argument seemed to break out, voices filtering over the line in a jumble. A blaster was fired and then silence.

“Nayc, ner kar'ta. Te aka. Gedet'ye, sur'ar bat te aka. Par ad'ika.”

No, my heart. The mission. Please concentrate on the mission. For ad’ika.

“Mesh’la…” He was torn, you could tell by the bated breath sparking static through the line, doubly so from his modulator beforehand. But he had to keep on the task at hand, he had made a decision, he had to stick to it and see it through. You would be okay, you managed to say over the line, fingers tingling as they began to reach for your shoulders. It was dark save for the ethereal glowing of the lava that flowed all around you, the sound of it like broken glass tumbling a hum in the back of your mind.

“I’m going to try to heal it, but…” You winced, a heavy exhale as the tips of your fingers gently prodded the torn fabric and broken metal had been meant to protect you. You closed your eyes to focus, pulling on the wisps of the Force all around you.

“You’ll lose consciousness, it’s not safe.”

“Safer than letting the poison take, I’ll find you, ner kar’ta. I’ll find you in the town.” You managed to get the words out, though they were weak and barely audible over the open line.

“Promise me.” He demanded, though his tone was anything but harsh, it sounded strained, quiet, pulled from between clenched teeth.

You couldn’t respond, mind scrambled as you forced yourself to focus. The injuries causing you to warble out a pathetic sound as they began to heal in rapid time. The pain cascaded down your body, the poison being cured in your veins lighting you up. Black edged your vision, clouded your unseeing eyes before it took over completely, your exhausted mind going blank as unconsciousness took over.

“You’re quieter than usual.” Cara tried to break the silence. It wasn’t tense nor uncomfortable, it just was and it was beginning to get to her.

“I have nothing to say.” Din’s modulator didn’t give away the tension he was carrying in every nerve of his body. Thoughts on a loop, mind replaying the events of the night before.

“I know, I’m worried too, but…she’s strong. She can take care of herself.”

“Not if she’s unconscious. Using whatever it is, the- Force, she calls it, takes its toll. Tires her out, much like the child.”

“He’s been more vocal since last night, doesn’t seem to affect him the same way.”

“He’s fighting sleep, he’s probably trying to reach out to her.” Ad’ika had indeed been agitated since the attack last night, constantly shifting when his eyes weren’t closed in obvious meditation. But he would always huff and return to fidgeting after trying to focus himself.

“I thought he didn’t talk?” She turned to pin him with a raised eyebrow, unsure if he had misspoken or she had misheard him.

“She tried to explain it to me once, but to be honest, I didn’t understand it. She said it’s like…hearing another’s thoughts in your own mind. Can relay emotions, feelings, words, even memories and visions if one concentrates hard enough.”

“And you think he’s trying to reach out to her? That’s why he won’t give in to sleep?”

“Yes. He’s attached to her, they have a bond that…means something, it’s important. Two individuals from the same background reunited. ”

“Mando…he’s bonded with you too. He knows you’re doing everything you can to protect him, saved him from the Imps once already. Kriff, you’re walking into a trap for him. All to ensure that he can no longer be afraid.”

“Here we are.” Karga announced as they approached the door leading into the cantina that acted as a basis for Guild operation. Din deliberately dragged his foot as he stepped up, making a show of stumbling in his cuffs as Karga’s arm wrapped right around his own to guide him into the space. “You see? Four.”

Din seethed as the client from before came into view, standing from his seat tucked into a booth. All he could think was:

Is this one of the men who manipulated you into serving them?

Was he one of the men who forced you to do their bidding and help with research?

Take your blood and anything else he wanted from you by force?

Torture and taunt you to the point that you gave into those feelings and allowed for your powers to become tainted as you had confessed to him?

Was this one of the men who had you waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with echoes of screams on your lips?

“Look what I brought you. As promised.”

“What exquisite craftmanship.” The man reverently ran the back of his hand over the beskar cuirass that decorated Din’s chest, up toward the helmet he had been wearing since he had sworn the Creed. “It is amazing how beautiful beskar can be when forged by its ancestral artisans. I am relieved you do not have any scorch marks from the blade of such a violent woman with whom you’ve taken for your own as the child. She has a tendency to strike those down who command her. But yet, I do not see her present. What became of her?”

“She was taken by a reptavian when our camp was attacked during our travels here.”

“Shame, we could’ve used a specimen such as herself once again.”

Din bristled internally at the way the man prattled on about you as if you were a thing, something to own and control and take from.

“Can I offer you a libation to celebrate the closing of our shared narrative?”

“I would be obliged.” Karga bowed his head slightly, trying to play into his natural sense of self.

“Please sit.” The man observed them as they situated themselves across from him. Taking in the way Din was still such a formidable visage even cuffed and captured. Speaking, his tone gave way to the insidious notions and rhetoric that he had sworn himself to, tried to carry out in every action he could. His belief in the Empire and what they stood for blinding in its intensity.

“It is a shame that your people suffered so. Just as in this situation, it was all avoidable. Why did Mandalore resist our expansion? The Empire improves every system it touches. Judge by any metric. Safety, prosperity, trade, opportunity, peace. Compare Imperial rule to what is happening now. Look outside. Is the world more peaceful since the revolution? I see nothing but death and chaos. I would like to see the baby.”

“It is asleep.”

“We all will be quiet.” He leaned in closer, one arm outstretched outward. “Open the pram.”

Radio chatter cut the tension, a storm trooper sidling up to the table to relay something to the man who had just prattled on about power and the imposition of rule he worked for and aided in controlling towns, cities, lives.

“Don’t think me to be rude. I must take this call.”

“Give me the blaster.” Din spoke as lowly as he could, instincts telling him the situation was about to shift.

“You get one shot.” Karga swiftly handed it back to him underneath the cover of the table, Cara stepping closer to hear what they were saying and offer her own worries.

“This is bad. You said four. Sarad was right.”

“Well, there are more and she was right. What can I tell you?”

From across the room, Din could hear the hushed conversation the man was having, helmet aiding him and allowing for most of it to be as clear as if he was beside them.

“Have they brought the child and the woman?”

“The woman was lost to a creature native to the lava flats. But the child, yes they have. Currently, it is sleeping.”

“You may want to check again. There are reports of troopers being taken out on the outskirts of town.”

Din felt his heart thud at the words, relief flooding him like adrenaline did when he closed in on a target after tracking them down. You were okay, you had made it to the town. You were doing your best to take out the threat where you could, most likely silently or maybe even outwardly cursing Karga’s flimsy answer of ‘four’ as you efficiently took down as many as that with each move throughout the city streets. A smirk quirked the armored man’s lips as he pictured you mumbling about it quietly as you struck your saber and cut down unsuspecting soldiers standing at guard points.

Suddenly a blaster bolt broke through the window, shattering the glass above the bar and hitting the client square in the chest. His body slumped to the ground as bolts rained in through the window in fast succession.

Amidst the chaos, a figure slipped in through a side door, the telltale hum of your light saber blocking the fired shots and they neared where Din and the others had sought safety. A storm trooper approached, dodging the hits as they came through and fired a few of their own toward the approaching figure.

But you cut them down with a swing of your blade to their middle, searing through the armor easily and getting to the bowels of the person underneath. With a gurgle and spray of blood that trickled in thick drips down beneath their helmet, they fell to the ground.

Everything stilled.

An ominous line of black armored figures could be seen through the now thoroughly broken window, ash from the concrete of the decimated building bloomed up into the air.

“Mesh’la, we overheard you were taking out soldiers on the comm line, good job.” He nodded towards you, his entire body tense as the situation dissolved far too quickly to get a handle on it. As soon as you were safely in

“Anything to help, you know that, burc’ya.” You couldn’t bring yourself to use the nickname you had hazily recalled using with him over your personal comm link the night before. It had been too forward of you. Foolish to display such strong emotions, despite the serious conversation all those rotations ago when he committed himself to you with the intention of courtship. Too real and entirely daunting to feel so completely and all-encompassing for a man that had once been tracking you on a commissioned job.

“But those ones are gonna be a little different. It took everything for me to take them out the last time I encountered them, ended up having to use a plasma grenade.” You nodded out the window, toward the line of black armored storm troopers. “They’re known as Death Troopers.”

As you spoke, the hush of an approaching vehicle could be heard as it wound its way in front of the building. A whole platoon of white armored soldiers spilling out and lining up in an organized ambush, waiting for the call to move.

“Four stormtroopers?” Cara spit to Karga, still hung up on the flimsy lie the man had tried to sell you all.

“This is bad.”

“Kuiil? Are you back to the ship yet? Are you there? Do you copy?”

“Kriff, burc’ya, the transmission is coming in clear to my cuff. Lines have been hacked and set to be intercepted by every link within range.”

He turned to you, comm link still raised to the front of his helmet, his eyes heavy on you through the visor. All you could do was nod to your vambrace, where the transmission he had just spoke had rung out from on the lowest setting, the static feedback warbling out as he disengaged his open line. Something was said under his breath, too low for you to catch it but he continued on once the Ugnaught’s response finally crackled through.

“Yes!”

“Are you back to the ship yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Get back to the ship and bail. Get the kid out of here. We’re pinned down!”

The roaring of a ship was loud, the distinct sound of it making the hair on the back of your neck rise up and goosebumps prickle on your skin. The humming of your saber became loud, crackling almost before it waned and then flared, the slightest tinge to the white lighting up your face. It went out as you lowered it, stepping closer to the window and out from your spot hidden behind a pillar. You were out in the open, visible clearly through the broken window and yet no shots were taken. The line of soldiers on the other side focused on you, weapons raised but made no move to shoot.

“Sarad, what are you doing?” Cara’s whisper was harsh, confusion and worry coloring her words as you focused entirely on the incoming TIE fighter. She shared a look with Din across the room, unsure of what to do.

He took one step to bridge the gap with a soft whisper of your name, hand lifted slightly as he prepared to rest it on your shoulder or wrap it around your waist and pull you to him, to safety. A blaster bolt was silent as it ricocheted off his cuirass, making him retreat out of sight once again, the sound drowned out by the TIE Fighter as it soared closer, beginning to descend. The sound of it gliding through the air branded into your synapses. Taunting you in your sleep, stealing your attention during the day when something too similar a key could be heard nearby.

“No.”

“What is it?”

“No!” You shouted out, saber blade springing to life and glowing a threatening red. Everyone’s eyes were on you, from the people behind you, trapped alongside you to the armored soldiers on the other side of the flimsy partition that the outside wall of the cantina was acting as. They were speaking into their comm links, relaying in real time what they were seeing with their own eyes to whoever had stationed them there. And you had an idea of exactly who it was.

“Mesh’la.” Din’s voice was muffled, blood roaring in your veins as your entire body lit up with adrenaline and overwhelmed your senses. His steps were quiet, though you could sense that he had moved closer, a hesitant hand outstretched toward you in a second attempt. No shots were fired this time, the ominous humming and glow of your weapon making the soldiers pinning you down rethink immediate fire.

“You didn’t say it was a Moff!” You whirled around and pinned Karga was a glare, debris and broken glassware lifting into the air around you as you approached the man with measured steps. Loose strands of your hair curling up with the same focused energy tingling all around you in tune with your ragged emotions. “You’ve led us to a trap that’s going to end up with all of us dead and me back in chains!”

“Let’s everybody just-“

“If you tell me to calm down, Maker, help me…” You rounded on Cara, brow furrowed in anger and eyes glinting. “This is bad, this is….Fuck!”

The bottles still on the shelves of the bar underneath the window to the disarrayed furniture rattled as you turned to Din, desperation seeping into your very nerves.

“We need to abandon this mission, it’s fruitless. Please. Now.”

“You have something I want.”

“No. No, no, no.” The chant was quiet, jaw clenching with the effort it was taking to reign yourself in. You scrambled to tamp down the rage boiling up inside you, filling you with negative feelings and the urge to strike out at any cost. Thoughts of revenge flitting around your mind as the man’s whose voice you last heard had been when you lost the person closest to you.

“Take this, please.” You thrusted the handle of your saber into one of Din’s gloved hands, holding it to his palm until his fingers curled around the metal. Memories of blood splatter, a damaged helmet, a lifeless body, debris from an explosion and smoke-filled air took over your senses. The tang of metallic blood, so much of it, made you dizzy though you know it was only a recollection it shifted something in you, something strong wrapping its tendrils around you and tightening its hold. “I-I can’t be trusted with it right now; the pull is too strong.”

“Who’s this guy?”

“You may think you have some idea of what you are in possession of, but you do not. Not all of you at least.”

Din was hesitant to take the weapon from you, to leave you at a disadvantage in the face of such an organized threat. But the desperation and terror in your eyes prompted him to wrap his fingers firmly around it and take it from your hold. When your shoulders lost tension and you breathed out a held breath with a heavy sigh, he knew he had made the right decision. Nodding to you as you took a few steps away from him, he tucked it into a rung of his belt and brough the comm link up. Another attempt to reach Kuill, static over the silent line.

“In a few moments, it will be mine.” The strong voice was easily projected, confident and sure in it’s words. The man to whom it belonged knew that he had the high ground. “It means more to me than you will ever know.”

Desperation was begging to wave off of the armored man beside you as he raised his voice, his need for a response spiking his anxiety and triggering your own. The lack of response from the Ugnaught was worrying, he wouldn’t simply ignore an attempt at communication. Something must be wrong. And then it hit you.

Suddenly, you felt a pulse of the Force, legs buckling with the weight of it.

Already so much stronger as your emotions warred inside, allowing crevices for the dark pull of the Force to trickle in and bring the rotten, snubbed roots of it back to life.

“Din,” You whispered, reaching out to steady yourself only for your nails to rake across the pillar as you felt the heaviness settle all throughout your body, making your limbs impossible to control. You fell to the ground, looking up at the visor aimed at you with tears in your eyes. “They have him.”

“Is there another way out?” Cara demanded, needing to know how screwed you all were, if there was any hope of making a run for it.

“No, that’s it.” Karga seemed to look over the cantina, eyes sweeping over the debris and the expanse of walls that surrounded you.

“What about the sewers?” You suggested, voice tight through clenched teeth. At your words, Cara was up on her feet and moving away from the open bay of the broken window. She gathered up a massive blaster that had been abandoned, checking the levels on it and ensuring it was operable.

“The Mandalorians have a covert down in the sewers.” Din praised your thoughtful words, thinking back to how the covert had come to his rescue the last time he had been in the city. That you had managed to track them down and converse with them on his behalf, for his benefit. He activated a viewpoint on his helmet, visor scanning the room. He pointed to a space occupied by a booth, saying there was an entrance hidden behind it. “If we can get down there they can help us escape.”

“Yeah, sewers are good.” Cara opened fire on the grate, but the metal didn’t so much as creak or glow from the assault. Behind her, Din watched, hoping to kick out the plate of metal as soon as it was weak enough.

When the harsh barrage from the massive gun didn’t cause the grate to yield, both of them turned to where you were trying to get back on your legs. Back pressed heavily to the pillar for support, your shaking hands did their best to help steady yourself.

“Mesh’la-”

“I can’t. I can’t use it right now, it’s not…it’s not a good idea.” You knew what he was asking, demanding of you in a last-ditch effort to find an escape. But it was risky, the power ebbing and flowing through you too uncertain and unpredictable to give into. You had given into it once before and it had taken everything from you, it had taken everything you had to overcome it and you thought you had managed to but that was proving to be a false narrative.

“We need you to!” Cara backed him up, telling you more plainly that the man had intended to.

“You don’t know what you’re asking!” You shouted back, temper flaring at your lack of control of yourself, weakness shining in the worst moment possible.

“C’mon, you’re the only hope we have of getting out of here.” She pleaded with you, words heavy exhales as she panted. The reality of the situation sinking further and further in as the seconds ticked on by and the E-Web was quickly assembled outside.

“I can’t!” Voice impossibly high and nearly hysterical, you could feel yourself shaking, limbs trembling as you tried to keep upright on them. The dark tendrils wrapped around your subconscious tightening and infecting your thoughts with motives of revenge and anger so strong you could feel sweat begin to bead along the back of your neck and in between your shoulder blades.

“Okay, okay. It’s okay, we’ll figure something else out.” Din appeased, not wanting to force you to do something you didn’t want. Not wanting to force you to use the very powers you were afraid of in that moment. Heeding your wishes to drop it, to not call attention to it as best he could.

“Like what! We’re all dead and she can prevent it!” Cara rounded from you and back to him, tongue sharp and words like knives as she aimed them at him.

“I wouldn’t ask you to hurt yourself, why are you asking it of me?” You snarled, eyes glinting as the anger at her question flared something hot and prickling inside of you. It wasn’t what you really felt, but it was being manipulated, the slight hurt of being asked something so significant in the wake of your denial, into something dangerous and cloying.

“Hurt?” They both turned to face away from the sealed grate, confusion and worry in both of their voices, Cara’s brow furrowed and a grimace twisting her features as she realized it wasn’t such a simple request she was demanding of you. You were holding yourself up against the pillar, entire body tense and teeth gritted as you nearly vibrated in your convulsions.

“I-I can’t control it right now, the pull is too strong, I can’t fight it.” You hung your head between your shoulders, palms flat on the pillar as you fought the power sparkling and crackling through your veins, almost painful in its ferocity. A bottle on the bar shelf shattered, vibrant blue liquor exploding into the air along with the thick glass. Another followed it, your limbs shaking as you tried to reign it in.

“You don’t have to, she doesn’t have to. If she says she can’t, then we move onto the next option.” Din was torn, he wanted to comfort you, take you into his arms and wrap his own around your shaking form but they needed to find a way to escape. He needed to lead everyone to safety, needed to ensure everyone saw the light of tomorrow.

“Your astute panic suggests that you understand your situation. I would prefer to avoid any further violence and encourage a moment of consideration. Members of my escort have completed assembly of an E-Web heavy repeating blaster. If you are unfamiliar with this weapon, I am sure that Republican Shock Tropper Carasynthia Dune of Alderaan will advise you that she has witnessed many of her ranks vaporize mid-descent facing the predecessor of this particular model.”

Cara lowered the large weapon in her grip, disbelief at the exact parameters of her identity being prattled off obvious. She hadn’t been aware that anyone had been keeping tabs on her, let alone that closely and now she had been found here on this errant mission on an outer rim planet no one cared about. But that’s what he did, this man facing the broken window flanked by a line of black armored figures, white armored ones fanning out behind him in a sea of dizzying and formidable numbers. He found out everything about those he sought out and used it against them.

And he was about to expose you next. Knowing you from both personal and professional interactions, he was the one to deliver the ultimatum that resulted in your unwilling join up to the very cause that had tried to take you out as a child.

“San of Kath, as the once esteemed Sith apprentice, can surely back up those claims with her own firsthand encounter with the same machinery which resulted in the death of her beloved Mandalorian guardian Akiz Noves. Whose surname she’s adapted in the wake of such a tragic event that could have been entirely prevented.

Or perhaps the decommissioned Mandalorian hunter who has taken her under his watch, Din Djarin, has heard the songs of the Siege of Mandalore, when gunships outfitted with similar ordinance laid waste to fields of Mandalorian recruits in The Night of a Thousand Tears. And I do thank you, graciously, for digging her out of whatever hole she had crawled into.”

At the announcement of his name, Din looked to the ground, thoughts firing and mind working as fast as it could. His name, Maker, his full name was now known to everyone on the planet, a dangerous thing for someone of his standing.

“I advise the disgraced Magistrate Greef Karga to search the wisdom of his years and urge you to lay down your arms and come outside. The structure you are trapped in will be razed in short order and your storied lives will come to an unceremonious end. Upon retrieval of her body, San will be taken back into custody and revived. To spend the rest of her days aiding in the research her blood will allow to flourish.”

“What do you propose?”

“Reasonable negotiation.”

“What assurance do you offer.

“If you’re asking if you can trust me, you cannot. Just as you betrayed our business arrangement, I would gladly break any promise and watch you die at my hand.” You were shaking your head, trying to fight off the ever present and growing darkness winding its way through your body. “The assurance I give is this, I will act in my own self-interest, which at this time, involves your cooperation and benefit. I will give you until nightfall and then I will have the E-Web cannon open fire.

“I say we hear him out.” Karga suggested, not seeing another way to escape.

“The minute we open that door, we’re dead.” Cara countered, her own temper flaring as the severity of the situation weighed in her own body.

“We’re dead if we don’t.”

“At least out there we’ve got a shot.” She busied herself with checking the mechanics of her weapon, hoping that it was strong and charged enough to last her through a fight should one arise, bound to happen at moment’s notice.

“That’s easy for you to say. I’m a Rebel Shock Trooper. They’ll upload me to a Mind Flayer.”

“Those aren’t real. That was just wartime propaganda.”

“No. It wasn’t.” You admitted from your position kneeled on the ground behind a pillar. All eyes in the room fell to you, not even realizing you had crouched down in your internal struggle. You rose to your full height, shoulders rolling as you peered out to get a better look at the man begin to walk away, his cape flowing with the movement of his steps. You had seen the mechanics of the fabled flayer first hand, had been threatened with it far too many times to comfort her with a lie.

“What about you, Mando?” Questioning gaze turned to the man who was focused on you, on the way your fingers were twitching in your leather gloves. The way your legs were trembling and your breath was being shakily exhaled with every nearly panting intake.

“I know who he is. I’m sure you do too.” He nodded towards you, watching the way you couldn’t tear your eyes from the retreating figure.

“It’s Moff Gideon.” The announcement was heavy in the air, the name holding a weight to it as it was spoken aloud.

“No. Moff Gideon was executed for war crimes.” A nod of the woman’s head a dismissal.

“It’s him. He knew my name.” Din insisted, knowing he was right. Knowing that you were aware of who the man was as well.

“So? What does that prove?”

“I haven’t heard that name spoken since I was a child. With the…exception of Sarad seldom using it.”

Cara’s brow arched as she turned to you with a twitch of her lips. If the situation wasn’t so charged you were sure she would tease you over it.

“On Mandalore?”

“I was not born on Mandalore.”

“But you’re a Mandalorian.” The surprise in the older man’s voice made your heart flutter, keeping the darkness at bay as you realized how much Din trusted you to have shared so much about himself with you. Yes, you knew about the culture of his people, but his name, the snippets of his past. IT had all been given to you freely and with great care and trust.

“Mandalorian isn’t a race.”

“It’s a Creed.” He turned to look out the window, gauging the soldiers lined up and waiting, the sea of them going back as far as his helmet allowed him to see. “I was a foundling. They raised me in the Fighting Corps. I was treated as one of their own. When I came of age, I was sworn to the Creed. The only record of my family name was in the registers of Mandalore. Moff Gideon was an ISB Officer during the purge. That’s how I know it’s him.”

“That’s how he knows who we all are.”

“He says he needs us, which means the child got away safely. I was worried when the Ugnaught didn’t respond, but if they’d captured the kid, we’d already be dead. Mesh’la can you try to reach out and connect with him? I don’t want to ask it of you, but it’s important.”

“I already tried, I can’t feel him. He’s most likely in shock.”

He tried the comm link one last time, but it was nothing but static.

“They might have jammed the link, like she said.”

“If I were to-“ You didn’t face them, aware of how they were nearly spitting at each other behind your back, the charged atmosphere of the ravaged cantina getting to everyone.

“No.” Din cut you off, voice low and rumbling from him with a force he hadn’t used on you yet.

“We can’t trust him, he’s going to fire that thing on us no matter what we do.” Cara spoke, holding a handout to you, urging you not to turn yourself in hopes of a chance for them to get away, to escape the situation that seemed to be hopeless. She wasn’t sure if she would even be able to hold you back, but she would try. She would do whatever it took to get you to safety and away from the possibility of being taken back into the hands of those you had escaped. Feeling so strongly that you deserved better, that you needed her to help look out for you with the trust she had been given with hesitant words and bonding conversations after deeming her worthy of them.

“She’s right, he’s not going to hold to his word. Even if we give into what he wants.”

“He’s got ad’ika! At least if I turn myself in he won’t be alone, I can argue for our safety while in his custody.”

“You can’t.” the modulated words were hard, an edge to them.

“I’ve been a part of their regime before, maybe…maybe that still means something to them. If I’m willing to help them with whatever research their conduction or experiments they’re doing I can ensure ad’ika remains alive. If the last apprentice fell, if the last Sith fell, they- they need me. They need what I can do to enforce their return to power.”

“They would take you as a prisoner, you have a history of betraying them. There is no chance of this turning out how you’re thinking it will. Not this time.” That same edge coated the words, his urging you to see the fruitless attempt at your thinking of a way to sacrifice yourself for them.

“Willingness to contribute has to count for something.”

“It doesn’t and you know that.”

“He wants me, Din. He wants me alive. He wants ad’ika. But you, all of you, he’ll cast aside without a second thought. I can ensure your safety, barter for it with my concession.” You whirled around to face them, cape flipping up with the motion and flaring out behind you. You could sense how more than a few of the soldiers outside curled their fingers around the triggers of their blasters, nearly giving into the urge to fire.

“I won’t let you.” He growled out, voice striking you and overpowering the dark tint edging more and more over your mind and body.

“You-you don’t control me.” Your eyes met the dark visor that concealed his eyes, wanting for all the worlds in the galaxy to see them clearly. Look into them and let him know that while you had given parts of yourself to him, that he truly had no control over you. That it was all given to him, shared with him, that you had chosen to do so with the understanding that power over you was something he didn’t want. And that if he were to try and play on that, you wouldn’t let him get away with it. He must’ve read all of that and more in your intense gaze because he let out a soft sigh, his shoulders rolling as he felt the power emanating from you even across the space of the room.

“No, I don’t. But I will not be the reason you are taken back to a life you do not want, a life you ran from. I will not.”

Suddenly ad’ika’s cooing burst to life over the line.

Brightness flared in your chest, relief flooding you at the happy sounds of the precious being.

“Kuiil has been terminated.” The modulated voice of IG-11 came through the connection loud and clear, the sound of strong wind a harsh background noise. Din seemed frozen, body stiff and shoulders tense as he slowly brought the comm link up to the front of his helmet once more.

“What did you do?”

“I am fulfilling my base function.” The rather ominous statement didn’t settle well, fueling Din to growl into the communication, voice dark and holding a promised threat should anything befall the child at the hands of the droid.

“Which is?”

“To nurse and protect.”

An explosion further off in the city erupted, the attention of the soldiers out front diverted. Din approached you cautiously with your weapon held tight, the leather of his gloves crinkling as he went over the chances of something in his head. As he did so, Karga downed another shot from the bottle he had snuck closer to his hiding spot.

“I need you to try,” He pressed the handle to your palms, suddenly in front of you, mirroring your actions from earlier. You looked up into the visor with a furrowed brow, lips downturned as emotions flooded you. Fear, worry, anxiety, anger. “For ad’ika, you need to try and fight whatever it is you’re afraid of. For me.”

“What if I can’t? What if it takes over? I-I won’t be the same, I don’t want you to see me that way.”

“It’ll be okay, I’ll help in whatever way I can if that’sfoohouhad the case.” He leaned in and pressed the cool beskar of his helmet to your forehead, comforting you with the small motion in the only way he could at the moment. Your eyes fluttered closed, lips a thin line as you tried to take what he was offering and use it to help center yourself. “We need to fight our way out of here, it’s the only way.”

You brought a hand up to rest along the side of his helmet, palms sweaty despite the leather gloves you adorned. The action pulled you into his space, one of his own hands coming around to settle at your waist. A whispered acquiescence soft and only for the man pressed up against you. You could feel the gaze of the other two people in the room focused on your embrace in fleeting moments as they realized the next move. You ignored them, trying to match Din’s even breathing and center yourself despite the pulsing darkness that had invaded your very being.

He only pulled away when the sound of a speeder broke the stillness outside. Blaster fire filling the air.

It was IG-11, bursting into the scene with a pouch secured to it’s middle, small green ears peeking out from the opening. The droid jumped from the bike, firing not ceasing, allowing for the speeder to crash into a group of the clustered soldiers, taking them out in a small explosion. Din pulled you tighter against the front of his body, raising his blaster with the other as he tugged you behind a pillar. You stayed nestled close to him, his left arm over your shoulders and resting at the small of your back. With a look, you nodded, knowing it was now or never. The only chance of trying to escape.

“Cover me.” He announced to the room, aware that everyone else was on the same page.

He was a force the second he was out the door.

Cara laying fire for him to catch them off guard. You were right behind him, saber tight in your grip and glowing a faint red. But as soon as you laid it into the first rushing soldier it turned a bright white. The feeling of protection and fighting alongside Din keeping the twining darkness under control. Behind you, Karga brushed past you, knowing to flank his other side and spread out to cover as much ground as possible.

Rushing away, you found yourself surrounded by a few of the Death Troopers, the others of the faction circling around Din. He stumbled back as a bolt landed on his left pauldron. Allowing them to knock him off his feet completely, but you had to focus on yourself. You knew he was a strong fighter, had faith in his abilities and his determination.

It was chaos, the entire scene loud and bright with flashes of blaster bolts from every direction, steam and ash rising up from fallen bodies and hit buildings. The hum of your saber falling into the noise with ease as you wielded it effortlessly, taking out anyone who dared to step toward you.

When the echoing clang of IG-11 falling rang out, you turned just in time to see Din make a run toward the E-Web. He displayed his strength by lifting it from the base it was attached to and began to fire toward the cluster of armor that had targeted ad’ika’s charge.

You caught sight of a Death Trooper flanked by a few in white approach the door to the cantina, a grenade in their hand that they attached to the door. With a shout you reached out with a hand and flung them away, but the boom of the explosion was set in motion. Soldiers slunk into the now accessible building, garners a glance from Din and Karga both.

But your focus was on the figure of Moff Gideon, the man approaching the outskirts of the scene with his eyes solely trained on Din’s form. You flinched when rage and murderous intent bloomed harshly, only able to watch as the man landed a hit with his own blaster to the top of Din’s helmet. Causing the Mandalorian to grunt out in pain and lose his hold on the large weapon he had turned against those who intended to use it.

Your entire body was burning as you weaved your way through soldiers and fired shots toward the man, seeing the way that Din exposed completely. Picking up the weapon into his arms once again, Din turned it on the threatening figure of Gideon as he aimed his blaster directly at his target. Mere steps separated you when he changed the aim toward the charging dock for the weapon and fired.

You brought your arms up to shield your face from the explosion, debris and the roar of fire loud in your ears, causing them to ring.

You could only watch through the flames and smoke as the tall, broad figure of Din fall to the ground across the courtyard. The light of your saber harsh as you cut down one, two, three stormtroopers as they advanced on you even in the wake of the explosion. Gideon was hidden, form disappearing in the eruption of flames and smoke caused by the bolt of his blaster. Black armor a protective wall around him.

You kept turning back to Din, mind distracted when the beskar didn’t glint with his standing, motionless on the ground you shouted out with a hoarseness to your voice that bid no argument.

“Din!” You shouted, hoping the sound of your voice would rouse him, but he didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. Unconscious, injured, dead. Every thought focused on him as you felt a wave of energy and you directed it to throw the blur of white closing in on you away. The blade in your hand crackled, starting those approaching you, making them pause as they contemplated the threat you made. When it hummed with intensity, white diluting to red, some of them turned on their heels and retreated.

“Cara! Get him to safety!” You ordered, seeing her peeking out from the busted door, Karga close enough to help her by laying protective shots at those closing in on them. IG-11 was just behind them, the bag holding the child still secure around their middle. Just as they cleared the threshold, you swiped your right hand out and scattered the bodies following them with a wave of focused intent. Another wave of your hand had door closing behind them, thankful for the metal being able to withstand the explosion by sliding back into the crevice that protected it.

You were so focused on making sure they were protected that you didn’t sense the blade at the end of a staff hurling toward you until it was too late. You shouted out as it dug into your shoulder, the handle of your saber flying from your grip. But you recovered quickly, feeling the darkness flare inside of you. The saber flew back to you as you raised your hand and when it ignited once again, it was glowing a bright red. Crackling sounded harshly as you cut down every soldier that swarmed you.

Gideon watched on, commanding the Death Troopers to burn out the rest of your group from their hiding place.

“Stay with me, buddy.” Cara grunted, hauling Din’s broad form into the deepest part of the cantina, as far away from the window and cracks in the walls as possible. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”

“This is our only path out. Can you clear it?” Karga’s voice was hoarse, the dire turn of events beginning to wane on him. IG-11 heeded the command, following close behind the older man as he moved debris out of the way of the still sealed gate. He watched with glances as Cara laid Din’s body against a slab of wall that had fallen and crumbled, making sure he was propped up slightly.

“Stay with me,” She whispered to him, desperate for him to hear her though she wasn’t sure he could in the state he was in. She ignored the heated exchange of IG-11 threatening Karga over the child, focused completely on Din. Worry for you as she realized you hadn’t followed them in, that you were still out there in courtyard.

Panting suddenly burst from beneath the helmet, Din rousing from unconsciousness.

“Whe-where is she?” His voice was wrecked, barely able to make out the words from his throbbing head.

“She’s still taking some of them down, she’s making it easier for us to run if we can manage to get down into the sewers.” Cara tried her best to assure him, though she couldn’t school her face into a comforting expression. Blood trickled into one of her eyes from a cut caused by something that had flown up in the explosion.

“What col-color is her-“ His voice cut off in a harsh cough, throat constricting.

“She’s okay.”

“No,” He made a move to shove up from his position, but Cara placed a firm hand on his cuirass and pressed him back down as carefully as she could. “I need to help her.”

“Mando, no. You need to stay still until we can get you out of here.”

He fell silent, the only sound coming from him his wheezing breaths. Nearly rattling in the way he tried to gulp in any air that he could.

“I’m not gonna make it.” He admitted, turning his helmet from the partial view out the broken window and to the woman hovering beside him. “Go.”

“Shut up. You just got your bell rung. You’ll be fine.”

“Leave me.” Din insisted, not hearing her, not able to hear her through the pain washing over him and the throbbing in his head. It was hard to concentrate, but he had to try. Let her know, let you know that they’re safety was the most important thing now. “Get her and go.”

Cara lifted her hand from where she was trying to help support shoulders, blood thick over her fingers as it had trickled down from beneath the helmet. She was suddenly reaching for the helmet with both hands, knowing it was risky but wanting to ensure she did everything in her power to save the man in front of her.

“I’m gonna need to take this thing off.”

“No!” Din choked out, hands flying up to grip the woman’s wrists tight and prevent her from lifting it, from seeing the damage inflicted on him. “You get her and you leave me.”

“She’s not going to leave you and neither am I!”

“You make sure ad’ika is safe, that Sarad is safe.” He let go of her wrists, pushing them weakly away from him, aware that the attention of the child and Karga was on them both faintly. “She has – a pendant of mine. When you get to the Mandalorian covert, have her show it to them. You tell them it’s from Din Djarin. She’ll know what else to say.”

“We can make it.” Cara shifted atop her bent legs, anxious as to why you hadn’t reconvened with them yet. But she felt the pressure to move, the need to move. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not gonna make it and you know it.” His voice was barely a wheeze, carrying his words in a shaky exhale.

Cara was about to haul him up into her arms once again when flames erupted through the open bay of the window, loud and hissing as they bloomed from the handled flamethrower in a soldier’s hands. It was faint, but a shout from you could be heard beyond the building. It urged the child to move toward his guardian.

With the cantina now enflamed, the heat of it cloistering, IG-11 quickly worked on getting the grate broken down for them to slip into the underground tunnels. Din, similarly, realized if you had been able to return, you would’ve.

“You protect the child. I can hold them back long enough for you to escape. Let me have a warrior’s death.” As he said it, Din felt a heaviness in his heart that he wouldn’t get to see you one last time. A silent thanks to the Maker for having chosen to hold you to him not even an hour ago before the fighting broke out. He wished for the feel of your hands on his face, the weight of you leaning into him, the look in your eyes as you gazed into the visor. Just one last time, but the universe was cruel. Stealing him of a last moment with you. “This is the Way.”

As the tip of the flamethrower forced it’s way through the broken door, Cara laid herself over Din, protecting him however she could as a plume of flames was aimed at them. The soldier wielding the weapon barged into the room on heavy steps, raising it to aim at them again, closer and no doubt intending to harm them from such a close range.

But the child. He harnessed what little energy he had from the long stressful night, the too hectic and emotional day and stood to his full stature. He raised his hands as he had seen you do countless times, focusing on the energy around him like you tried to teach him.

The flames inches closer but as they nearly licked at their bodies, air dry and hard to breath in, they stalled. Held at bay as the child maintained his focus and controlled the energy in the very air to prevent them from moving any closer. With a flip of his hands, the soldier was flung back as he tried to mimic the ways in which you would toss people. The flamethrower erupted, unable to handle the combustion of energy thrown its way. As soon as the threat was taken care of, the child plopped down, exhausted. A faint whine leaving him as he looked over to Din, making sure he had done a good job in protecting him.

You were flying into the building the second the explosion had ceased, cape billowing behind you as you slid on your knees beside him, nearly toppling over Din’s collapsed and still form in the process. Cara barely managed to sidestep you, caught off guard by how you nearly threw yourself at the man she had been trying to tend to through the wall of flames. She stood, keeping an eye out the window and crumbling walls in case anyone dared to try and breach the building again.

“Din! I saw you go down, I thought…” You didn’t dare press yourself to him, fear of hurting him further at the front of your mind as you took in the soaked fabric of his cowl and cape around his neck and shoulders. It was saturated with dark, viscous blood. Panic stricken, you reach for his shoulders, the beskar of his pauldrons still cool to the touch despite the fire raging in pockets all around the room.

“San.” He wheezed out, unable to believe that you were right there in front of him. The errant thought of dread as he realized you would be present to watch him die. That you would carry it with you the rest of your own life. And for that, he had regrets. But not in meeting you, not in getting to know you, for you to allow him that privilege.

“Ner kar’ta, please. We need to see how bad the damage is.” You lifted your hands and placed them on the sides of his helmet, tears burning in the backs of your eyes.

“N-no.” His own hands were trembling as he lifted them to wrap around your own and bring them down to rest atop his chest, the cuirass rising and falling slowly with his wheezing breaths. “Take the pendant, find the covert. Tell them I sent you, tell them about Akiz and ad’ika.”

“No. I’m not leaving you.” They were weak, barely sounding from you as he leaned down to rest your forehead atop his hands holding your own. “We’re not leaving you.”

“You have to. Protect ad’ika, protect yourself. Please, live.”

“Din, I can’t. I can’t leave you. Ner kar’ta, you don’t know what you’re asking.” Lifting your head back up, you tried to look into the visor, vision blurring, the tears finally falling from your lashes to rain hot down your cheeks. He lifted a gloved hand to wipe them from you, his movements weak and stilted. He didn’t surge up nor did he pull you closer toward him, but he cupped the side of your face and whispered to you.

“Ner kar’ta, that’s a new nickname.”

“It’s true.” You whispered back, trying to focus on the sound of his voice, even in its wrecked and wheezing state, devoting it to your memory. You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to the cool beskar of his helmet, eyes clenching shut. “Din, please, let me heal you.”

“You can’t, it’ll take all of your strength and you need it to get ad’ika to safety.”

“Din…”

The collapse of part of the ceiling of the enflamed building made you jump, his own body jostling as it caused the ground to rumble all throughout what was left of the building.

“Go!” His voice was rasping, the volume of his demand cutting through his throat as it projected. His hands pushed you away weakly, a last ditch effort for him to get to you leave him. With tears in your eyes you let him use what strength he had left and shifted your body away from him. Knees creaking with the effort to force yourself to stand, to move away from the man that had come to mean so much to you. To leave him, bloodied and beaten on the verge of death in the wreckage of a building that would become his final resting place.

He coughed wetly, the volume of his voice hurting and straining him even more.

“Come on! It’s open, let’s go!” Karga shouted, not wanting to drag out the moment any longer lest more soldiers find a way through the flames. He disappeared down into the darkness beyond the grate. The droid standing guard on the outside of it.

Cara scooped up the child, ensuring he was safe in her hold before she followed after them. Giving you a moment alone with Din, hoping you would follow behind her. You watched her, ensuring she made it down through the grate with little trouble. Soft words had you wiping back to Din, his hands still gripping your own though his strength was nearly gone.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum. Gedet'ye, slanar.”

I love you. Please, go.

His words were a whispered gift, one of the last things he hoped he could provide for you. The phrase cradled in the caress of his low voice, heard over the roaring flames of the fire and the crumbling concrete of the building that slowly closed collapsed around you both. He slid his hands from around yours, urging you to move. It took all of your strength to leave him behind, feeling the shape he had imbedded into your heart aching with every step toward the entrance into the underground tunnels. With a heaving sigh, you entered into the darkness, brows furrowing and expression morphing to school your emotions. Though the tears continued to fall freely.

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picassopedro · 2 months

Text

smother - part vii: convert

dark!joel x f!reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | ao3 | kofi

summary: you're entangled deeper into joel's web with a test to your submission, and he brings you a revelation that shocks your entire known world. 13.1k words (literally what the fuck) chapter warnings: 18+ MDNI! dubcon - stockholm syndrome, general coercion, innocent reader, big juicy age gap (reader is 19, joel is late 40s), ddlg/daddy dom! joel, sub!reader, reader wears a collar, unprotected piv, corruption kink, pet names for reader, dirty talk, lap sitting and straddling, discussion/descriptions of religious beliefs and cults, yeaaah i learned i'm working through some religious trauma with this one, reader has hair that can be grabbed onto, reader gets her period, reader cries A LOT and i'm not sorry about it, if these darker tags aren't your cup of tea please keep scrolling! a/n: i had such a solid, general idea for this chapter and then she took me in so many directions against my own will but it was a fun ride. so i guess i just hope to hell this is coherent?? and not just a slog. also sorry for dumping my religious trauma on you all but it had to be done 😇

reminder i have no taglist anymore, follow @beardedjoel-updates to hear about my new fics!

If any of these rules are broken, daddy will punish me:

Daddy owns me. What daddy says goes. Always.

Always use the titles ‘daddy’, ‘sir’, or ‘master’.

Daddy knows best. Do NOT question him.

‘Yes.’ ‘Please.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Sorry.’ Use my manners.

Never remove my collar. Only daddy can do that.

Always be honest with daddy.

You’ve been scribbling furiously for the last thirty minutes, curled on the floor in front of the couch as you use the ground as your table, writing whenever and whatever Joel dictates. That was one of the first rules he’d iterated to you - sit at daddy’s feet when commanded.

Joel sits on the couch right next to where you’re situated, periodically sipping on a mug of steaming coffee. A delicacy, one of his guilty pleasures that he practically sells his soul for over in Jackson just to get a bag of it, he tells you. He’s dressed casually, having thrown on a pair of gray sweatpants and he’d forgone a shirt when you two rolled out of bed this morning. The outfit only does favors for him, you notice - the hair trailing down the planes of his chest to the waistband of his sweatpants leaving little to the imagination in terms of what’s underneath them. That glorious thing that had made you feel so much… pleasure. You try to hide your shiver at the memories of last night, but circle back to it over and over in your mind. You can still feel it, feel him as you shift your weight and a soreness hits you yet again between your legs.

You practically have to tear your gaze off of him, trying to focus back on the lesson as heat floods your cheeks from how easily you were distracted. It’s not supposed to be like this, you think angrily, you shouldn’t be having these feelings. You’re… captive, a prize to him, nothing more, you remind yourself, despite recalling the way he’d looked at you this morning when you two woke up - his eyes a little softer and starry after your special night together.

Your knees burn again as the bare skin scrapes against the wooden floorboards when you bend down to write the next thing Joel had spoken out, gently stroking your head as he did so.

Wear only what daddy approves for me.

This one feels apt to be next as you try to avoid wincing at the discomfort growing in your knees. Joel had tested you this morning, seeing what you’d grab from the drawer, what you’d put together to please him. When you’d pulled out jeans, he shook his head as you hesitantly held them up towards him.

“No. No pants when you’re home with daddy. Jus’ the sweater an’ your little panties,” Joel had snipped with irritated and hurried footsteps to the dresser drawer where he pulled out a knit top. “Arms up,” he commanded, sliding the oversized sweater over your head, not bothering with any type of bra. He rationalized it was just more for him to have to get through later, anyways. “Grab some tall socks. Can’t have those feet gettin’ cold, little one,” he’d added on cooly, tossing his hand in the air as if he couldn’t care less which socks you chose. But still, his eyes had lingered, hawk-like while your fingers hovered over the drawer until you decided on a pair of slightly dingy pink cable knit ones that came up onto your shins.

You feel the soft, warm material of the sweater hugging your skin now as you hunch over to start writing the next rule.

Do not come without permission.

You lift your head, glancing at Joel with your eyes wide and curious, pencil hovering above the page, leaving the sentence half written.

“Y’heard me,” he says airily. “Don’t want teacher getting mad, do you? Thinkin’ y’don’t wanna write that one down, hm?”

“N-no, sir. Sorry, sir.” Your head shakes quickly, a rush of fear pulsing through you. You hunch your back over once again, pencil meeting paper as you write out each word carefully for him to see.

“Mm,” Joel murmurs, leaning forward to look as you hunch over. He keeps a hand resting on top of your head, petting you soothingly. It makes you ache inside, your body responding so pliantly when he touches you like this. “That’s a good girl, then.”

“I just -” you start, eyes glancing back up at him. Joel’s eyes are now narrowed in warning as his brow pinches together.

“You just what?” he punches out gruffly. “Hm, princess? What did we say to do if you have a question for teacher today?”

Your eyes cast back down. “R-raise my hand, sir,” you say carefully, slowly raising your hand from where it rests on the floor, letting it hover above your head.

“There we go…” Joel coos. “Yes, blossom?”

You sit back on your legs and fold your hands in your lap, looking downwards - the exact position he’d requested if you had any questions for him.

“With t-the coming… rule…” you start, feeling a burn in your cheeks as you practically whisper the dirty word. You wish you could be so bold and open like Joel, talk about these kinds of things like they’re nothing. “I- I’ve done that before and you didn’t get… upset.”

Joel leans back, spreading his arms along the back of the couch, your eyes catching quickly on the way his biceps flex as you glance up. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, sweets. First time, eh, maybe, but I’ve always been in control, darlin’. No time you came since then I didn’t say so.” He lounges back further, arms crossing over his chest now, looking beyond satisfied as he sees you start to wrack your brain.

Hazy memories of Joel, urging you on in those intimate moments start to come to mind. ‘Let go’, he’d say, ‘Go on and feel good’ - all permissions you suppose that you had missed in the heat of the moment. It always just happened when he told you to, like he knew how close you were to that edge already and wanted to own that, too.

“I guess that’s true…” you admit, twisting your lips to the side as you bite the skin inside. “So… that means… I should wait for you to say, like before…?”

“Or ask,” Joel interrupts. “Nice and polite for daddy, f’course.”

You nod slowly, taking the information in like a sponge, glancing at your hands fiddling in your lap. Anxiety looms overhead, a question you’re afraid to ask but terrified more of what could happen if the rule is broken. “What if -”

“You won’t,” Joel interrupts again, his voice stern, certain. “You’ll learn. You can control it, and be a good girl and wait for daddy’s permission. Thas’ why it’s on the paper, sweetheart.”

You swallow hard, just giving him a dutiful nod for a few quiet beats. “Yes, sir,” you finally reply submissively, voice tiny and mousy under his command.

“Enough questions. Let’s take a break, hm?” Joel cocks his head, giving you a half smile. You nod and gather up your paper and pencil into your lap, wondering if the rule to being on your knees for Joel also applied to standing up off of them.

“Up, darlin’,” he commands, seeing your tense, watchful expression. “Daddy’s missin’ you, wants to feel his favorite girl in his lap for a bit.”

You press your lips together, trying to hide a coy smile but let it slip through, anyhow, glancing at Joel as you stand up and smooth your sweater. You gingerly set your list on the side table and Joel pats his lap eagerly when you turn back to face him. His eyes only devour devour devour as they drag over your entire body. The pretty pink socks you’d chosen next to all that negative space under the hem of the long sweater were such a god damned tease on those legs of yours. Such an innocent display, yet knowing more than well just what it would do to him.

You surprise yourself by how assured you feel in your movements as you climb onto the couch, seating yourself on Joel’s lap, legs stretched off to the side over his thighs with your ass planted right next to his. Joel’s arms wrap you up, pulling your top half into him. You rest your head down onto his shoulder, savoring the quiet of the moment. You can hear Joel’s calm breathing, the chirping of birds outside and the way snow drips off of the rooftop as it melts - spring is well on its way now. Fresh starts, new beginnings, it all starts to swell in your heart as you think of moving away from this bleak winter and into new beginnings.

With Joel.

Joel breathes you in, a nose to your hair. “Blossom, I’ve got some bad news f’you,” Joel states, protective hands roaming your body wherever he pleases. One lands firmly on your ass as it protrudes outward, patting it softly a few times, almost absentminded in his movements.

“Oh…” you reply, feeling your face fall, awaiting further explanation.

“I’ve got to head to Jackson soon. Long overdue for a restock, now that the weather broke some. An’ they’ll be waitin’ on me over there.” He locks concerned eyes with you, carefully gauging your reaction.

“Oh…” you say another time, frowning. “A-and… alone?” you squeak out, already knowing the answer.

Joel nods sorrowfully, bringing a preemptively soothing hand to cup your cheek. “It ain’t safe out there for my sugar. You jus’ got out of the mess out there, right? Need to keep you safe right here.” Joel knows that you’re lonely, oh so lonely, and this timing couldn’t be worse, but it’s a good test - he’ll get to see your resolve, your dedication to him.

“B-but…” you start, the words drifting away into the empty space around you. Joel’s eyes glance past you to the paper you’d been working on all morning, sitting on the side table, the words you know he’s simmering about right now ringing through your head.

Do NOT question him.

So you don’t. “Okay, daddy,” you say with resignation, sighing and letting your head fall back past his shoulder and onto the back of the couch with a sigh.

Joel rubs your back in soothing circles. “I know, I know. Jus’ a few days, though. I got plans to keep you safe. An’ I’ll be bringin’ back plenty of good stuff for us, sweetheart.”

You nod, knowing the sad look is permeating your energy, a frown stuck on your lips. You’re not even sure what it is about Joel leaving that makes you feel this way - you’re certainly not opposed to having some space after having your world flipped upside down by Joel this past week, but you’ll miss the way he makes you feel safe, seems to anticipate your needs before you even think about it. You already find yourself feeling somewhat lost at the thought of being without him, and it scares the hell out of you.

Joel pinches one of your cheeks as you stare up at the ceiling from where your head rests back, contemplating. “You gonna miss me, hm? Miss your ol’ daddy while he’s gone?” Joel pinches your cheek several more times, clearly trying to get you to smile. You lift your head and look over at him, finally cracking a soft grin.

“I will, daddy. Of course,” you reply sweetly.

Joel looks more satisfied, his eyes drifting down your body and falling at your knees before he frowns a little. “Aw, baby,” he tuts, reaching a hand to stroke along your scuffed, dry kneecaps. “So good for daddy, aren’t you? Didn’t complain once about this.”

You shake your head, going a little sullen. You hadn’t dared complain, not when kneeling was one of the rules. “N-no, sir.”

“They hurtin’? Need a little kiss from daddy?” Joel strokes the side of your head gently, gazing at you with his eyes softened as much as it seems Joel is capable of. There’s still a hardness there, something dark that always looms, swirls deep in the dark brown of his eyes and continues to draw you into him.

You find his tone makes you start to pout naturally, letting your lips push out and into a frown. You nod, just a dip down of your head. “Yes, please…” you mutter, almost embarrassed that you do want that from him. The offer of this little gesture of care makes your heart squeeze tight while you watch him lean down, lips connecting to your knee. Joel just barely flutters his lips on your right knee before doing the same to your left. He gives you a wily grin when he pulls back, cupping your cheek.

“Gonna kiss y’somewhere else now, too,” he teases, his voice lower. His lips find yours and he kisses you deeply, rubbing his hands along your hurting knees. You wince a little but let him continue the touch, trying to ignore how sensitive they feel right now. Joel’s mouth invites you in, opening for a deeper kiss, his tongue starting a dance with yours. You gladly accept, your body quickly melding into one with his, nerves starting to light up with desire.

“Daddy wants to show ya how much he’ll miss you when he’s gone,” Joel says, a little breathless against your lips before kissing you again. You start to feel the now familiar warmth spreading across your skin and lean into him, letting more of your weight press against his chest. Joel’s hands find your legs, gripping one of your calves to drag it across his lap, turning your body so that you’re straddling him. All the while he never stops the eager way his lips continue to meet yours, like he couldn’t possibly get enough of it. You’re enjoying the slowness of it all, despite need throbbing at your center already, wishing he’d help you in the way only Joel knows how, that almost shameful part of you that you’re still coming to grips with.

You whimper quietly into his mouth when Joel moves your hips for you, forcing you to rock forward on his lap. His arousal bulges through the material of the sweatpants, immediately meeting your damp center as he brushes the head of his clothed cock against your panties. Your little moans grow louder when Joel repeats the motion several times, the friction becoming heavenly as you lose yourself to it.

“Mmm, good girl, you like that, don’t ya?” Joel asks in a low, coarse rumble, his hands sliding tighter around your back to pull you close. You feel yourself press against his bare chest, his skin hot, felt even through the fabric of your shirt. You find yourself shy to answer, just a minute nod as you bury your head against his shoulder with a muffled mhm.

“Say ‘yes, daddy,’” Joel snips, his hand splaying across the back of your head before his fingers curl in, fisting your hair. His other hand stays on the small of your back, urging your hips to continue grinding on him. You shudder as your clit brushes harder against him,

“Y-yes, daddy,” you force out, your face warming against his bare skin. Your head is yanked back suddenly before Joel’s hand slides forward, one of his thick fingers hooking into the o-ring on your collar to hold you steady.

“Now say ‘please fuck me, daddy’,” Joel continues, his brows knit closely as he watches you, a gentle, steady pull of your collar felt against your neck.

“I’m not supposed to say stuff like t-that…” You shake your head a little, recalling the way you’d been brutally scolded around age thirteen after learning a few new curse words from a girl that Josephine had dubbed an awful, terrible influence on you. You hadn’t been allowed to see her after that. Despite your community's rules against cursing or using the Lord’s name in vain, you still heard each and every curse word under the sun over the years you lived there from people in a weak moment, a brief slip up, quietly filing each one into your brain purely out of curiosity.

“Heard one slip before princess,” Joel huffs, eyes starting to heat up as they bore into you. “An’ whose rules are those, hm? Are those daddy’s rules?” Joel shoots his free hand up to your chin, a tight grip that makes you wince. “Is that on that paper over there?” he spits out with a little more venom. You tremble a little, trying to shake your head as much as you can in his grasp.

“No s-sir. That’s not your rules…” you whimper.

“Thas’ right. So what do you say?”

“Please f-fuck… me, daddy…” You speak quietly, that curse word heavy on your tongue after having been mostly said only inside the confines of your own head before. Just because you’d been banned from saying them, you’d liked having the little secret in your head where you said them anyways, trying to see if anyone would know, be able to tell your guilty pleasure.

“Think you could do better than that. Daddy ain’t sure he believes you, now.” Joel smirks, amused. He can tell you liked saying fuck despite the way your sullen eyes casted down when you’d spoken, still getting used to the feel of curse words on your tongue. Joel is still slowly helping your hips grind against him, light and slow, just enough to work you up and have you starting to soak through your cotton panties.

You bite your lip nervously, and then meet his heavy lidded gaze, trying to appear more confident even though your heart is ready to thump right out of your chest, eyes burning with the sting of tears. Joel catches your clit on the clothed head of his dick and you whine quietly, starting to feel desperation clawing at you for some kind of relief from your aching sex.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you say, and Joel’s hips involuntarily buck up into yours, sending you gasping and him groaning. His eyebrows shoot up in the moment, surprised at just how much you’d committed that time. You have to fight the urge to clamp your hand over your mouth in shock, in penance, willing the words to disappear from the air, that God himself might come down and punish you. You can’t decide whose punishment would be worse, in the end.

Joel’s face is lit up, activated, while he reaches between your bodies, his movements a little frenzied as he finds the waistband of his sweatpants and tugs it down just enough to pull his cock out. It springs free almost violently in his haste, and he grunts as his breathing picks up.

“Eager little girl for daddy today, aren’t ya? One taste of my cock and you can’t get enough, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you choke out obediently, feeling his cock pressing hastily against your panties, just the thin bit of fabric separating you two now. You think you’d say yes to anything right now, barely able to focus on anything but that large appendage trying to press through your underwear.

You can scarcely breathe properly at the anticipation you’re feeling, a nervous fluttering low in your belly at the idea of being stretched the way you were last night. Joel had promised you’d get more used to it, that this would become even more fun for you, and you try to place your faith in his words as fear creeps in.

“Now don’t you dare ever say those words to anyone else. Be a good, proper girl, and don’t curse unless I say so,” Joel demands softly, his hand scratching along the back of your head, fingers massaging into your scalp.

“Yes, daddy,” you murmur quietly before he brings his lips to yours, hands moving quickly to adjust your hips upwards to position himself, fingers tugging your panties to the side. He keeps his eyes locked on yours before scanning your face, watching your mouth pop open in a stunned, shaky inhale when he starts to slide himself in, the bulbous head burning at your entrance just like it did last night. You’re almost holding your breath, sparks exploding across your skin as your cunt starts to eagerly take him in despite the pain, desperate for him. Like it doesn’t know how to live without Joel now.

“Shh…” he coos, watching in amazement as your brows twitch together, mouth still hanging slightly agape while he brings you down further, your entire body tensing up. “She still sore, sugar?”

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes now but you breathe in and out slowly, starting to relish in everything you’re feeling. Something so wrong feeling so right, and for the first time, you start to just let yourself enjoy it with no strings attached.

“It hurts…” You try to remember the breathing from last night, the way you’d finally been able to relax your body enough for it to start feeling good. Bring me back to that, you plead with your aching body.

Joel presses his forehead to yours. already sticky with sweat and shushes you quietly again. “I know… gonna take some time to get used to daddy’s fat cock, baby,” Joel sympathizes, his lips finding your nose and giving it a few tender kisses as he continues to pull your hips down. You feel on the verge of something like passing out, the most overwhelmingly full sensation filling your belly, your eyes wanting to roll back as you cling to Joel. forehead presses harder into his and your breathing shakes as your fingers move to his hair, gripping onto the curls at the base of his neck.

“I c-can’t d-do more…”

“No, no, none of that… almost there…” Joel coos sweetly as he forces your hips the tiniest bit more, and you whine, gritting your teeth. “She’s so full, huh? Mmm…” Joel starts to lose himself again, just like last night, and you try to tug a little on his hair to keep him present in hopes he wouldn’t hurt you as much as he did before.

“Okay, okay… f-fuck, sweetheart. Fits like a damn glove though, so perfect.” Joel tilts his head to kiss your lips, and you eagerly meet them despite your labored breathing, hoping to calm your nerves.

He starts to slowly drag out, the friction heavenly and sending you groaning quietly into Joel’s mouth. He pushes back in, starting a tiny rhythm with it and you nearly choke, pain bursting through your core as you adjust.

“Goooood girl…” he rumbles, a long, contented sigh pushing out of his nostrils. “So good… Made for me… made for this cock, honey. Look at ya…” Joel praises you with a few more kisses, keeping the steady pace in and out of you. You’re starting to pant, that desperate heat taking over and pulling your body down onto Joel’s lap with each thrust of his. You throw your arms around his neck, clinging on as your head tucks into his shoulder, whimpering. It’s still on the verge of too much, Joel’s size now reaching an entirely new depth inside of you - a feeling you can’t quite describe and never could have imagined.

“No, no, sugar, look at me when you’re full’a me… eyes right here,” Joel says, tugging your head back by the collar, keeping it held there with his fingers curled around the leather strap. Your worried, dazed eyes find his, comforted by the dark brown irises that look at you with such admiration and zeal right now.

“Y’can do it, help daddy ride this cock,” Joel purrs, both hands on either side of your hips now, keeping a slow, steady rhythm. You feel fat tears squeezing out of the corners of your eyes, your body starting to melt for him but the pain never truly subsiding. “That’s it, blossom, oh you’re a good girl for daddy today ain’t you?” Joel smirks, satisfied as a little moan slips out of you, cunt starting to weep around his cock, only easing his way in and out of you.

“Y-yes, daddy,” you whimper on the tail end of a breathy moan. Joel’s eyes are narrow, transfixed on your features, loving the way you react to each movement with a renewed sense of wonder and eagerness. That tiny hint of fear he sees mixed in with everything else is what urges him on, is what he’s decided he lives for.

The slow pace, his cock brushing against every part of you with each movement has you struggling to keep your eyes open for him, the pleasure sending them fluttering shut as you clutch onto the couch cushion on either side of Joel’s head. Your body seems to be thinking for you again, your inexperienced mind barely even able to comprehend the way it moves, angles itself as you perch above Joel’s lap and grind your way down. Your mouth hangs open, stunned as you find your clit stimulated just enough by the friction between your two bodies to start filling your lower belly with that tingling warmth.

“D-daddy?” you ask desperately, the feeling ramping up quicker than you’d intended, a sudden fear gripping your heart in a chokehold that you’ll let go before it’s okay, that you’ll break your new set of rules so quickly. Please, please, you quickly beg yourself, hold on for him.

“Hang on t’ the feelin’, sweetheart, I know you can,” Joel coaches you, one hand still on your collar and the other brushing along the side of your head to comfort you. “C’mon…” he urges, a little more excited as he grins devilishly at you. You bite the inside of your cheek, choking back the moans, trying to slow your movements on top of him and shake your head.

“Please…” you whisper quietly, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to focus on anything else. You try old prayers, the feel of the cold ground when you’d been out on your own, your least favorite foods, but come up short. Nothing can compare, can overtake the fiery feeling burning its way through you.

“One more…” Joel smirks, gently slapping a hand to your asscheek as you hesitantly chase your high, your face the most beautiful mixture of worry and pleasure he’s ever seen. He loves to hear you beg, pretty pleases falling from your lips for him and nobody else - never again for anybody else.

“P-please,” you beg with a little more gusto, leaving Joel smiling at you as his cock hardens more inside of you, aching for release when he hears you beg for him.

“Come, baby. Come for daddy,” he says, his voice now losing it’s cool facade and sounding more urgent, excitement sweeping his features as he watches you start to moan louder and shudder.

It’s too much, Joel doesn’t have the control he wishes for yet - it’s all too new, too many years wasting in longing for a moment just like this, for his perfect little pet to come along. You. You are going to be everything and more, and he has no resolve, no control over himself when it comes to you and your inexperienced little cunt that you have no idea how to use yet. He’ll be completely wrecked when that day comes, he thinks cheekily to himself as you continue whimpering, face slick with a sheen of sweat while you bear down on him and shake, moaning quieter than he’d like to hear. But he lets it slide for now, knowing that someday he’ll have you shaking the walls of this damn cabin with your cries and moans and pitiful screams of his name.

Joel fucks his hips up into you a few more times as he runs away with his thoughts before quickly slipping out, just in time for his cum to splatter upwards onto his belly and chest as he breathes heavily with a loud grunt.

“Shit, babygirl…” he moans quietly as his head flops towards the back of the couch, and you stare down between your bodies with your lips parted, trying to catch your breath. You can’t help but notice the mess he’s made on you too - your sweater marked with the evidence of what you two have done in white splotches. Weirdly, it makes you smile, a coy little turn of your lips that makes you feel proud to have affected him so much that he’s still taking his time to recoup. You slide off of Joel’s lap and snuggle up to him, Joel quickly and greedily accepting the way you press into him, his arms snaking around you while you curl into him and put your own arms around his shoulders.

“When?” you ask quietly, your cheek tight against his bare, slightly damp chest.

Joel’s fingers start to run patterns along your back, so gentle for a man oh so rough, and your eyes flutter closed. “Today.”

You frown and then nod against him so he can feel it, know you’ve acknowledged his answer in some way. But you suddenly feel like pouting, like this is completely unfair of him to spring on you so suddenly, just when you were starting to adjust to things with him.

“C’mon then, let’s get up, yeah? Daddy’s gotta get goin’.”

Hmph. You make the tiny noise and snake your arms tighter around his neck, squishing your face down so that your cheek is crushed, clinging to him.

Joel chuckles goodnaturedly, starting to rub your back a little harder. “Only three days, sweetheart. You’ll be safe here.”

You squeeze tighter, and Joel’s hand quickly slides to the back of your neck, fingers under the collar in warning, the other hand tightening against your back.

Joel makes a quiet noise, a tiny grunt of disapproval as he shifts underneath you, trying to move you off of him. “Knock it off. Don’t make this harder than it has to be f’me. You think I like leavin’ you?”

“Idunno,” you mumble, mouth crushed against his skin. You know Joel doesn’t like this any more than you do, that he’s likely terrified to leave you alone, break this strange attachment you’re starting to have to him in the few days he’ll be away. But you can’t help but feel hurt, irritation surging through you in an unfair burst towards Joel.

“Think you’ll want to try that again, princess,” he says sternly, his muscles taut underneath you. A warning, a last chance before you may face your first real, deliberate punishment from him.

You sigh dejectedly, loosening your grip on him some, and he wriggles a little at the freedom, situating himself below you as his gaze narrows a little. “Of course not, daddy, no,” you say quietly, sighing again.

“That’s right. So let’s get me goin’ so it’ll be sooner I’ll come back, yeah?” Joel watches you tenderly, hating the fact that he has to leave you, too. But he can’t show it, can’t let you rope him into staying somehow - this is for the both of you, for him to provide for this precious thing he’s lucky enough to have under his wing.

You nod with a few small bounces of your head, glassy eyes looking into his. “Y-yes… sir…”

You stand, fingertips gingerly placed on the glass of the window as you reach across the sink, leaned forward to get a better look. Your eyes scan the empty forest surrounding you, bright sun shining down as grass starts to peek through the now thinning layer of snow.

Come see me off Joel had said, uncharacteristically sweet, as he placed you by the window you now stand in front of, telling you to wait until he’d passed to walk away. You frown, recalling how you’d followed him sulkily around the cabin, watching as he got dressed and gathered his things with a pout etched on your lips that Joel purposefully ignored. You’d broken away at his lack of attention and traipsed to that closet near the entryway, grabbing the chain and hauling it out, looking at Joel with sad, expectant eyes.

He’d only shook his head, a calloused hand meeting yours where it gripped the cold metal and using his thumb to stroke along the back of your hand, sweet like he was doing you a favor.

Not this time he’d whispered, face merely inches from yours. You won’t leave. You’d nearly cried, holding it back with lips pressed tight, knowing he was right. Knowing you wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Leaving - the option felt far away now, hard to grasp, like your mind couldn’t quite imagine going back to the horrors that the outside world offered. You had a world here - a warm world where you were fed and no harm could befall you if Joel could help it. Your vicious protector. They’d been wrong about Paradise before, you thought to yourself, because this felt like the closest thing you could get in this diseased, hopeless world.

While he didn’t chain you up, Joel had been keen to let you know that the front door was going to be specially locked from the outside before showing you the shiny key and slipping it into his pocket. Windows were off limits, too, unless you decided to open them just a crack. It wasn’t worth it to risk breaking through a window to sneak off, anyways, you thought with a hopeless pang to your heart.

Try anythin’, you know I’ll find you… he’d warned, cold and calculated as his lips pressed against yours a final time before slinging his backpack over his back.

Joel comes into view a few moments later, riding on Willow, his saddle packed with pouches and rucksack softly bouncing along his back. A small cart rolls behind Willow, a risky move to travel back from Jackson with so much supply, such an easy target, but you can’t imagine anyone that would dare go up against Joel. You frown even deeper, seeing the finality of it all now laid out in front of you. Three days of silence. Three days of a cold bed. Three days of no Joel.

You should have felt free, any form of relief to see him go, to gain back a piece of your life for even a few days, but all you could muster up was your heart clenching, an all encompassing anxiety you didn’t know how to shake.

It was like watching paint dry, waiting for Joel to come home. And you may as well have been, the way you’d stared on aimlessly, considering your situation while he was gone. It was lonely but had its freedoms at the same time - you’d tried to think about it practically when you ached to have him near again. Reminding yourself there was nobody here to worry over your every move, yet you found yourself missing the discipline. It was an area you were comfortable living in, the harshness of it all, the constant discipline, eyes watching your every decision. Your entire life had really been about that one word, and now you had an entire quiet home to yourself, unable to really enjoy it.

You filled your time admiring the world out the windows, practically measuring just how much snow was left with your eyes, watching it melt down to the soggy, off color grass underneath. You tried to prepare yourself meals, creating new dishes and warming up the things Joel had left for you, but you found little interest in eating any of it, thinking of the way you’d shared this table with him in more ways than one. Eating meals, his hands all over you, that first, hesitant kiss, the way he’d made you fear him and revere him right in this very spot, you recall as you stare down at the grain of the wood with unseeing eyes. But you’d promised Joel that you’d take care of yourself, fill your belly with his spoils while he was gone, keeping you strong and healthy for him. He wanted his girl strong and healthy, he’d insisted as he showed you around the kitchen, making sure you were briefed on everything he had for you to eat while he was gone.

Each time you empty your plate, you wish you could show Joel, have him look proudly at you, pet your head and whisper how good you are for him in that gravelly accent of his. You shudder at the thought, that feeling in between your legs aching for him more and more with each hour that passes. Joel hardly had to warn you what would happen if you dared to touch yourself while he was gone - the memory of that night with the knife had seared into your mind enough to solidify the fact that you don’t think you’d even dare, despite his watchful eyes being miles away. It’s not like you’d know how to make yourself feel the way Joel does, anyway.

You garner enough courage to snoop around the cabin when you feel bored, but don’t disturb anything of importance, too afraid, keeping your fingers nimble and quiet, as if Joel could sense your movements even from afar. Wherever he is right now, you wonder throughout the day with wistful sighs. You don’t find much - mostly junk that was left in the home, none of it really seeming like Joel’s. The most interesting thing was an old grocery list, worn with age but otherwise well intact - you’d bet that Joel had found this place mostly untouched despite the years passing with how remote it seems. You held the list in your hands, a tiny connection to the old world, everything checked off except for radishes, and you wonder to yourself what it must have been like, carrying this little list through a crowded shop, unable to find your radishes but it didn’t matter, none of it mattered when life was a breeze, when you didn’t have to worry about the fact that the entire world had burned to the ground.

You later discover a few more chains in that front closet, different lengths and cuffs and even one that looks like it could clip onto your collar - you touch the o-ring on the front of your adornment while your stomach does flips, an eerie feeling washing over you as you wonder how and when Joel would even use that. It sinks low, that pesky feeling between your thighs ramping up again and you slam the closet shut in frustration. You want to scream, but find you just can’t, your throat not up to the task, still too afraid that this is all some sick test, that Joel is perched right outside in the woods right now, watching and listening.

Instead, you stomp away, breathing heavily out of your nostrils, until you spot a door you’d hardly noticed on the first floor until now, always sealed shut. It’s down the hallway next to the staircase, hidden away a bit in the shadows past the powder room.

You approach with caution, swallowing a fearful lump in your throat as you dance forward on tiptoes, starting to tremble. This feels wrong - Joel had never taken to showing you this space, maybe for a reason. Who knows what horrors lay beyond the wooden door, what you could discover that you’ll never be able to turn back from. Your mind spins, going to the most wild of places when your fingers curl around the old crystal and brass doorknob and turn.

Your jaw drops at the normalcy of it all after building it up in your mind. Warm late evening light streams in through the singular window, a simple square room with a desk along the wall right underneath the window. You frown, moving forward a bit and taking in the smell - distinctly wood, fresh as you breathe it in and savor it. The room looks like it's otherwise used for some storage - nothing interesting seeming enough to go through it, but the desk. That’s Joel’s space - a large wooden slab covered with smaller pieces of wood to work with, shavings still spread across the desk along with some small tools. Everything is arranged neatly, however, much like the rest of the cabin, but you can feel that this place is cared for above the rest, a place for him to get away, lose himself for a while.

“W-woodworking…?” you murmur in a whisper, almost a question to yourself. You gape a little as you get closer, seeing what looks like the beginnings of a new project - something resembling a human shape in the works. You wonder when he's been working on this, or if he has at all since you’d arrived here, perplexed as to when he would have found the time. You feel your heart hammering, like you’re seeing something you aren’t supposed to. Something… soft, kind about Joel, a part of himself that he was keeping secret from you. He has hobbies, something he gives his time to that isn’t malicious or bad or monstrous. No, you decided too long ago now that Joel is not a monster, but just a man in need of something.

Something you’ve seemingly been able to fill.

You feel your face fall further, realizing the humanity of Joel laid out in front of you in such a small thing. Shavings of wood on a desk. It could be so much easier if you just hated him for it all - if you fought and clawed with each interaction instead of giving in. If you hadn’t had his spend staining your sweater that you’d refused to change when he left, savoring the lingering smell of him on it. If you didn’t feel your heart reaching out to him in his absence right now, wanting to ask daddy, what are you working on in here? as you stand in the doorway of this very room, a vision clear as day to you as Joel invites you by his side while he works. Whittling away on his project and looking at you contentedly, petting you softly, your body chained to the floor by your collar. And you loving it.

You gasp, sucking in a hefty breath, choking back on the sob that wracks you as you pull yourself from the daydream that may as well be a prediction of your future. You hunch over, clutching your stomach, knees unable to fully hold you up as you start to cry. You sink to the middle of the floor, a woven rug cushioning your frame as you curl up, staining this house with another batch of your pathetic tears. And you can’t decide if you hate yourself more for it than you do Joel.

On the third day, you wake up slow, rolling over in bed and remembering that the other side of it has been empty for days now. You feel completely exhausted, dried up after the way you’d cried last night before stripping your clothing and crawling into bed. Naked, just in case Joel came home in the night. Just the way he’d asked you to sleep every night since arriving here, and every one going forward.

You stretch your arms above your head as you groan, finding despite it all, you feel a little lighter knowing that Joel is supposed to be back today - three days, he’d said like a promise, and you got the feeling he was the type of man intent on keeping it.

Once you blink a few more times, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you feel it. Something… off, your inner thighs feeling a bit wet and sticky underneath the covers. Your stomach twists a little in pain and that’s when you know.

“O-oh… no… s-shoot…” you mumble to yourself, practically jumping out of bed and grasping at the side of it, throwing the comforter down towards the foot of the bed. You peer down at the sheets, red permeating the green checked pattern of the flannel and shake your head.

“No…” you whimper, glancing down to see red between your thighs, just starting to smear them the tiniest bit. You bite your lip, panicking for a moment, wondering what Joel will think of all of this - the mess you’ve made on his bed, his sheets stained to hell. You rush to the dresser, tearing open the drawers in search of anything you can use, settling on a plain white tank top of Joel’s to stuff between your thighs as you wriggle a pair of underwear and comfortable pants over top of it, your fingers shaking along the way. A haphazard grab of a tee shirt sends you rushing back to the bed as you pull it over your head and start to strip the sheets, trying to breathe through the oncoming wave of pain and nausea you’re feeling in your abdomen.

You toss the sheets in the bath, stumbling along the way in your dazed panic and cramping midsection, terrified of Joel coming home to a mess. Leave you for three days an’ this is what you do? Trash my place, hm? You hear versions of Joel’s scolding run through your head at lightning speed, imagining all the ways he could punish you, could hurt you with just his words alone, taking away your status as a good girl for him being the one that starts the tears falling. Your throat tightens and you scrub and scrub, the red stain fading but in no way disappearing. You’re frenzied, scrubbing as you cry loudly to your harsh, imaginary reprimands from Joel, so distracted you don’t hear the sound of bootfall, the worried call of ‘Blossom? Sugar…?’ over the roaring rush of the water coming out of the tap.

Joel stops short in the doorway to the bathroom, even his shadow looming not enough to pull you out of your crazed trance, desperate to fix everything, to avoid what you’re certain is coming. “What in the hell?” Joel spits out loudly, “Is goin’ on in here?”

You gasp, hands dropping the soaking wet sheets, a loud plop into the bathtub ringing through the now otherwise silent, tense room. You scramble to stand up, hands dripping water as you try to wipe them off on your clothing. Joel’s eyes flash down to the water, slightly discolored before noticing the large red spot on the sheets, then your panicked face, a complete mess as you stand disheveled in front of him. You’re frozen in fear, unable to explain, barely even able to process that Joel is back home, that he’s in the room with you right now.

You head bows down, fat tears dripping off your cheeks and splattering onto the tile. “P-please, d-daddy,” you whimper, choking back a sob. “D-don’t punish me please please please! I’m sorry, it was an accident,” you pant out, already on the verge of losing it. You feel like you’re about to break down, knees wobbly, threatening to give out on you any moment. You don’t understand it, the way your emotions are pulling so heavily on you right now - you know your nerves are fraught after the last few days but you wonder if you look as pitiful as you feel right now, begging for forgiveness for something you haven’t even been chastised for yet.

“Darlin’, Christ, what in the hell -” Joel starts to murmur at the absolute state of you, eyes catching again on that stain you’d been trying to scrub out of the sheets. His face falls with the full realization, eyes glancing between your legs for a moment as if he’ll find further proof of his suspicion there, only to find you clad in your sweatpants.

You’re unrelenting, head bowed deeply, tears never ending, and Joel finds himself torn between being irritated by the completely misplaced blubbering and his compulsion to care for you, comfort you.

“Jesus…” he sighs. “Out. Now. Go wait in the bedroom f’me while I take care of it.”

“B-but -” you protest.

“What’d we say about fuckin’ questionin’ me, princess?” he snips, pinching the bridge of his nose quickly before letting the hand drop dramatically to his side. “Out. Bedroom. Now.” he speaks each word with a renewed vigor, voice full of a rich gravel, deadly serious and sending a chill up your spine. You whimper but go to rush past him, not able to bear meeting his eyeline as your shoulder brushes against his. He swings around in a flash and grabs your wrist, jerking you back from where you’d already stepped past him. You cry out, flinching in preparation for the impact but Joel’s hand only darts under the waistband of your pants (a rule broken to even have them on in the first place, you realize grimly) and slides into your underwear. He quickly cups your bare cunt and starts to rub a few circles on your clit, making you cry out again desperately. You don’t want this, not in your current state, not with the way things are down there right now, messy and impure for him. A man will want nothing to do with you this time of the month, you’d always been told, Josephine’s voice ringing clear in your head. It was even best to avoid them altogether at that special womanly time if you could.

“D-daddy… I’m - no don’t… it’s not… you won’t like it,” you stutter out desperately, praying he won’t be completely repulsed by the sight of you now and throw you out for the wolves and clickers to make quick work of what remained of you.

Joel huffs, fingers prodding at your tight entrance, slipping a knuckle inside. You clench and grit through your teeth when his grasp digs into your wrist hard. He starts to finger you at a faster pace, pushing past your discomfort until you start to moan quietly, eyes still trained on the floor, only able to catch a glimpse of the way his hand is moving inside of your panties out of the corner of your eye.

Joel yanks his hand out, smeared red and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding back another sob. “Don’t ever tell daddy what he likes and doesn’t like again, got it?” You nod dutifully and his hand is gone as quickly as it had grabbed you moments ago. “Now, let me do what I gotta do in here,” he says, a hint softer, shooing you away. You don’t bother to look back, surprised Joel hadn’t even made you meet his eyeline at some point during this entire interaction. But the entirety of you is burning with embarrassment, shame, hot all the way from your cheeks and ears down to your churning belly. You pace back and forth in the bedroom, holding back loud sobs as you choke into your hand before completely breaking down, sinking to the floor next to the bed and leaning your back onto the frame.

You don’t know how long you cry for, how long your head is buried down in your arms in your miserable, curled up state. You hardly start to feel anything at all after a while, finally resigning yourself to whatever form of punishment or worse for what you’ve done. Between this and last night, you’re feeling like a shell, nothing left to offer up to Joel other than whimpered apologies and promises.

You don’t quite register the sound of his boots on the hardwood, stepping over towards you before you feel him on you, thick, strong arms wrapping around your shoulders. Here to love, here to comfort, not punish you, your mind taking a few moments to process it.

“Shh… my little blossom… it’s okay…” Joel murmurs when he hears you sniffle, your body twitching as you come down from the wracking sobs you’d been wailing out. “Can you look at daddy, please?”

You whine quietly, shaking your head in defiance but still picking it up, looking at him with your face puffy and cheeks wet, bloodshot eyes making Joel feel a pang of pity in his heart.

And yet, he smiles at the sight of you.

“There’s my girl. I missed you, baby, d’ya know that?” His fingers brush your cheeks, hot and soaked with tears as he brushes some of the wetness away. You just frown, mouth slightly ajar as you stare at him, feeling almost numb after the way you’d cried your poor heart out two days in a row now.

“Hey now, it’s okay. This is all natural, sweetheart, now how could daddy be mad about your body doin’ what it’s gotta do?”

You shake your head in disbelief, finding your world turned on its head yet another time by Joel. How could it be possible that he felt so differently than everyone you’ve known, everything you’ve been taught? Who was even in the right here? What was the truth?

“I- I -“ you stutter, blinking a few times in a daze before another hiccup rolls through you. “I thought men didn’t like that…”

Joel breathes out a small laugh, breaking the tension. “Some, I guess. Now who taught you that?”

Your cheeks warm again and you glance down, shying away. You know Joel already knows the answer, that he wants to hear you say it, admit another thing you’ve been in the dark about.

“M-my group… my community…” You realize you’re sniffling again, tears welling in your eyes as you’re hit with a strange sense of homesickness. You don’t know that you want to go back, necessarily, but your heart squeezes a little at the thought of the life you’d led for so long that was too suddenly ripped out from underneath you to really process it.

“Well, they gave you more than one piece of bogus information, haven’t they sweetheart?”

“I… I- suppose so,” you admit tentatively, “B-but the sheets… I’m sorry, daddy, I really am…” you start, feeling yourself about to spiral out of control again but Joel quickly reigns it in with a tight squeeze of your cheeks between his hands.

“Enough,” he says sternly but with an edge of care. “I took care of it. You can’t get so worked up ‘bout things like this, honey, thas’ why we made the rules, remember?” Joel fully sits next to you on the floor you now, gently tilting your head to keep your watery eyes on his.

“Y-yes…”

“Nothin’ on there ‘bout makin’ a mess, right?” A curt nod from you. “Daddy’s more upset about how upset you are right now. I’m not gonna punish y’for gettin’ your damn period, sugar. I…” he sighs, a small ache of sadness apparent on his features for just a beat. “I ain’t a monster.” Words he isn’t sure he believes about himself, but ones he hopes that you do.

You feel your eyes widen a little at his choice of words, ones that had gone through your head not even twenty four hours prior. You reach up, gently touch the hand cradling your face, and nod again.

“Y-you’re not…” you assure him, still a stuttering mess, but the both of you seem to relax in an instant, Joel content to just hold onto you for a few silent moments as he helps you breathe in and out, urging you to relax into him.

“I’ve got somethin’ f’you,” Joel says softly as you lean on him, head melting into his shoulder as you continue to hiccup and tremble, your body fighting to calm down after such an upheaval.

“Yeah?” you ask, lifting your head to peer up at him. Joel scoots forward, pushing himself off of the floor with a loud, strained grunt before offering you his hand. You take it, letting him help you up and show you over towards the dresser, where he pulls over the rickety wooden chair that adorns the corner of the room. You’re eager now as he reaches into his pocket and presents you with something small. You take it tenderly into your palm, afraid of the sudden weight of the tiny glass vial.

“Wh-” you murmur out, face furrowed in concentration as you peer down at it.

“Nail polish. Know someone who knows someone who well, kinda makes the stuff. Or rehabs old ones, or somethin’,” Joel quickly explains, and your eyes blink rapidly as you bite the inside of your lip, hiding the elation building up inside of you, pressing against your very being.

“R-really?” you ask excitedly, eyes glued to the bottle filled with a pink, thick liquid. “I was, uh, never allowed to have this stuff,” you say more quietly, shy to admit it.

Joel’s face hardens and he presses his lips together. “That so? Why don’t that surprise me…”

“Hm?” you ask absently, still completely transfixed, rotating the tiny glass bottle in your hands. Joel lets his mumble hang in the air, not bothering to repeat it.

“Why don’t you try it out?” he suggests, and you look up at him, quickly seeking permission. They were already hard to find on supply runs, but any beauty products were frowned upon anyways - a distraction of the modern world, taking away from what we should really be focusing on. Any discovery of such items had them removed immediately from the home in question and a generous slap on the wrist was given.

You forget all of that history now, eagerly twisting open the bottle, immediately scrunching your nose at the strange scent that wafts out.

“Yeah, shit stinks, babygirl. Never understood why women wanted to go ‘round smellin’ that just for some beauty,” Joel says, chuckling, sounding so strangely normal now as he rambles on. You pull the brush out, admiring the pretty pink color with a soft smile. “Can’t complain though. Good set of nails looked damn sexy ‘f I’m honest,” Joel adds more lightheartedly. You feel yourself getting warm at the idea of doing something sexy for Joel, being alluring. A foreign concept you weren’t sure you could ever find yourself used to. He stands, leaning against the wall while you awkwardly hold your hand in the air, trying to stroke the brush on your nail. It looks streaky, already getting onto the sides of your finger and you frown - it’s not quite the glamour you’d expected. You hunch over a little more as a small wave of cramps hits and try to steady yourself. Your hands are still shaky from the rush of fear and adrenaline you’d had coursing through you as Joel had arrived home to your mess.

“Gotta do it like this, honey,” Joel says, gripping your wrist and placing your hand down flat on the vanity. You try again, brows knit in concentration but coming up with a similarly disappointing product.

“Alright, alright,” Joel interrupts. “You’re too worked up still sweetheart. Look at you shakin’.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head a little. “I ran you a bath while I was in there. C’mon now, ‘fore it gets cold.”

“Yes, daddy…” you say quietly, still looking down at your nails in disappointment.

“I’ll do ‘em for you, make you all pretty, mkay?” he says reassuringly, his eyes focused on where he’s still gently holding onto your hand but you watch them, wanting to see the look in his eyes when he says something so sweet and generous. These moments are the ones you hold and treasure - these glimpses of a man who you know cares, who wants everything good for you.

The hot water soothes you instantly, Joel taking a moment to clean your nails of the first attempt at polishing them with a wet washcloth before having you soak them in the water. He’s quiet, contemplative as you two linger in the steamy, cramped room with Joel sat on the floor next to the tub. It’s an odd look for him, something so… servile, submissive to you, the way his hulking form hardly seems to fit in here, his outdoor clothing still clung to his muscles. He seems to be paying less mind to your body than usual despite it being fully naked, on display through the bathwater. You thought something like this would make you feel safe, but it’s doing quite the opposite.

“Up.” Joel says, breaking the silence as he taps your left forearm and you lift your hand out of the bath, laying it on the towel that Joel has draped along the edge of the tub. He dries your fingers and then takes your hand gingerly in his, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. He unscrews the polish and gets to work, carefully stroking it along your nail, and you watch in wonder as he gets it looking much better than you had. He uses his own fingernail to scrape along the edge, picking up any of the polish that ran onto your nail beds.

“Weren’t allowed to use this stuff before, then?” Joel asks casually, breaking the silence. He’s been more than ready to dig into your past, find those pieces of you that made you who you are today, made you so vulnerable and weak when you’d showed up on his doorstep. Pieces that he fully intends on putting back together, making you whole, wholly his.

“Y-yeah. Nothing like this. Makeup, too. Just… the rules, I guess.” Your casual reply suggests much more underneath the surface, but you just stare on at Joel’s fingers slightly clumsily painting along your fingernails.

“Y’all had a lot of rules in that community, blossom.” A statement. Fact. One you can’t deny or defend, a skill you’ve developed to rationalize your entire life in the confines of your mind over the years.

You shrug your free shoulder and twist your lips. “I guess… What about here, I have lots of rules,” you dare to say, quickly biting your lip to silence yourself.

Joel pauses and glances up, unreadable as always. “Y’do. But you’re allowed to do what you want, baby. I jus’ want you to respect me and know who you belong to. S’all, not these crazy rules like those folks had.”

You nod slowly, pondering his words - he had a point, you suppose, when he puts it like that.

“An’ your group, there was a leader there?” Joel questions, getting back to work on your nails, carefully dipping the polish and tracing it along your fingernails.

“Y-yeah… how’d you know that?”

Joel ignores your question, continuing on with more urgency, and you’re not quite sure what he’s getting at with all of these questions. “Tell me more. Did he… mm, enforce the rules? Talk to ya privately at all?”

“You knew it was a he…”

“‘Course it was a he, this is a cu-“ Joel pauses in the midst of his irritated snap. His free hand slides along the back of his neck in one swipe before it comes back to the edge of the tub. “Yeah, baby, I jus’ figured.”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” you spill out anxiously, your voice dimming to a quiet whisper, the air becoming too thick to breathe, like you can sense an oncoming storm.

“Jus’ tell me more,” Joel demands. “Please, darlin’,” he adds on a little more patiently, softening for you.

“W-well yeah. Callum was who we all looked to. Rules and preaching and stuff. And he would come over sometimes, sit and like… talk to me and stuff.” You shrug again, not sure what else Joel is looking for you to say.

Joel’s jaw ticks slightly and his eyes narrow. His hand freezes above yours, polish brush looking so small in his huge hand. “This Callum, he ever touch you? Lay a hand on you? Do anything like what we do together?”

“N-no!” you cry out, nearly pulling your hand back from him as you sit up straighter. “Daddy I swear, I wasn’t lying when I said I’ve never…” You feel your face warm, recalling the innocence you’d arrived here with just last week. Wondering how much of it would be gone by the end of all of this.

Joel’s free hand cups your cheek in a flash. “Okay, baby, I know all that, I believe ya. I just needed to check if this man was takin’ advantage of ya.”

You shake your head almost violently, hoping to convince Joel you aren’t lying, because you aren’t. He’s just not always been the most rational when it comes to you, it’s seemed, and you don’t want to give him any reason to get worked up. “I d-don’t think so. I know Harry and Josie, they really liked him, and I think they wanted him to like them back… and like me…”

Joel’s eyes narrow, scouring your words for any hint of hidden meaning behind them. “They ever hurt you? Any of ‘em?”l

You’re silent, lips tucked tightly together. Memories flash through your mind and you feel your body tense. Josie’s tight grip on your arm as she dragged you home after you missed your youth class to pet the horses. Harry laying into you after a similar incident. A hazy memory of Callum gripping you by the face a little too hard and inspecting you, like he was sizing you up for something. Your parents scolding you for not believing enough, your father slapping you across the face for questioning why it mattered so much to say a prayer before eating. All you’d ever wanted… was for it to all make sense. To feel like you were being told the honest truth for once. But instead, you felt that the more you asked, the more you questioned, tried to understand things, the further in the dark they’d all shoved you. Claiming it was for the best, the less you knew, the more pure you could be, and you’d never gotten the chance to understand why before it all went to hell.

“Y-yes… just a little…” you practically whisper, ashamed to admit it. That you’d let yourself be treated that way by all of them, and now by Joel, too.

Joel is quiet for a few moments, his hulking frame tensing up. He taps your right arm and starts the same painting process on that hand. He’s lost in thought and you can see his lines furrowing deeper on his forehead as his wheels turn.

Joel suddenly says your name, your real name, not one of his special pet names for you and your eyes go wide, stomach sinking. You want to tell him to stop, to not say what he’s planning to, to keep his secrets and let you live on in ignorance as you have for so much of your life. “I’m gonna tell you somethin’, and I don’t know how you’re gonna like it. But you’ve gotta listen to daddy now, okay?”

Your stomach twists, the bathwater suddenly feeling too hot around you and you squirm. “O-okay…” you mumble, trying to keep yourself steady.

“I don’t think that your group were good people, baby. You’ve told me all these rules they had, the way they treated you, treated women. An’ I don’t like the thought of how they jus’… kept you in the dark, darlin’. You deserve to be happy.”

“Uh-huh…” you nod, unable to formulate a response beyond that, eyes unblinking as you gape at Joel.

Joel sighs, licking his lips. “Why d’you think they did that?”

“I-I don’t know. Harry and Josephine were always… trying to make me… more like them. They just… wanted a daughter like them, maybe? They c-can’t have kids…”

“Hmm.” Joel finishes your right hand, capping the nail polish and setting it aside. “They were pretty hard on you?”

You nod, eyes finally looking up to Joel’s face, seeing sympathy for you written there. “They wanted me to be a good member of the community… real badly. Prayers every day and recitations and rules and… all of it. Like I was harder to get through to, more bad than the other girls…” You shake your head, remembering the droll afternoons you’d spent staring out the window of their home as Josephine urged you to do just one more lesson, never letting up even when you’d begged to give your mind a much needed break. “Was gonna be the best girl there when they were done with me, they said…” Your voice cracks and you sniffle suddenly, not even realizing you’d started tearing up.

“Okay, little one, it’s okay. No more memories of that right now. Just…” Joel pauses, his mouth hanging open slightly as he debates his next words. With a sigh, he gives up, opting to just blurt out his next words. “They’re a cult, baby.”

“Cult?” you ask, perplexed, voice still shaky.

“Yeah, didn’t think you’d have heard that word before if they could help it,” he mutters in reply. Joel’s eyes almost look crazed, and he grabs you by the cheeks, keeping your attention fully focused on him with a sudden resolve across his features. “They’re bad folks, that’s all. That man, that Callum, all he wants is power, in whatever way he can get it. Y’understand? Gettin’ folks to be desperate enough to look to him, give them somethin’ to believe in. False… hope. Easier in times like these even, with the world as shit as it is, than in the old days.”

You just stare at Joel, trying to understand exactly what he’s saying, what all of it means for you. “They’re not good people? They seemed so… charitable… that was… they always wanted to help people. They helped me…” you trail off, eyes drifting away from Joel’s face, fixating on the faded and worn tiles along the wall of the bathtub as your mind races.

“Helped you by lettin’ you live, feedin’ you, puttin’ their false purposes and beliefs onto you. But they held you back. All people like them want is to keep their power or gain more of it. An’ take it from sweet little ones like you, jus’ use you as a pawn in their game, not let you express yourself like daddy would.”

You glance back at Joel feeling heavier, knowing there’s a concerned frown plastered on your face. You shake your head a little, tears gathering on the rims of your eyes. These people you’d trusted, known for almost your whole life, and yet… If what Joel said was true they were all just manipulators, power hungry, looking out for their own meals. Joel uses his thumbs to wipe your cheeks, picking up the streaks of tears trailing downwards.

“P-please, daddy… I don’t wanna hear any more…” you say, pouting, your voice starting to waver. “It’s hard…. to believe. I j-just thought I knew them… thought that they were what the world was… I’m s-so…” You lose your words in the moment, just feeling an overwhelming, profound sadness washing over you at the loss. You’d already accepted the way you’d lost your community in the physical sense after the attack, after finding Joel’s cabin and realizing you were more likely stuck here for the foreseeable future. But realizing that you possibly couldn’t bring yourself to go back there knowing what you know now, it makes your chest tighten with a pang of despair and homesickness for a home you’d never really had. You almost refuse to believe it, want to chalk it up to another one of Joel’s games, that he must be over exaggerating just how bad they really were.

Joel’s hands cradle your head again, his body moving forward to crush his forehead against yours. “S’okay to be sad, you know that? It’s a hard truth but one you gotta hear, my sweet one. I’m sorry it had to be this way. Daddy’s real sorry.”

You nod, letting Joel’s large palms warm your cheeks in the comforting embrace, the smell of him permeating at such a close distance right now. One large inhale of his musk, an intimate scent to you now, brings you back to earth, tames you.

“All I’m ever gonna ask ‘f you is to show me respect w’those rules, mkay? Nothin’ more. They might seem tough sometimes, I know. Hell, they might even seem jus’ as bad as their rules to you, but they ain’t, and you’ll come to learn that. You know what the difference is, hm?”

You shake your head, curious eyes on Joel’s as your tears start to dry. “W-what is it?”

“I care about you. I do it ‘cause it’s what you need, what you really want. An’ for good reasons. Not all that bullshit. You want to be a good girl for daddy, make me happy, make us happy, don’t you?”

“I do, swear, sir…” you reply breathlessly, nodding. “I don’t want…” You swallow hard, realizing you were about to admit that you don’t want to see them again, but you aren’t sure you can promise something that big just yet. It hurts, wondering if it would be the right decision, or if Joel is just as bad as them, just as likely to use you as a pawn in his own game. You feel a surge of heat rush over you, your skin lava hot for a flash as if Joel could read your mind, catch the doubt that flashes through it.

“I like being safe here with you,” you settle on instead, smiling softly at Joel.

Joel smiles back, clasping the palms of your hands in his, careful not to touch your still drying nails. “An’ you always will be. I got you, baby. You don’t think I’m like them, now, do you?”

You feel sick, stomach clenched and turning while your head spins. Maybe Joel is right. You have the freedom here to find yourself. The freedom to believe what you want, as long as you believe in him above all else. To do as you please, even if it’s within those small guidelines he’d laid out for you. It’s nothing like the long lists of ways to behave and act that you were used to - the endless prayers, passages on how to be the most virtuous girl, followed by the guilt and shame of being unsure of how you could ever live up to it. Here, it’s just one piece of paper - ways to make the both of you happy, allow you to rest your weary mind and show Joel that you’re thankful for the way he’s saved you. You quickly shake your head no before you take too long of a pause to answer.

“No, daddy. You’re not,” you say decidedly, believing it. You have to, if you’re going to get through this.

“Good.” Joel’s lips turn up a little and he picks up your left hand, starting to blow softly on the nails. “Here, blow.” He nods to your right hand for you to do the same thing, so you bring it to your lips and blow softly.

“You never have to see them again, blossom. You’re all mine now, remember?” Joel’s voice has a hint of teasing, like he wants to lighten the mood for you, and you’re more than willing to take him up on it right now. Your mind feels fried, wrecked beyond return for the day already, and you want to fall into Joel’s comforts, the way he takes away the way your mind races too much, swirling with enough worries to fill a lifetime.

“Yeah.” Soft and quiet, confirming it with a coy little smile as you drop your head towards your shoulder, giving him a wanton look and relaxing your body, stretching your legs out a little underneath the water, sending ripples across the surface. “I’m all yours.” The words feel better on your tongue than they ever have after this revelation. Only Joel, you think, only he would have the guts to tell you like it was like that, to share the truth with you. It showed some kind of respect, didn’t it? That he didn’t just hide this to spare your fragile, broken feelings. He knows how vulnerable you are, how green you’ve been raised to be, yet he thought you could handle it, that you deserved to hear what you’d been in the dark about your entire life.

Joel’s eyes narrow a bit and he looks at you with a curiosity you haven’t quite seen from him before. “You mean that,” he says with that same curiosity in his voice, and you don’t know how he can tell, but he’s right. You had meant what you said - ready to start this new chapter of your life despite the reservations you had about Joel’s methods at times, you were ready to try. With Joel seeming unwilling to let you go anyways, you figure your best chance is to learn from him, maybe even enjoy the time you spend together, the pleasure he gives you. You like it when he sees you as good, his good girl, your skin tingling at just the thought of it.

“I do,” you reply a little coyly, flashing him a tight lipped smile. You’re suddenly very aware of your body, the nakedness of it now as the water gently laps at you, your nipples hardening slightly as Joel’s eyes slip down towards them with a hunger in his gaze.

“Is my blossom comin’ onto me?” Joel teases, craning his neck forwards to kiss you. You giggle into his lips, kissing him back.

“N-no. I’m a good girl, remember?” You feel your heart beating wildly, testing even your own limits with how sensual you can be without losing confidence. You fight the urge to laugh, wanting, craving, to be something sexy for once in your life. More than a number, a shapeless thing to be conquered into virtuousness.

Joel bites his lip. “Where’d you learn to become a little fuckin’ tease like that?” he responds incredulously, inching his hand over the side of the tub and into the water. You clock it immediately, your thighs tightening in anticipation at the coming pleasure. Your body screams for it now after days apart, your mind equally eager to learn more from him. For once in your life, a lesson that actually intrigues you, an education that may feel worth experiencing, may make you feel valued, right.

If being removed from it all for just a few short weeks was enough to change your way of thinking like this, to stop the daily prayers and the virtuous desperation from pouring out of you, was it ever really you?

The minute Joel’s fingers part your soft, velvet folds, completely unaware of the battle inside of your warring head, the chaos fades away, disappearing completely.

Just like you seem to be.

#Joel miller fanfiction #dark!joel miller #Joel miller x reader #joel miller smut

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picassopedro · 2 months

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Love this so far!!

heaven is a place on earth ; joel miller

01; as long as you don’t care

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au (pre-outbreak, altered ages), Joel Miller x fem!nanny!reader. dedicated to the anon who suggested this trope.

↬ prologue series masterlist main masterlist

↬ "Joel is a nice man." she points at you, sending you a look, "just- don't get into trouble."

↬ warnings; tagged 18+ for eventual smut and mature themes. MDNI. age gap (reader is 22, joel is 35), fiscal anxieties, shitty ex, some Tommy x reader bc theyre both flirty, reader is awkward around joel hehe, i think thats it

↬ thanks for all the love on the prologue <33 lmk what u think! love u all thanks for the support :) not edited

series mixtape, song two; Only Happy When it Rains, Garbage. 1995.

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"so?"

startled from the abrupt disruption, you look up. Michelle grins down at you as she rounds the front desk, watching you expectantly. you pull your headphones away from your head, pausing your Discman as you buzz, grinning up at her.

hands on her hips, Michelle watches you expectantly with a smile on her face; she's just placed two steaming cups of coffee onto the desk and thrown her bag onto her chair. "how did last night go?"

she's barely arrived for work, but nothing has ever stopped the woman for a good bit of gossip. and frankly, same with you.

"why didn't you tell me?" you cross your arms, leaning back. smile melting, a flash of concern flickers in her eyes as she rushes to her seat. "what happened, cherry?"

you smirk at her nickname for you, shaking your head. "Joel." you say, unable to contain yourself, "... I mean, Michelle..." you send her a look, nodding your head. "he's-"

a gaggle of children pass the front desk of the library, pausing your words. not one for waiting, Michelle makes a hurry-up! motion. quieting your voice as you lean towards her, you whisper, “he’s S-E-X-Y." you spell out, eyeing the kids who meander just in earshot - her face morphs from concern to exasperated at your whisper. she slaps your shoulder gently, yelping your name.

you return her appalled stare mockingly, "oh, don't act all scandalized."

the dramatic floundering of her lips makes you nearly guffaw. "you could at least warn a girl next time! I was standing there, drooling like an idiot and stuttering each time he looked at me-"

"please stop-" she groans, hiding her laughs in her hands as she shakes her head.

there's nothing better than making her laugh; spurred on, you smile through your words, "I mean, can you blame me?" you hiss. she rolls her eyes, "well, no. but my god, you're so dramatic. I thought something had gone wrong."

you roll your eyes, noting the chiding tone she tries to conceal. "I'm just saying. yum."

you take a sip of your coffee, checking out a book for the man who comes to the desk briefly before turning back to her. "anyways, to answer your question, it was amazing. Sarah is so sweet." you say earnestly. "she's got so much energy but she acts so mature for her age." you feel a giddiness, a floating feeling you'd felt leaving their house last night that still hasn't subsided.

Michelle gives you her congrats over your coffee as you open the library; matters progress slowly and normally, the beautiful early summer sun stretching and yawning outside. at noon, you read to the young children for circle time - a favorite of the local library literacy program. the rest of the afternoon is spend filing and staring longingly out the window across the library at the beautiful day and bouncing your knee as you listen to the new Britney CD.

at the end of the day, you and Michelle walk out into the Texas heat together, sighing as the dewy air hits your skin. Michelle doesn't work tomorrow - she promises to see you next Wednesday for drinks after you leave the Millers'; with a wiggle of your brows at the mention of her friend, she glares in warning.

"Joel is a nice man." she points at you, sending you a look, "I remember what you were like in college."

you smirk. she really has known you for a long time - back when you were nineteen and had just been hired, fresh out of the dorms and had a social life. parties - thursday, friday, saturday, sunday... she had to hear about each one, each Thirsty Thursday, that time you went to the Strokes concert and hooked up with the boy a row down from you. all the things you promised to do if you ever had the chance with Mario Lopez... yikes.

you suppress a laugh, shaking your head. you remember leaving the theater after American Psycho with Michelle sweating over Christian Bale just months ago, and he's almost your age - so what's the difference? no harm in looking. "yeah, well, times have changed." you lie, looking at her through your lashes.

she huffs a laugh, "that relationship didn't change you all that much, cherry." she shrugs, "just- don't get into trouble."

you shoot her a look back, a grin growing on your face as she blows you a kiss and gets in her car.

it only takes you a week to realize you're in trouble.

"-'kay, and you have my number, right? just in case?"

you bite back a giggle, nodding your head coyly, "yeah." you say gently, hoping to ease a bit of his paternal anxiety. at your tone, Joel grins sheepishly, squinting against the morning sun.

"sorry, just habit." he shrugs. you nod in acknowledgement, sharing a secret, knowing smile with the girl who stands by your side. you've slipped so easily into a routine with the two of them - each morning you've arrived, Joel's been standing in the driveway, loading his truck with a steaming mug of coffee balanced on the hood. Sarah's either on the swing that hangs by ropes from the large oak or drawing on the pavement, her hands pink and chalky.

he nods, shifting on his feet, "right, coffee's on the pot for you, if you want. might have burned it a bit." he gestures with his head towards their garage, "the garage code's 1965." he adds, to which Sarah nods.

"-it's dad's birth year. he's forty-five." she boasts proudly, grinning at her quick math as you do the same equation in your head. you smirk, eyes finding Joel as Sarah grins; Joel sighs, laughing as he ruffles her head.

1965... he's thirty-five. you try to hide your shock, realizing Joel wasn't much older than you are now when he had Sarah.

"-I'm not quite there yet, kiddo." he mutters, cheeks curiously pink as he looks back to you. "maybe y'oughtta hit those math books I got ya, huh?"

she sticks her tongue out, nose wrinkled - it makes him laugh. a short, warm laugh, as his eyes flicker to catch your own chuckle; you almost miss when Sarah proclaims she'd rather go swimming, your own head tilting back in a regretful sigh when you realize you'd once again forgotten your swimsuit.

before getting in the car, he kisses the crown of her head and nods to you. "I'll be back before six."

you salute him with a small nod, watching as he slides into his truck, and chew your lip, fighting to ignore the butterflies rolling in your stomach.

but he isn't back before six.

in fact, it's seven by the time you even notice; you'd been fully engrossed in a world of watching Malcolm in the Middle and sorting Sarah's Silly Bandz when you heard her stomach growl; with a blink of shock, you'd stared at each other before bursting into a fit of giggles.

luckily, there was Chef Boyardee in the pantry that horrifically boasted an expiration date of 2023; nevertheless, you split it willingly and savored every bite, washing it down with a glass of lemonade each. you had no texts from Joel - surely, he was just running behind at work, but you'd grown accustomed to that old-person way he'd text or leave a voicemail apologizing for running late.

and of all nights, tonight was not the best one for Joel to decide to lag behind- a glance at your watch makes you sigh. you have a date in an hour and a half and still have to find that one skirt you've yet to unpack before going to the bar.

it's some guy you'd met through one of your few friends in the city; he'd texted you a few times, asked you to drinks eventually - you're not ready for anything serious yet, but Michelle and your friend Fatima had convinced you it'd be good to at least go out for a bit - a framed photo of a much younger Joel holding baby Sarah catches your eye and when your stomach swoops in arousal at the sight of the farmer's tan and muscled, broad frame of his chest, you decide you could use a lay or two sometime soon.

you'd zoned out after that, letting Sarah paint your nails and watching Hal perform a tear-jerking rollerskating number onscreen - intermittently conversing with the girl by your side as you inspect your fingers for any botched paint on your skin.

she'd somewhat easily pried the information about your date this evening from you a few episodes ago, and now grills you enthusiastically about him: how'd you meet, what he's like, and do you like-like him? have you ever kissed someone?

it's almost eight when the door finally opens, a loud voice calling from the foyer for the girl beside you. the voice from the hall makes you freeze in shock, a cold dose of reality splashing over you when you don't recognize the timbre.

it isn't Joel's; his is gentle, caramel - it's warm, yet cold too and assured, like he only speaks when he really wants to. this voice is playful, not as deep; more teasing.

Sarah has no such concern, instead squealing and leaping to her feet, running through the kitchen towards the front room as you rise slowly, your heart still thumping hard.

when you round the corner, you're momentarily glad you didn't grab the baseball bat from Joel's garage; Sarah's thrown herself onto a man who stands, one work boot kicked away and the other unlaced, in front of the front door.

his arms wrap around her small body, picking her up in a large embrace as her mouth runs rapidly, clearly excited to tell this man about you. "-she's my nanny and she's so funny-"

letting her down, the man's eyes fall onto you; eyes similar to Joel's - to Sarah's, too - and you let out a breath. he must be a relative, perhaps a brother or cousin, because he resembled their traits so subtly you have to blink. there's less lines on his cheeks - he's younger than Joel.

a charming smile breaks over his face. "well, howdy there." he nods in acknowledgement as he shrugs his jacket off. a flip in your stomach and you swallow thickly, nodding with a smile. he holds his hands out, "I'm Tommy, Joel's brother."

"hi." you say, leaning against the wall after shaking, glad you decided to wear one of your favorite outfits today; he seems to like it, too, if his eyes are anything to go by. a roar in your heart, a shaking beast that you suspect is only roused from boredom, claws at the cavern of your chest and you quell it, knowing it'd be completely inappropriate to assume anything about the way Joel's brother is making eyes at you.

you tell him your name in response, sending a smile as you take him in; denim jacket, dark curls and a smirk that sends heat over your cheeks. christ, the Miller family clearly has genetics in their favor.

"it's nice to meet you. I didn't know Joel had a brother." you raise a brow, letting your own eyes rake over his clothed chest and exposed arms as he crosses them over his frame. "Uncle Tommy used to live with us!" Sarah exclaims, playing with the neon green Silly Band on her wrist. he ruffles her hair, smirking, "I sure did."

you nod with a smirk of your own, watching his eyes skate over your figure; your stomach flips - it's been too long since you thought someone was flirting with you, and it doesn't seem to cross your mind not to flirt back as your mouth opens.

"shame he doesn't anymore." you muse, kicking your hip off the wall and taking a step towards him. his brows raise in interest - maybe surprise - at your words, but just then, the door opens.

heads turn - Joel steps in with a sigh, brown jacket covered with concrete powder, the steel toe of his boots dragging across the floor.

"dad!" Sarah jumps into his arms again, his grunt muffled by her curls as he catches her with a grin, the stress of the day seemingly melting away from his face.

Tommy finishes removing his boots, "so, I met the nanny." his voice almost purrs through his smirk - at this, Joel stares hawkishly at his brother. you're struck with the sense that you've missed some kind of vital information. you feel, actually, like you're not even in the room; your hands toy with the bag around your shoulder as Joel corrects Tommy with your name instead.

when Sarah peels herself from her father, you send a smile to him, standing somewhat awkwardly as he clears his throat, "sorry we're late. I should have texted."

you shake your head with a short shrug, "it was no problem, Joel." you grin at Sarah, "we ate cake and ice cream for dinner, though."

it makes her giggle like you're the best comedian on Earth - you wink at her. Joel hums, amused. "great, feedin' her all that sugar 'n ducking out before the high hits." he shakes his head. "wicked girl." he adds, sending you a false glare. your cheeks burn as you smile back.

he leans to Sarah's ear, "go help Uncle Tommy with his bags in the basement."

you wave goodbye to the two of them as she brings her Uncle away, Tommy stopping by Joel's frame as he passes - "lucky man." Tommy says lowly, leaning in to Joel's ear; the latter's face turns pink and his jaw sets as you avert your eyes, hiding your wide eyes as you turn to gather your bag and keys.

"have fun at your date." Sarah says conspiratorially to you as she waves good bye, causing your cheeks to heat up under the scrutiny of the two men in the room. you mutter a weak, "thanks, Sarah." just as she and her uncle round the corner, out of sight.

you're allowed a moment of awkward stillness as Joel lets out a quick sigh, eyes shutting; expelling the thoughts from your mind, you clench your teeth. Joel doesn't care that you're going on a date. why would he? it's a normal thing for women your age to do. you're acting weird, you can tell - quickly, you quell the pounding in your chest as Joel clears his throat, his face giving no emotion but clearly occupied with thoughts of his own.

"sorry 'bout him-" Joel starts, nodding to where Tommy's voice disappears down the basement stairs, Sarah's just as chirpy as she trudges down with him. "-he's helpin' me with a project down there. gonna be stayin here for a few days, but he works with me so we won't be in your hair much."

you shrug with one shoulder, "I don't mind." then, after a moment of him rubbing a sore spot on his leg, "I hope your day wasn't too long." he looks at you, a warmth flickering in his eyes as he carefully hangs up his jacket, avoiding tracking too much concrete dust around.

"won't bore you - I don't pay ya to listen to an old man complain about his day." he says, shaking his head with a graceful smile, "always a long day when I'm away from her. the work's worth it in the end, though."

your chest beats with admiration at his words, how his eyes fall on the picture of him holding his daughter.

"you don't have to pay me for me to care." you say honestly, sending him a gentle smile. you get the feeling he's not open to talking about his day, so you shift on your feet. "you know, you've got a real clever girl. smart."

he smiles at this; pride painting his eyes in the setting light of the night. "we're still workin' on the math thing." he says and you swear you see a hint of laughter in his eyes.

"oh, yeah - well, years are hard to count." you joke, thinking back to earlier in the morning. "you don't look a day over fifty-six." you tease, brow lifting gently.

his head tilts, eyes narrowing in mock intimidation, hiding his own grin as it flirts with the edges of his lips. "watch yourself." he shakes his head. "think you gotta work on your math, too."

your stomach flips, hiding your flustered breathing with a laugh, shaking your head. he shakes his head too, walking you towards the front door.

he hesitates for just a moment as he swings it open, eyes flicking to yours and away. after a second, he opens his mouth, hand rising to his hair absently.

"y'know, we're havin' a block party next weekend. for the neighborhood. Michelle and Dan will be there, too. you should..." he rubs his neck, "-you could come by. Sarah would love to see you."

a block party full of parents and kids? not quite your scene. but Michelle, Dan, booze, Joel (grilling? swimming in a pool? drinking beer?)...

"well, I'd hate to let her down." you say, smiling wide, "I'd love to come, thanks."

he nods, suddenly bashful, eyes flicking away. an inkling of anxiety creeps over your spine - why would he want a girl he barely knows to come to a neighborhood block party? is he just being nice? surely Sarah has her friends she'll be with. you watch him with hidden intrigue, eager to get to know him but hesitant to come across as creepy. he's technically your employer, after all.

with a jolt, you remember the bar you're supposed to be at in less than twenty minutes; you push yourself across the threshold and down to your car in the driveway, acutely aware of Joel walking you out - just as he does every night. quiet footsteps, a soft smile when you turn around.

"have a good night, Joel." you say, hands on the straps of your purse after he opens your door for you.

he nods back at you. "you have a good night, too." as you slide in to your car, he stoops low and squints slightly, "good luck on your date." he adds somewhat teasingly, sending you a half-smile, "i'd try to avoid doin' any math in front of him."

it's a dorky joke, but it flusters you just the same - with a roll of your eyes and a laugh, you fight the butterflies in your stomach as you pull out of his driveway.

the heat on your cheeks subsides just as you get to the bar, but the thought of Joel's eyes on yours and that gentle smirk lingers far longer than it should in your mind.

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there is no longer a taglist; follow @tremendumnotifs to be notified when i post.

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#Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller series #Joel miller fic rec

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picassopedro · 2 months

Text

That cliffhanger thoooo 💀

Love love this series!

honeysuckle’s & huckleberry’s

masterlist | ao3 | spotify playlist

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his mouth connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck.

a/n: this chapter was so fun to write, I accidentally made it 9.5k words lol, but it was such a relief (ish) to write. Some new warning apply to this chapter, so please be advised of those. We get to see a whole new side to Joel this chapter and we’ll get to see some “in the making of” this chapter in the following one. A little bit of context on why Joel changes so abruptly and the reasoning behind his decisions. I hope you all know how much i love love love you guys for being here for me while i struggle to find time to write. I’m working on getting back on my feet every day and this is the one safe place I have to escape and indulge in my favorite coping mechanism. Much love, H 🤍

Chapter 7–You Don’t Want That Smoke

Your birthday falls on Friday this year, (lucky you) but it also means the First Friday dance falls on your birthday this year as well. It’s the first community event after the cold winter months and by that time, most people are itching to get out of their snow-buried homes. The town usually puts on the event to celebrate the coming spring, hosting venders of all sorts and games for the families. Growing up, your parents would take you to the petting zoo and let you ride the ponies, like you didn’t have a horse at home, like there wasn’t a whole ranch to attend to, animals to raise up and sell, like you could just for a moment, be a normal little girl from a quiet street who’d never sat in a saddle in her life.

If only that had been the case, ever. If only you’d had parents who pursued safe, reliable careers, where they had pensions and retirement, insurance and benefits, instead of breaking their backs for a ranch that had been dying long before it was left to your mother by her parents. Was it obligation that kept them here, or was it something else? Was it the same thing that got you through years of college, all in an attempt to keep your parents' dream alive for a little while longer?

It’s Wednesday, which means you have two more days before your birthday and Melly’s plane lands in a few hours from Colorado, but so far your morning has taken you five rounds in the octagon and is currently coming back for more.

“—No! The statements I just got in the mail yesterday said we have ninety days to come up with three months worth of the mortgage before the property faces foreclosure.”

The woman on the other end of the phone sighs at you and you can hear the way her hands hit her keyboard. “I know that, ma’am, but that was a month and a half ago and we still have not received any payments. The bank sent another letter, requesting that the entire six month worth of back payments be received by the end of the ninety days or the property will be foreclosed on.”

The routinely scripted response feels like an open handed slap to the face, white hot pain snapping through your veins like lightning on the Wyoming plains. You sink down into the dining room chair and let it soak in all the way.

“How many days do we have left?” You hear yourself whisper into the phone but it’s not you speaking, not really—its a absent reflex like blinking or breathing.

“That's…51 days, ma’am. We’ll contact you again in thirty days if we have not received the entire amount by that time.”

Your eyes burn and blur, tears for the years of your life wasted on a useless education, until they surge past the dam and plummet to the paper below. When you look down at the document, your tears are stained red by the ink on the foreclosure notice. “How much will it be, again?” Defeated, Inadequate and Doomed.

“Fourteen thousand, three hundred and forty dollars, for six months worth of the Mortgage and late fees accumulated.” She sounds annoyed when she reads off the obscene number, like she isn’t sealing the fate of your family home, the dream your parents have worked their whole lives for to pass down to you—all wasted on a backed mortgage that your parents took out on the farm when you were born.

The full circle indicates that losing your family’s livelihood was your fault, from start to finish. You didn’t make it in time. All your hard work, and you’re still going to lose it.

“Is that everything, ma’am?”

Click

You drop the phone and sob into your arms, your whole body shaking and heaving with every sharp inhale. In your best attempt to keep quiet, you attract the attention of the one person you long to keep this from, your sweet, well meaning mom.

She’s soft spoken when she soothes you, rubs your back while you dry up your tears against her chest and she doesn’t ask why, just kisses your forehead and smiles one of those sweet sweet smiles at you and says, “We’ll get through this, Honey, don’t you worry about that. We’ll figure this out together.”

And you believe her, enough to reel in your hiccups, enough to ease your searing tears. “Why don’t you take a break from work, Melly gets here soon, yeah? You got everything you girls need?”

You smile at her, thankful for her ability to distract you from the things that keep you up at night. She knows you better than anyone, she’s your best friend. “Maybe we can stop at the store after we get her, but we gotta leave soon—“ you check the time, one hour until her plane touches down in Jackson and it takes forty five minutes to get there alone.

“Actually Honey, about that…I can't go with you. I’m not feeling up to it and I thought I would whip up dinner for you girls. But I got someone to go with you,”

You stand up from the chair and put the papers back into the envelope. “Mom, I really can go alone, I drove all the way here—“ she stops you with a quiet scuff. “You got stuck in the snow and Joel had to pull you out.” Joel, that son of a bitch…that big, sexy cowboy son of a bitch who left you in the snow. Who huffs and puffs and walks around like the sweatiest, filthiest, most delicious version of every nasty fantasy you’ve ever had. Of course she would drag him into this, maybe she’s the one who’s after the help.

“Speak of the devil,” she has this knowing look when her gaze travels past you to the doorway of the dining room. You glance over your shoulder to find yourself smack dab in the middle of one of those filthy dreams, dressed in green plaid and his brown Carhartt jacket, his black cowboy hat resting atop his head with curls peeking out of the sides, kissing the tips of his ears. His beard has grown out a tad too, making him look soft all over, scruffy and curly with a dimpled smile. The sight of him comes with a sudden rush of soothing comfort, warm eyes that make you feel safe, hidden in the shadows of his hat.

“Heard I was takin’ you somewhere?” He’s broad and sturdy, with a slight sheen of sweat on the peaks of his collarbones under his shirt. Under his beard, his neck is taught and his muscles are strained, his pulse visible beneath his skin despite his cool composure. If you know Joel, he did a days worth of work this morning to clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon. He probably smells like sweat and dirt, like horses and leather under all that damn southern charm he possesses.

Actually, you can take me anywhere. On the couch, in my room, hell—in the glow of a fridge light.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite off your involuntary groan, shooting your mom a sharp look. She may play coy, might act like she's this innocent and sweet, cookie baking, laundry folding, house making mom who knows no better, but you see what she’s really up to. How she hides behind her little false oblivion, a facade she usually only uses for good. This doesn’t feel like it was for the greater good.

“You—“ you sneer at her quietly and she smiles with a “Not sure what you mean dear, but you better get a move on. I have to get dinner in the oven!” She scurries out of the room and into the next, letting the door swing closed behind her. Joel remains in the same spot, one shoulder pressed against the white wood frame of the old door, his muddy boots on the dark hardwood floors. Your eyes drag up the rest of him, his pants are tight in the middle, hugging his hips and probably just barely restraining what lays below the dark blue denim. There's a soft curve to his belly, made apparent when his arms cross over his chest and pull his shirt tight against his front.

His belly looks so damn soft. So fucking round and bite-able. A few more clicks up, his chest nearly bulging out of the buttons of the flannel. The buttons hang on for dear life, but you’re afraid if he flexes, they will scatter to the floor with your resolve.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes. “Doin’ alright there, darlin’?” If his presence wasn’t enough, the bourbony southern drawl and the way he cocks his hip makes your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “Yeah—Yep, just need to get dressed and I’ll be ready.” You’re still in a big sleep shirt, have been all morning because work for you doesn’t require pants half of the time. When you start to breeze past, his eyes drop to the exposed skin of your thighs.

“Been wonderin’…” he stops you with a big hand, pressed against your sternum when you try to pass by his solid form. He’s still faced the opposite direction than your body, only his head turns to look down at you, gone still beneath his stern fingertips. “If you always walk around naked under these shirts, or if you’re wearin’ somethin’ under there when mom and dad are ‘round?”

His eyes flick back to the door leading into the kitchen, where your mother is currently hiding from your scowl, then back down to the hem of your oversized shirt. The hand on your ribs shifts when you haul in a deep, stuttering breath. It slips a few inches lower, the tips of his thick fingers dipping into the flesh of your stomach, just below your belly button. He’s so close and so fucking firm where he holds you in place.

“Why don’t you have a look for yourself, Cowboy?”

You challenge him back and you swear he stops breathing beside you. He meets your dare with a low growl, reverberating inside his rib cage like a shout in a vast canyon. What the hell is happening right now, did he hit his head or something? Is he finally getting the fucking hint? How desperately you want him to have his way with you? Then again, the last time he saw you dressed like this, you were bent over, knowingly showing off everything you had to offer, the place you wanted him most, while you listened to the guttural sounds leaving the unsuspecting man behind you. You aren’t going to complain about the sudden shift in his attention, hell no—you’ll soak in what you can get from the leery cowboy.

You hardly register the way he moves until he leans forward and warm fingertips graze the skin just under your ass. He’s looking when he lifts the shirt all the way up to your tailbone slowly, covered by smooth black satin, a thong that hugs your hips but leaves your cheeks exposed to his greedy sight. His eyes are everywhere, your thighs and the curve of your bare behind. His fingers dip just under the black satin band on your hip, his expression is just shy of a devoted man as he drinks in the contrasting sensation of your smooth skin and the silky material.

“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, letting his hand slip from your panties to travel back down, unsure fingers tracing along the crease of your ass, curling under your cheek when he gets to the bottom. It’s the softest touch you’ve ever felt, full of admiration and barely restrained desire. It sets your skin on fire, radiating behind your eyelids. “Those are…damn pretty, sugar…but you better go get yourself ready, before you’re late.” His hands slip away from you completely and he turns in the direction of the door, already on his way out before you even fully process what just happened. What flipped inside of Joel on a random Wednesday afternoon in late February?

He leaves with a satisfied smirk with intentions of starting the truck while you stammer against the doorway and remind yourself to breathe. When the front door closes behind him, you lean against the wood he was just propped against, hoping his heat will still linger there. He instigated something, a secret whisper of want, the thought makes a grin break out from one side of your face to the other, pulling your cheeks tight. He wants you.

You get dressed with that same stupid grin plastered on your face. You shift through your closet a few times, but you keep falling back on the same outfit. Your pants with holes in the thighs and your stupid fucking shoes that you wore the first day you met, just so you can rile Joel further. You find a tight top and a thick wool flannel to throw over it, before tracking back down the stairs to the front door.

It’s the rush of adrenaline that shocks the agony from your brain, but the moment you bound down the front steps to his waiting truck, the door already propped open, you pause.

You stop at the foot of the stairs and turn, looking up the steps you’ve known your entire life, the screen door you’ve spent numerous summers swinging in and out of. The porch you’ve watched storms roll in from, the porch swing where you had your first kiss. All this and…your heart sinks. When you turn back towards the running chevy, Joel is staring back at you, his once knowing smirk traded in for a furrow of concern on his handsome features.

You climb into the passenger seat and fasten your seatbelt while Joel puts the truck in gear and pulls away from the house.

There’s a long stretch of road that passes in near silence, before it’s you who just can’t take it anymore. Joel, sweet fucking Joel sat beside you, respecting your emotions and your boundaries once again. “Ranch is ‘bout to be foreclosed.” You tell him. Once it’s spoken aloud, you realize just how imminent your family’s demise really is. How quickly you are going to lose everything, watch your parents walk away with no retirement and nothing to show for themselves, for generations of hard work.

You expect something, questions about how you know, how long you have, if there's anything he can do to help you, but the questions never come. Instead, Joel reaches over and presses his fingers into the latch on your buckle, pulling it off of you with one click.

“C’mere, sweet girl.” His tone is low, soft enough to not interrupt your thoughts, but enough to have you drawing across the bench seat and slipping under his sturdy arm while he drives. He keeps you tucked in close beside him, his hand trailing up and down your arm to ease out the pain residing in your veins. He takes one glance down at you and leans forward, his lips connecting with the crown of your head. “We’ll get through it. We ain’t goin’ down without a hell of a fight.”

Because after the years you’ve spent away from this place, Joel has come to think of the Rising Sun ranch as his home just as much as it is yours. He’d raised every one of the cattle on that ranch, he’s worked day and night to ensure its survival, he’s lost sleep and nearly limbs fighting to keep them afloat while you were gone. This is his home, his fight right alongside yours. Finally, the weight seems to ease up, shouldered by Joel's sense of responsibility for your family’s livelihood.

Beside you, he’s solid and warm, he’s alive and overflowing with strength, enough to spare, for something to cling to. You turn your head and bury your face in his shoulder, covering yourself in the shield of protection he has to offer, sturdy, devoted support that makes you feel lightheaded with security. He doesn’t push you further, doesn’t prod you for details. He just hangs on, keeps your body tucked in close to his while he drives into town. At some point, the rattling of the old truck along patchy highway roads lulls you into sleep with your head against his shoulder and one leg across his lap.

Joel, with all the strength he can muster—holds on tight.

“Hey,” your senses come rushing back when the truck comes to a stop and your warm pillow jostles under your head. You lift up off his weight a little and glance at him through a sleepy gaze, a soft smile present on his lips. “As much as I like you droolin’ all over me…” he gestures to wet stain on his flannel. “Think your friends plane lands soon, don’t want you to miss it.”

You get yourself together enough to look out the window. Joel parked right outside of baggage claim at Jacksons little airport and his arm still sits tightly around your shoulders. A deep sigh sets in to your bones and you lean against him for just a moment longer to soak in the warmth. “Hey, look at me, darlin’,” his hand wraps around your chin gently, coaxing your eyes up to his. “Don’t think about the ranch, at least till the week is over. Ain’t nothin’ you can do right now, so don’t let it ruin your birthday. Everythin’s gonna be alright.” His words trail off when a broad thumb swipes across the underside of your bottom lip, his gaze caught in yours so tightly you’re half sure the jaws of life couldn’t draw you apart. He breaks out into a grin and heaves a shallow laugh. “Had a little drool there.”

The little laugh that bubbles up in you breaks the eye contact and Joel shuts off the truck, untucking you from his arm. You check the time for safe measures, there's still a few more minutes before the plane lands and she still has to make it out the gates.

“Joel?” He’s fiddling with his key chain, adjusting a few backwards keys. “Hmm?” He barely makes eye contact—is he embarrassed? From holding you while you slept? “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me—for my family while I’ve been gone. I can't think of a way to…repay you for everything.”

Joel glances over at you and something flashes in his brown eyes, something that looks like discomfort and shame. He takes a sharp breath in and squeezes his knuckles around the keys. “I didn’t do it all selflessly…please don’t take this wrong. I haven’t felt a sense of belonging in years. Me and Tommy have been drifting since I was twenty eight, working on one ranch after another. We’d stick around a town for six months and he’d get antsy, stir up trouble and we’d have to hit the road again.”

He brings his hand up to his mouth and chews on the corner of his thumb. He’s anxious, you can tell by the way his eyes flitter to you then away quickly. “I’ve covered his ass more times than I can count because I don’t know if I’ll be the same if I have to leave here. It feels fuckin—selfish, like I’m usin’ your folks. M’gettin’ old, my bones are tired and all I want is to…stop. Slow down for once in my life. I’ve never been more at peace than I am here, with your parents and the ranch. I was doin’ so good, gettin’ my mind right, hatin’ myself a little less and then—“ he trails off with a distant look in his eyes.

And then…what? What’s caused Joel to lose that sense of peace and stability? “What happened?” You sink back in the bench seat, run your fingers along the stitched pattern of color adorning the warn padding. “S’big snow storm came in…I was comin’ back from town because I took Tommy to pick up flowers. He’d been a real asshole to a sweet lady who didn’t deserve it. Was pissed off he was smokin’ in the truck, pissed he was jeopardizin’ our home again, when we see this little car stuck in the embankment, met this—real pretty girl, and she…” he sneaks a glance over at you, but he’s doing his best to find anywhere, anything else to look at. Cars passing by, the sun reflecting off the bright white paint on the cross walk. The older woman in-front of you, helping what looks like her daughter, load her luggage into the trunk.

“She got under my skin and I was flustered for the first time in a really long time. Kinda freaked me out—and then I left here there—‘cuz I was scared shitless and nothin’s ever been the same since. Sorta think she hates my guts half the time for it.”

There's this unsettling silence in the cab, Joel's nerves and his admission hanging in the air between you. He’s never ever been this vulnerable and honest with you before. You’ve talked to him more times than you can count now, a meaningless little conversation where you found everything you needed to change your mind about him. But he’s never opened himself up like he was right now, in the damn pick up line of the Jackson airport.

“Joel I…I already forgave you for that.” You forgave him for that when he gave you your necklace for Christmas. You forgave him when he carried a newborn calf half a mile through a snowstorm for you. You forgave him when you came down the stairs to him in that damn cowboy hat.

You forgave him when he came back for you and looked at you with those pretty brown eyes.

“What?” He looks over at you and you hold onto the eye contact for as long as you possibly can. “I don’t hate you. Furthest thing from it actually—I do hate how much you avoid me. Like I’m going to bite your head off any second—“ he snorts, cracks a white smile at you and his eyes crinkle at the sides, making your stomach flutter, little blue butterflies soaring through your abdomen. “You do bite my head off—often.”

Okay—maybe he’s a little right, maybe you let it get too far a few times, spent too many afternoons angry at his distaste for you, when all you wanted was a taste of him. “Well, I’m sorry…for all the things I’ve said to you, the things I’ve called you. But I’m not upset about that anymore. I forgave you for that a long time ago. You’ve already made up for it a million times, Joel.”

He’s grinning at you like you just told him he won the fucking lottery, his nervous hands drumming a absent tune against the steering wheel. He’s looking at you like it’s the first time you’ve ever met him, his eyes shining with mirth and admiration. “Think…you could give this ol’ cowboy another shot?” That nervous little shake of his jaw, the tick in his voice and the hopefulness in his eyes is enough to break anyone, but you? You’re so lost on him you never want to find your way back. Throw away the maps, toss the keys somewhere you’ll never find them again—you never want to go anywhere else in the world. Another shot? You’d give him all of them.

“Pretend you’ve never met me before.”

He blinks, cocks an eyebrow and makes a face of confusion at you. “I’ve never met you?” You nod, turn your whole body to face him on the bench seat of his old beat up chevy. “Like it’s the first time we’ve met. I’m Hank's daughter and you’re picking me up from the airport to take me home for the first time in years. We’ve never met. Try again, shoot your shot, cowboy.”

You’d like to imagine that's how it went—your mom and dad were too busy to come get you and you decided to fly because you knew your little car wouldn’t make it. They send Joel, because he’s trustworthy and punctual. They know he’ll treat their daughter with respect, they trust that he’ll use his better judgment, because they know he’s a good man. You know that under that rough, hard exterior is an anxious man searching for belonging, a good man.

Joel takes a deep breath, lets his mind drift out the window before he turns it back to you with a charming smile, one you’ve never been on the receiving end of. It’s smoldering, flirtatious—everything you imagined Joel to be after all those years of pinning after a man you’ve never laid eyes on. A Joel you’ve never met and desperately need to get to know better. “Prodigy daughter finally returns,” his drawl is thick and his eyes rake over you once, twice, before settling on your own. “I’m Joel.”

You giggle—rightfully so, because this Joel? This Joel is all quick wit and chivalry. You fake introduce yourself back, your grin mirroring his own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Joel.”

“Pleasure is…all mine, darlin’.”

You could stare at him forever with that damn goofy smile on his face. “Anyone ever tell you—you look good in this?” You tell him, reaching up to flick the brim of his hat, but it stays firmly in place despite your efforts. He snorts and snaps up to catch your wrist, holding onto it tightly in his big hand. “S’funny, I was just thinkin’ about how good you’d look in my hat.” His thumb circles the inside of your wrist slowly,’ pushing down the fabric of your sleeve with the effort. Slowly, he draws your appendage closer, till his mouth hovers just above your skin. His eyes are like witnessing something tragic, so devastating you can't bring yourself to look away.

“In just—“ His eyes slip closed when his lips connect with the inside of your wrist. His lips are warm and so tender you fight down a soft whimper at the intoxicating sensation. When they open again, dangerous amber irises peer back at you like you’re their salvation. “-my cowboy hat.”

Oh—fuck. There’s an image you’ll never get out of your mind—your hands on his sweaty chest, the brim of his hat falling in front of your eyes while you try to keep it in place, despite the way you ride him—

“Joel—Jesus, you can’t just—“

He breaks out into a chest filled laugh, his eyes slip close and his head falls back. His whole body responds to the way he laughs, his legs kick up, his chest heaves and his belly bounces. He’s a menace, a damn trouble starter—he makes you see hearts around his head and a sparkle in his eyes you’re sure you’re imagining. He calms his laugh down with a few deep breaths, a grin still plastered on his handsome face. “What can I say? I’m really bad at first impressions.”

He is, but it doesn’t bother you like it used to. Joel isn’t and never will be the perfect man you’d envisioned. He’ll never be the Joel you’d made up in your head for so long, because that Joel was made solely for you, from your interpretation of a man who’s perfect for you in every way. But that Joel and the one in front of you are two vastly different people—this Joel is gruff at times, opinionated and flawed. He wasn’t made perfect for you, but you find that the things that make him the least like the Joel in your mind—are the things that you like most about him. He’s gruff, but he’s punctual and takes no shit. He’s opinionated, but he’s wise about life, he’s earned the right to voice his beliefs. He’s flawed—he has crows feet by his kind eyes, graying curls and weathered hands—but it’s his flaws that entice you to learn more about him. They make him real in front of you instead of a made up, faceless man in your dreams.

Your phone chimes in your pocket and it sucks you from the void in the cab of this old truck, away from Joel's charming smile and his burning hand on your wrist. He pulls away and the moment dissipates into dust on the dashboard.

Melly: I just got my bag, headed out now!

“Be right back,” you slip out the door with a firm shut and try your hardest not to glance back at the man in the cab of that blue and white truck.

Finding Melly is easy, she sticks out like a sore thumb with her blonde hair and too-blessed chest. What did she do in a past life for tits like that, anyways?

She comes out the double doors and jogs to you with a grin your wearing on your own face. “Oh my gosh!” She squeals, finally getting close enough to throw your arms around each other. It’s been months since you’ve seen each other after spending everyday together for the last two years. You tumble around together in your hug for a few minutes before she pulls back to look you over, in a pair of flared jeans and boots. “Oh man, the country got you.” She jokes, faking a deflated sigh. “Would you fuck off?” She laughs menacingly, slinging her bag over her shoulder for more security. “Let me guess, you’re still trying to drive that cowboy crazy, right?”

With a deep eye roll, you finally look back at the truck. He’s looking right back at you, an easy smile on his lips when your eyes connect. You look back to your best friend and make a face. “He uhm…he actually drove me…to come get you. He’s in the truck, please be nice to him, okay?” She sneers and you know she means trouble when you help her with her things on her way to the truck.

“Please don’t fucking embarrass me, I swear dude—“ Mel gives you a little shove and huffs a laugh when you put her suitcase in the bed of the pickup. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin your shot with the old dude.” She looks around you, eyeing him from outside of the truck without his knowledge. “Holy shit, dude he’s hot. He’s like, stupid hot.”

You look over at him too and like he can feel your eyes on him, he looks over his shoulder, smiles warmly and you know it—

Know you’re fucked.

“Not a word.” Mel throws her hands up innocently and follows your lead when you open the door of the truck and climb in the middle, sliding in right beside Joel, reclaiming the space you’d taken up on your way here.

The whole drive back to the ranch, your body is on fire along the parts that connect to Joel, pressed so close you’re afraid you might melt into him.

Two days pass in a blur.

You spend a lot of time with Mel, catching up on how she's been doing since graduating, how she likes work—she’s a wildlife biologist in Colorado, who’s still learning the ropes of the job but she’s never been more excited to be a part of something. You don’t tell her about the ranch for a good reason, but she still asks and doesn’t say anything if she notices the look on your face when you lie to her.

We’ll get through it

You love spending time with her, but you don’t see a lot of Joel besides meals. He’s pleasant and soft, smiling at you like he’s never worn a frown on that handsome face. He sits too close at dinner, draws your gaze in far too many times for it to be an accident. It’s not anymore but it’s still so damn hard to make yourself believe that this isn’t just a fleeting moment—temptation breathing life into you for the first time in years, teasing you with possibilities.

He makes you burn but he doesn’t push further, doesn’t chase that desire down its narrowing path. It’s so close—you’re so close to finally making him yours.

When your birthday rolls around, he’s nowhere to be seen at breakfast. When you head out to the stables, the horses have already been fed and there's no trace of the man who plagues your every waking moment. The truck is gone and the tire-tracks in the driveway look old, like he’s been gone for hours. It’s not that he’s required to see you on your birthday, but you thought things were going to change. You thought that re-meeting him in the truck at the airport would restart everything, he’d realize you want him around more than the ranch hand who got under your skin and made you desperate for his attention. It feels naive, to watch out the window for his truck for most of the morning, pining after that faded powder blue and rust.

“This is depressing to watch from the outside, you know that right?” Comes Mel’s voice from the other side of your room when you check the window for the first time in the last half hour. She's painting her nails on the chair in your room while you peer through the blinds like he might appear out of thin air without you hearing the rumble of his old chevy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You do your best to defend yourself, stepping away and crossing your arms as you trudge to your bed.

“Don’t play dumb with me, I know you. You’re pacing your room wondering when you’ll see him. You know everyone can see the way you guys look at each other right? When are you guys going to like…kick it up a notch, get in his pants?”

You toss yourself on the fluffy sheets and close your eyes tight, letting your mind wander for a moment. “I don’t know…” what are you going to do, if you cant even see him long enough to get him alone? Tonight is the dance and you were hoping he’d be there, maybe he’d ask you for a dance. You’ve never told a boy in your hometown yes to a dance at this thing, but you’d change that for Joel. If he asked, you’d let him spin you around all night long.

Only problem is, he can’t do that if he’s still avoiding you like you're an illness he can’t afford to catch. “He’s so confusing. One second he acts like…he wants me, the next he’s hiding from me, probably—ugh, I just wish I could get him out of my head if he wants nothing to do with me!”

The room is silent, still for all of five glorious seconds before Mel breaks it. “Does he still run away to jerk off?” You snap your eyes over to her with a sharp glare. “Yes! And he drives me up the fucking wall, dude! All I want is to get my hands on that delicious man and he runs away every time. How am I ever supposed to accomplish anything if I can't even get him alone for five minutes. And every time I do, something happens and ruins it all.”

You can't seem to get a second with him no matter how hard you try. The last two days, he hasn’t been around aside from his work in the morning, a few meals he makes it to in between. If you’re being honest, it's painful to think about the way he’d smiled at you a few days ago and the way he doesn’t have the time of day now.

“If he shows up at that dance tonight, I’m making sure you get your second alone. Now come on, let me help you pick out your dress. He won't know what he’s missing out on.”

By the time you’re headed out the door for town, Joel is still nowhere in sight. You thought you’d heard his truck for a moment earlier, but when you’d peered out the window a few minutes later, there was no blue chevy in the driveway. No cowboy waiting out front for you.

You trudged to the car in your black dress, two slits up the sides where your thighs peak out and a back so low your half afraid your ass is going to fall out of the damn thing. You do your best to hold it up when you walk through the dirt, a pair of knee high red cowgirl boots are the only thing saving you from the mud right now.

Melly isn’t far behind, but she's not dressed in anything nearly as revealing as you. She’s making friends with Tommy who surprisingly hasn’t tried to flirt yet and claims to have no idea where his older brother has disappeared to. He’s endearing, but you know he’s playing for both sides here, hiding something for his brother.

On the drive into town, your parents take your dads truck, leaving you, Mel and Tommy in your car. When you get about half way, you finally break and ask if Tommy has seen Joel, if he knows if he’s coming. Tommy shrugs in the rearview mirror with a smile.

“I’m sure we’ll see ‘em.” Is the only answer you get.

It doesn’t happen for hours.

Hours of forcing a smile through mind numbing conversation with people you haven’t seen in years. The same old how have you been in the big city? and you tell them it was hard work and commitment. They ask no plans for the future? like you’re doomed without a ring on your hand at your age. You keep your head up through every comment, back handed compliment and pick up line that passes you by for a whole fucking hour on the dance floor alone.

“I think I want to go home soon. I’m having the worst fucking time, my feet are killing me and I think my eyelash is falling off.” Your whining and limping, faking distress and discomfort for any shot to get the fuck out of here, go home and maybe you can chance a run in with Joel.

Maybe he’s coming in from the north pasture where he’s probably been hiding all day. He’d be covered in muck and sweat, dirt clinging to the creases in his face. He’d be tired and worn out, vulnerable to the way you’d take advantage of his weakened restraint. “You sure you don’t want to stay a few minutes longer?” Melly muses beside you sipping on a tall glass of tequila on ice, watching the small town’s people converse and dance, laugh and gather together under the low string lighting.

You take a long drag of the drink in your own hand, your third of the night that's finally starting to warm your insides. It’s not enough to ease the ache of wishing Joel would appear. You know he won't, there's only a few hours left and people are starting to get tipsy. “I think you might want to rethink that…the devil himself just walked in, twelve o’clock.”

You look up at her, in a pretty green dress with curly hair framing her face. She’s smirking over your shoulder at something—or someone behind you. You turn the rest of the way around and swear you’re in the middle of one of those movie scenes.

The ones where the love interest walks in and sexy rock plays while they walk in slow motion. With wind blowing this hair back even though they are inside. Joel fucking Miller was doing exactly that at this very minute, striding through the hall in his cowboy hat and a black button down, dark wash jeans and his boots. He looks like a wet dream standing there, looking a little bit lost and so damn handsome. Under his hat, you can see that his hair is slicked back and he looks clean like he’d gone home and gotten ready.

He’s here.

“Oh he looks…if you don’t ask him to dance, I will. He’s hot.” You wish you could explain to her that Joel is more than that, that he’s funny and endearing, that he’s honorable and loyal to a fault. He’s so many more things than just hot. You swivel around as he makes his way through the crowd, he’s bound to find you and you don’t want him to spot you gawking at him. “Do I look okay? Fuck he looks so good—is my hair alright?” You try to do a quick pat down but Melly grabs your hand with a smile. “You look fine. He’s not going to know what hit him, I promise—but he’s coming this way so whatever you do, chill out.”

She sets her drink on the tall table, the ones that adorn the outside of the dance floor for people who want to mingle. You take a long drink of yours and move to set it down when someone clears their throat behind you. The drink hits the table and you turn slowly, till you rotate around to face him completely. He’s even more devastating up close with pearl snap buttons on his shirt, his arms nearly bulging out of the damn thing. His facial hair looks shorter, his eyes shimmering with reflected light.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’, standin’ here all by herself on her birthday?” He grins at you and takes another step forward. “Guess I’m just waiting for the right cowboy to ask me for a dance.” You tease back, reaching out for him once he’s close enough for you to touch. You start at his stomach, soft under his dress shirt. When your hands make contact, a visible shiver runs through Joel.

There’s suddenly two more hands to join the party, one high up on your waist while the other curves around low on your hip, his digits digging into the top of your ass. “I’ll be real’ honest with you here, doll—askin’ you for a dance is the only reason I came tonight.” He smells good for once, usually you catch a hint of his shower under the smell of dirt and manure, a faintness of his once clean skin. Now, it’s all you can focus on—how he’d taste like his soap, smooth and clean, every part of him reachable by your watering mouth. “Well, Cowboy…go on.” Your hands slip up his chest and over his broad shoulders, like you’ve imagined yourself doing a thousand times. He’s responsive, lowers his shoulders so you fit along him perfectly.

“Would ya make this old man's day, let me have a dance?” His hand drops lower, along the side of your thigh until he can dig them into the curve under your ass. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to hoist you up, drag you into that vice-like grip you want to be at the mercy of every day of your life. “Can’t get me any closer, Joel.” You giggle, hiding your face against his neck. He smells like after shave and a little like whiskey. “I thought you were giving up drinking?” You nip at his jaw lightly, just to listen to the way he rumbles against you.

“I’m—tryin’ to keep my cool here, but you look fucking incredible tonight. Needed a little courage to walk up to you, s’all.” He leans back slightly, looking down at the way your dress squeezes your tits together, nearly pouring out of the black satin. “Fucking…gorgeous in this thing, you know that? You knew how sexy this little thing was, didn’t you?” He pulls at the slit that exposes your thighs, raking it up a little higher, until he can get a handful of bare skin. He’s not wrong—you’d put the dress on and thought about all the ways it would drive Joel crazy if he saw you in it.

“You better take me dancing before you take this off of me.” The dance around you has started to fade away. Melly took her cue to go and has started to make conversation elsewhere. “With pleasure, darlin’.”

Joel all but carries you to the middle of the dance floor before you notice his obvious nervous ticks, the shake of his hands and the way he’s fighting the urge to gnaw on his thumb. He’s anxious despite his obvious attempt at faking composure. When you wrap your arms around his shoulders again, he stammers. “Need to tell you somethin’.” His voice is a little shaky on the inhale when his hands find your waist again. “I went into town last week, there’s this dance studio on sixth street and I thought, maybe I could trade work for someone to…teach me how to use my damn feet.” For added flair, he reels away from you and spins you once before drawing you back into his chest as he moves. “So, I take it someone taught you?”

The song changes, something slow, romantic and sweet that couples join in around you, swaying together around the dance floor. “Lady said she’d been lookin’ for someone to replace the dance floor. Told her I just wanted to learn to dance, so I’d stand a chance against the other schmucks askin’ you.” He dances you around for a few more moments, pulling out all the stops—every new move he learned. Was that why he was gone so much, disappearing every time you turned around? He was replacing a damn floor and learning how to dance, all for you?

“Joel—“ you start, trying to grab ahold of him for long enough to make him still. “There's somethin’ else,” he dips you back and your insides flutter, looking up at him with those big brown hopeful eyes. He stands you up right again and the dancing slows to a stop, right there in the middle of the dance hall. You’re sure the towns eyes are on you, your mom and dad, friends from high school, older people you’ve been around your entire life. “She wouldn’t let me leave without payin’ me for it, said dancin’ lessons don’t cost that much after all.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a envelope, sealed tight with a number written on the front.

“Ranch needs it a whole hell of a lot more than I do. S’just two grand, but I’ve found a few other odd jobs, so there will be more comin’, but it’s a start—“ your hand clasps over his clutching the envelope. You push his hand down, stepping forward until you're nearly standing on his own feet. “Joel Miller…are you going to stand there all night running your mouth, or are you going to kiss me?” This endearing man, this big, expressive cowboy who can’t seem to get anything right in his own eyes, but everything right in yours.

He chuckles, the hand not holding the envelope finds the side of your face, sliding his thumb along the apple of your cheek. He’s not the one to make the first move after all—after all the leading him towards it, the teasing and the showmanship. It’s you that stands up high on your tiptoes and drags him the rest of the way in, until his mouth finds yours in the lull of the dance hall, surrounded by swaying bodies and sweet music.

He sucks in a breath through his nose and his mouth opens, slots your lips between his when he finally, fucking finally gives all the way in. It’s sweet, chaste while you stand there, smack dab in the middle of the floor. Joel stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and his other hand finds your body again, yanking until you're flushed against him, digging your hands into his shoulders when his tongue licks along the seam of your mouth, begging to be let into the slick heat. What was slow and steady, soon becomes frantic, hot and needy. Your fingers tug at the buttons of his shirt and someone shoots off a whistle from across the room, enough to have you reeling apart. Joel's mouth is red, his lips swollen and shiny from your spit.

“You want to get out of here?”

Yes. Fucking hell yes you wanted to, you’ve wanted to all damn night, but with Joel standing in front of you, a strained tent in his dark jeans, it’s all you can think about. Instead of a response, you grab him by his hand and all but drag him out the back doors towards the parking lot. It's quiet, dark—the dance isn’t even close to being over so there’s next to no one in the parking lot.

You never stood a chance, looking back on this moment right here. You never would have stood a chance, with Joel’s ragged breathing behind you when he closes the door tight behind him.

One look at his wild eyes and parted lips, you should have known how this night was going to end.

Joel was desperate. He needed you, needed to touch you every second of his day. He thought about you every second he spent awake and he dreamt of you all night long. When he’d heard about the dance, he wanted to kick himself for not learning sooner. Finding the dance studio was a fluke, learning to dance was a damn nightmare and the floor wasn’t much better, but he’d do it all again for another opportunity to press you up against the brick wall with your thighs pressed apart and his hips slotted between them while he all but devoured your mouth.

He’s ruthless, relentless as he drags your bottom lip between his teeth. You—you can't keep your sounds to yourself, hiking your legs up higher around his waist when he presses in closer. He can feel himself straining through his jeans, can feel the heat of your core against his painfully hard cock. He’d take you right fucking here if you let him. “Joel—Joel,” your hips roll down to meet his uncontrollable press forward. “I know—fuck, baby, I know.” His movements are hurried and frantic, like this might be the only shot he has to get his hands on you. His mouth finds your jaw and he bites down on your flesh, relishing in the salty taste of sweat from dancing, the tang of your perfume and the sweet taste of your skin. It’s your sharp whine that gets him in motion again, his stilled teeth still hanging on to your delicate jaw. “Touch me, please—please, touch me.”

In a scurry, he drops his hand between your bodies, pushing the fabric of your dress to the side so his fingertips can work under the elastic of your panties, past the soaked material to the place he’s always longed to touch, always wondered what it would feel like.

And you are fucking drenched under his exploring digits. He slips them through your lips, your slick already dripping down his knuckles when he finds your clit and presses the pad of his thumb to it, swirling it around in a swift motion. Your head falls back and your mouth hangs open, a silent scream on your parted lips.

“There it is, huh? S’what finally gets you quiet? Just needed me to touch your pussy, didn’t you?” He groans when your thighs tremble against him, trying to tighten up around his waist where he has you pinned to the cold wall. His thumb keeps its rhythm while his fingers dip lower, making him breathless at how easily your body draws those fingers in. You come apart like you were meant to do just that, your body rapidly chasing him towards the brink. If he hadn’t gotten himself off twice today, he’s sure he’d already have cum in his pants from just this. “Yes-Yes, Joel—make me cum, please!” Your voice is wrecked.

Your eyes rolled back in your head, your chest heaving in that pretty little dress—your tits are about to bust out of the damn thing. He picks up the pace, slams his fingers into your heat and curls them while his thumb makes quick work of your clit. It’s been so long since he touched a woman, but he’ll never forget the signs.

You are dangerously, furiously close in mere minutes alone. “That’s it, pretty girl—cum on these fingers, let me feel her squeeze me.” You cry out sharply and he nearly covers your mouth with his other hand, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he revels in the pulse of your pussy on his fingers, the way you grind down against him while your body grasps for release. It comes to you with a whole body shake, a ragged gasp of his name and his tongue on your jugular.

When he pulls his hand free, it’s with a wet sound that makes his gut tighten and his knees weak. He has to get you somewhere more secluded, away from the prying eyes of the town folks. “Wunna taste you,” he growls lowly, dragging you away from the building despite the way you stumble, the lightheadedness from cuming on his fingers.

His truck is parked in the back for lack of a better spot, due to his tardiness. He’ll thank his lucky stars for it later, if he can remind himself of it. Now, he slings the door open and nearly throws you down on the bench seat. “C’mere, girl.” He’s running out of will power and common sense, the only thing driving his mind right now is sheer want, carnal desire to get his mouth all over what he’s already ruined. “Lemme see that fuckin’ pussy.”

His hands find the backs of your knees and he yanks you to the edge of the seat. At this angle, he can spread you out and kneel beside the truck, let you use the door jam to rest your foot on. When your eyes find him, he thinks you’re just as far gone as he is, blinded to the world unfolding around you, to rubber hitting asphalt nearby.

“I’m going to fucking ruin you, babygirl. Only word you’ll know is my name when I’m finished with you.” He pushes your dress up with your hurried help, both of you desperately trying to rid you of your clothes as quickly as possible. The second he has your panties dangling between his finger tips, he pushes his head between your spread legs and buries himself under your dress.

The thing about Joel is, he’s always been too good at this. Half the time, it's the only reason women stick around. It must have been the only reason he got his ex wife to marry him.

He’s abandoned his shame and better judgment. He’s starved, famished for a taste of you. This man, this unhinged version of Joel eats pussy like he’s going to die without it. From the very second his mouth finds your center, he’s lost to your immodest cries, your mindless begging for him to keep going, never stop, never stop, Joel—please. He opens his mouth wide, slops his tongue through your folds like he’s trying to lick every drop from your sensitive skin. He pulls away for a breath and his eyes bounce up to meet yours, transfixed on his relentless attack. “Wunna split this little pussy open on me,” he says, muffled against your soft mound. He takes another long lap and moans at the heady taste of you on his greedy tongue.

“I’ve been practicing—I got, oh, fuck Joel, like that,” your head tips back and he pulls his mouth away completely. “You got what, baby, use your words.”

Your body clenches on nothing and his eyes track the movement with a low rumble. “Got a toy that’s as big as you so I could practice. So I'd be able to take you.”

You’d thought about this, about him. You’d thought about him while fucking yourself on a toy you’d bought to train yourself.

He doesn’t have the words to express the way it makes his chest tighten, so he presses his face between your thighs again and gets back to work, drawing out every secret you can no longer hold onto, how good he makes you feel, how hot and devastating his tongue is—how the sound of a car pulling up doesn’t even register until—

“Jackson Police department, step away from the vehicle!”

You should have known.

#Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller smut #Joel miller x reader #Joel miller fic rec

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picassopedro · 2 months

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Warning || Men Like Me

Masterlist

Fandom: The Last of Us Pairing: Joel Miller x Virgin!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: girth age gap, virgin!reader, eventual loss of virginity (not in this chapter), gratuitous descriptions of Joel Miller's body, somewhat creepy!Joel, fetishization of youth, dom!Joel, breaking and entering, playboy magazine, objectification, fingering, sexual discoveries. Word count: 6.2k Summary: Joel's warnings about what men like him would do to girls like you only makes you want him more. A/N: Back in the depths of hell again, you guys. Now this isn't the most depraved thing I've written by any means but it's up there. Come say hi in my chat or inbox, I'd love to talk. Keep a look out for follow up parts and pleeeeease give me comments. I am very very desperate.

Joel Miller was a bad man. That much he knew.

Even as he fixed taps and renovated houses that were falling apart, he could see the blood on his hands. The very hands that packed lunches for Ellie snapped necks, pistol whipped men, stole from a starving child so he could feed his grown brother. But there were lows even he didn’t stoop down to.

Not that he didn’t have the opportunity. Men always did. And in this world, opportunities had only tripled. Even the Boston QZ, as strict as it was, had an underground brothel. He knew Tess to frequent it and never asked questions. Sometimes she needed to bury her face between a good pair of thighs and wrap her lips around a pretty pussy, and this wasn’t something he could give her. There was a lot he couldn’t give her.

Being in Jackson should’ve civilized him. It did in many ways. He’d reverted to the southern gentleman with table manners. ‘Yes, Ma’am’ spilled out of his lips effortlessly when he spoke to women. He held the door for anyone walking in after him. He even went to Church– sorry, the multifaith house of worship–to help renovate.

That was where his troubles began.

There was no point in him going where people prayed. Being back in civilization did not erase his decades of disbelief in a cruel God who would take his baby and keep him on this accursed Earth. But he did because he was back to being a contractor and Tommy asked him to go fix up the pews instead of him. He didn’t have much time, being a new dad and all.

He was on his knees checking out the rotting wood and evaluating how much wood he’d need for building new ones when he was confronted by a pair of legs and a sweet voice. Yours.

“Lemonade, Mister Miller?”

He looked up, his eyes traveling up your legs, bare until he got to your knees where the hem of your flowery skirt sat. Pure, unblemished knees, never taken a fall, didn’t fucking creak, and never knelt before anyone but God. You looked down sweetly, eyes wide and innocent like a newborn cow. Everyone had a kind of darkness about them in this world. Everyone except the kids who didn’t know a world outside the insular walls of Jackson. And you, it turned out, even though you weren’t a kid.

He wiped his sweat off with the greasy rag he carried and looked up at you once again. You had a pitcher and an empty glass in your hands. A sweet smile on your lips and hair falling down your shoulders and reaching your breasts. A yellow ribbon sat in a bow where your neckline dipped between your breasts, adding to the innocence of your look.

“Yes please, Ma’am. Thank you,” he said, giving you a nod. Your pretty plush lips curled up, a giggle escaping them as you poured him a glass of lemonade.

His hand brushed against yours as he accepted the glass, his hand too large to curl around it without making contact with you. You giggled again before retracting your hand and occupying it with adjusting your hair.

“I’m younger than you, you know? Don’t have to call me Ma’am.”

“Just being polite. Ma’am.” He took the glass to his lips, mindful to take only a small sip instead of downing it in desperation. Another adjustment to make when food was no longer a scarcity. Sweet, sour, and salty danced on his tongue before it glided down his throat. Just a sip refreshed him. And the sight of a nice girl didn’t hurt the cause either.

It’d been so long since he had a nice refreshing glass of lemonade. Summers meant worse infestations of infected, not the barbecues, lemonades, and swimming of past. When surviving each hour was under threat, small luxuries like this became out of reach of even one’s dreams.

“Well, guess I should call you Sir then,” you said, leaning against the wall. You held the pitcher up to your chest and the tails of the ribbon on your chest dipped into it, the soft shiny yellow turning dark, tainted.

His mouth watered and fucking hell, it wasn’t the lemonade you just gave him. He took a sip of the drink and licked his lips, imagining how you’d taste if he wrapped his large hand around your neck and pressed his chapped lips to your plush ones. Better yet, if he held your legs apart and devoured you other pair of lips until you were leaking down his mouth. Would you call him Sir then? His cock twitched in his jeans as he pictured you bent over one of these pews, your skirt pushed up and his hand in your hair as he slid his cock in your hole.

Jesus fucking Christ! What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Made the lemonade yourself?” He asked, groaning as he managed to get himself back up on his feet. His knees creaked like the floorboards of the houses he renovated, but ultimately supported him as he stood. He towered over you, making you appear smaller, more fragile.

“Depends. Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful, of course. Hot summer day like this…I really needed it,” he said, raising the glass up a little before taking another sip.

“Well then yes, I did make it.”

He chuckled, feeling himself pulled in by your easy charisma. It was nice to have normal conversations like this once again. No agenda, no need for establishing himself as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to beat someone up if even mildly threatened. It was just…normal.

“It’s very sweet, Ma’am. Like you I assume,” he added, mentally dusting off the part of his brain where he stored skills for conversing with pretty girls.

You laughed, holding your free hand up to your mouth to cover your lips that widened and revealed your teeth.

“Is that the southern charm that I hear our townspeople talk about?”

“They talk about my charm? I didn’t hear.”

“Oh yes, they do… Joel Miller, charming pants off of everyone in town.”

“Pants? Well that’s disappointing. I was hoping I’d charmed some pretty skirts off.”

“Lots of experience with that, Mister Miller?” you asked, sliding your hand over the soft fabric of the skirt of your dress. Such delicate fabric. He could fist the hem and give it one tug and it’d rip right off.

“More ‘n what you got for sure,” he said, loath to hint at how infrequent his encounters had become in the recent past. Tess died, he did a cross country hike with an annoying kid, he needed to maintain a good reputation in his new town. One buried after the other. Enough to leave a man with nothing but his fist and his imagination. He would kill for a fucking Playboy magazine. Literally. He’d killed for less.

“What do you know about how experienced I am?”

“Been experiencing longer than you’ve been alive, Ma’am.”

“Oh well. Nothing I can’t learn.”

He laughed nervously and stuck his hand in his jeans pocket. Surely you couldn’t be flirting… Why would a young thing like this flirt with him? He was in his late fifties looking like mid sixties and you were… He didn’t know. Young.

“If you could teach me, Mister Miller. Give a girl some experience?”

“I’m sure you can find someone else.”

“Oh. Not your type, am I?” you asked, and he deluded himself thinking you sounded disappointed. No chance.

He didn’t have a type. Long time since he thought of frivolous shit like that. But you shouldn’t be his type.

“There’s much more eligible men in town is what I’m saying,” he said, suddenly hesitant to lie. Lying had never been an issue for him. The right thing was to lie, say you weren’t his type so he wouldn’t cross lines. It’d been a long time since he did the right thing.

“I’ll be the decider of that,” you said with a shrug of your shoulder before taking the empty glass from him. “Have a good rest of the work day, Mister Miller.”

Later that night, he wrapped his fist around his cock in the privacy of his room. His mind flooded with images of you spread out for him, sweet lips and a sweeter pussy milking him. He couldn’t even recall the last time he was with a woman. It was Tess, of course. Sometime before she got thrown in FEDRA jail for the last time. Too fucking long ago.

Surely it was only because it’d been a long time since he got his dick wet. He’d never, in his entire life, pictured a woman so much younger spreading her legs for him. Sucking his cock. Crying out his name. How old was she even? Not past mid twenties for sure.

It was wrong, he knew, as white hot spend spurted out of his cock and covered his hand. A sour tang took over his mouth as the fog of unadulterated lust cleared up to reveal the ugliness in his head. He shuddered, feeling like something had crawled under his flesh. He hadn’t felt guilt like this in so long.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

You weren’t even as old as his kid would be had she been alive.

He’d known men like that back in the day. Grays in their hair and skin like old leather, but pretty young things old enough to be their daughter hanging off their arm. It was obvious that none of them kept these girls around for love or for their personality. It was always sex and the feeling of self-importance when a sweet young thing paid attention to balding heads, beer bellies and limp dicks that needed a blue pill to get up.

Fucking disgusting.

He began avoiding you whenever you happened to be in the same space. At the house of worship, the town clinic where you interned, trading days when people exchanged what they had for what they wanted. His eyes never met yours and he always quickly looked away when they stared too long at your uh…feminine features– pretty legs, cute ass, round tits. Where the fuck did you get sundresses anyway? Who kept that shit around in this world?

He didn’t know that when he avoided you, you took note of him. When he took glances of your features, you memorized his for later in the night when you buried your head in your pillow and pushed your fingers inside your pussy to simulate what it must be like to be with a man.

He was older. That much you knew from his grey hair, sun-damaged skin, and gait that exuded bone-deep weariness. You knew Tommy had just turned fifty. Hard to miss occasions that meant a free slice of cake from the canteen. Joel had to be in his mid-fifties at the very least. At first glance, he wasn’t what you’d consider handsome. There were younger men in town. Fit and muscular. Didn’t groan and scrunch up their faces when they got up. Didn’t have lines on their foreheads. No bags under their eyes.

Yet there was something about Joel that was more entrancing.

After your first meeting when you offered him lemonade, you made sure to visit under the guise of worship. You didn’t know much about religion and were conflicted about embracing a god. The only faith you had rested in your medical instruments and the medicines the town’s chemist concocted. But it was a nice place to meet people, to check on healing patients.

The visits were worth it for a glimpse of Joel’s large hands wrapped around his carpentry tools. When the sun was the hottest, he sometimes stripped down to his tank top, giving you a show better than any film played in the community theater. His broad back looked masculine enough in his flannel shirts. But you didn’t know desire like the first time you saw him in a white tank, showing off his muscular arms as sweat dripped down his tan skin.

When you pleasured yourself in your room, it took time, imagination, your fingers, and a lot of effort to make slick pool in your pussy. That day, all it took was the sight of Joel Miller working. You sat with your thighs pressed together, rubbing them against each other in the most inconspicuous little movements.

Could it be blasphemy if the God who was supposedly orchestrating everything made this man take his shirt off in front of you?

It made no fucking sense. Joel was old. He looked like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed every goddamn day. He had been chewed up and spat out by whatever the fuck was outside Jackson these days. Hardened expressions, graying patchy beard, hands calloused from carpentry and decades of using weaponry. Features that only indicated a long life lived, not attractiveness.

You were supposed to be attracted to the soft, sweet ones like the guys in the worn out copies of romance stories that the previous inhabitant of your house stashed in the basement. Even his little brother would be a more reasonable target for your lust. Younger, taller, softer, head full of dark, silky hair with few grays. But you wanted Joel Miller with his rough graying beard that would prick your skin were you to cup his cheek like the women on the novel covers.

Something about him just screamed Man. Something that none of the other guys in town had. There was nothing wrong with any of the other Jackson men, but none of them made you want to take the plunge and lose your virginity. It wasn’t the lack of offers, per se. You’d gotten looks from many eligible Jackson bachelors. You had drinks with a few of them. Dinner with fewer and shared a kiss with more than one. Alright, two. But anything beyond that had you trembling in anxiety.

It wasn’t anything precious to you, virginity. But you’d waited so long. Focused so long only on survival and then helping to build this town and now training to become a doctor. Whatever passed for doctor these days. With all your life dedicated to everything but your love life, you simply had no experience. What if you messed up and they laughed? You knew anatomy, but that didn’t translate to practical stuff. What if you couldn’t make them feel good? You’d have to see the guy all the damn time in the small town. There would be no escaping the awkwardness.

Sure it was counterintuitive to keep pushing away sexual encounters because you had no experience. But you didn’t know what else to do. You were too old already to not have done anything. But each day that passed with you rejecting perfectly nice men meant you were getting even older for your first time.

You didn’t know where Joel fit into your need for exploring your sexuality, but it didn’t hurt to stare. God knew everyone else in Jackson did.

So you stared. Work with his carpentry tools. Riding on horseback into Jackson after patrol. Helping with the fucking sheep. Walking around with Tommy. Carrying his nephew around town. It should be inappropriate to be fantasizing about a man when he was doing something as innocent as carrying a baby. But seeing his large hand cradling the baby’s little head made you want to scream into your pillow and kick your legs.

“You alright, sweetheart?”

Your heart fluttered and you let out a nervous laugh at being caught. You smoothed out the wrinkles on your clothes just to make it look like you were alright. Unfortunately you were wearing a pair of fucking jeans. You didn’t even want to know how awkward you looked.

“‘m alright, Mister Miller.”

“Joel’s fine,” he said, rocking his nephew in his arms.

Oh fuck, his fucking arms!

“Oh I don’t know,” you said, fidgeting with a belt loop on your jeans. “Wouldn’t want to be impolite addressing you by your first name like that.”

He smiled, recalling your conversation from the house of worship when you called him Sir and had him fucking himself in the shower to the memory. “Ah. ‘cause I’m an old man,” he said, more as a reminder to himself to fucking behave.

“You’re not that old…” you trailed, looking him over in a way that set fire to every inch of skin that you laid eyes on.

Behave, Miller. You’re out with your nephew.

“That so?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Mhmm. You don’t look a day over seventy.”

He snorted, making Miles stir in his arms just a little. That stung a little. It shouldn’t. Your estimation of his age, whether you were serious or not, was reminder enough that he was too old to be lusting after you.

“Thanks. I’m actually eighty-two.”

You giggled your pretty little giggle, lowering your gaze to the ground and looking back up only when it had turned into a wide grin. “How old are you actually?”

“Old. Fifty six.”

“Fifty-six isn’t that old…” you trailed as you brought a hand up to his bicep. Joel gulped, praying to the non-existent God that you would stop before praying to the same God that you would keep your hand right there. God answered his second prayer. You squeezed, licked your lips and looked up at him with your doe eyes.

“Checking if the hardware is still working, Doctor?”

“I’m not a doctor yet.”

“When do you become one then? Ain’t no Harvard handing out medical degrees in this town.”

“Howard?” you asked, squinting at him. Ah, of course you didn’t know. Harvard didn’t mean the same thing to you. Now it was just like every other building in Boston. Run over by infected. These ones were just the nerdy kind with glasses on.

“That was a thing, too. But I said Harvard. They were big universities back then.”

“Ah. Did you go there?” You asked, with no malice or bite. Oh, bless your heart. No one expected a dummy like him to have gone to university at all, much less Harvard. No one in his family had gone. Sarah was meant to be the first.

“Yeah. Traded some oxy and threw molotovs at clickers in the campus.”

You rewarded him with a giggle and that was incentive enough for him to keep going. “Guys like me didn’t get into Harvard. Or Howard. Didn’t even go to community college. I finished high school and got a job in construction.”

“You didn’t go to uh…construction college?” You asked, cocking your head and raising an eyebrow as though testing out the term.

“No such thing. Well, there were civil engineering programs, but I just learned on the job.”

“Like me.”

“Guess so. I see you reading from all those fat medical books. But there’s no need to study any books in construction. ‘cept if you wanna be an engineer or architect or something, which I’m not.”

“Maybe you should write one. We could all do with some knowledge from before. It’s important to document it, pass it on to Ellie and little Miles over there.”

“I ain’t writing books, sweetheart. Don’t think I even remember how to write much. I’ll just keep to fixing things up in this town. So, if you need some help with your place…I’m happy to help.” It was the least he could do. Maybe as some kind of penance for having impure thoughts about you. Or as a fucked up trade for starring in the mental images he conjured to jack off in the shower.

“There is something, actually. But I don’t have anything to trade for, so I’ll wait until I do,” you said, clasping your hands behind your back and swaying in place in an endearing manner.

“Nonsense. You patched me up just last week. You’ve done enough for the town’s health to not have to trade for anything ever again.”

“Well, no. That’s not how it should be… It’s people’s health. Can’t put a price on that.”

“Believe it or not, health had a steep price back in the day. Cost four thousand something just to give birth. Double that if they had to cut you open.” And that was just how much it cost when Sarah was born. He was sure it had only gone up by 2003. If he hadn’t worked his ass off, there was no way he could’ve escaped debt. It helped that his Ma and his then wife’s parents helped with childcare. Would’ve been even more expensive without that.

“Damn. I don’t know how much that is, since…y’know we don’t have money now. But that sounds like a big number. It shouldn’t cost anything just to be born.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, shaking his head. “But listen. Anything you want fixed, I’ll help out. You can give me something later if you’re worried. I know Ellie’s always on the look for new books to read and you seem to have a lot of them.”

“Nothing Ellie would like. Not like the special limited edition of Savage Starlight or anything. Just medical textbooks and romance novels.”

“We could trade for the lemonade from that afternoon,” he insisted, desperate to do something for you. Take care of you as you took care of everyone who walked into the clinic be it papercuts or a fucking knife in their abdomen.

“Alright. Trade for the lemonade it is then,” you said, giving in to his pressure.

“Now tell me. What d’ya need fixed?”

⌘⌘⌘

It had been a few days since Joel promised to fix your shower for you. Each time he came by and rang your doorbell, you hid somewhere away from your windows. When he caught sight of you in public, you quickly walked away or engaged in conversation with someone else. You didn’t need shit fixed. Everything in your house was perfectly alright. Tommy and his guys had given the place a complete makeover just a couple months before Joel and Ellie arrived.

You were no paragon of honesty, but you didn’t make lying a habit. There were a few white lies here and there and this was meant to be one of them. It just didn’t fucking hit you that if you lied to a contractor that your shower was broken, he would eventually come over to fucking fix it. All your desperate sex starved brain wanted that day was for Joel Miller to come use his tools in your room and flex those muscles while at it.

So invested were you in that particular fantasy that as you unwound after a long shift at the clinic, it was with Joel’s beefy arms in mind. You stood in front of your mirror, taking in your reflection. One of the magazines you’d found in a box under your bed laid open on the dressing table. Playboy. Entertainment for Men. Each had a scantily clad woman on the cover. And many more inside.

You made comparisons to yourself and the woman in the center page of the issue.

She stood in front of a dressing table too, but much different from how you stood. Her legs were on either side of her dressing table chair and her hands on the top of it. Between her arms were breasts, big and round and with smooth skin. They didn’t have any marks on them like yours. No moles, no stretch marks. Just plain. And she just stood there, soft brown hair down, tickling the top of her breasts and her lips parted as she gazed at you. No, at the men she was meant to entertain in this men’s entertainment magazine. All she had on was panties that went high up to her flat belly that connected to high transparent socks.

You reached behind your back and unclasped your bra, wishing that you had something nicer like the woman on the cover of another one of the magazines. Bright red and showing off her breasts wonderfully, but pulled down to reveal almost everything. What was the point of a bra then if it didn’t cover or support anything? Entertainment, you decided. Men seemed to be very entertained by breasts.

Many a man had stared at yours even though you had them behind layers of fabric unlike the naked women of the magazines. Many had conversations with them instead of your face. Some brushed up against them ‘accidentally’. Joel thought he was being covert, but you felt his brown eyes rove all over them. You thought maybe that he too would brush up against it sometime, but he never did. Maybe entertainment stopped at just looking, as in the magazines.

You wondered if Joel sought out men’s entertainment magazines like this. He was from before everything went to shit, so it was very possible that he did. Did he like the women in these pages, sticking their asses out and looking through the pages at him? Would he be entertained if he saw you like this?

You didn’t know that if you turned your head to your bedroom door, you would have your answer. Joel’s cock strained against his already tight jeans as he stood awestruck by your figure. He swallowed as you held on to the top of the chair and lifted your knees, one after the other and placed them on the plush seat. You arched your back, a little too much at first before reducing the curve. Your ass stuck out enticingly and he didn’t know whether to grab, squeeze, slap, or spread your cheeks apart and fuck your ass.

He should leave.

It was stupid of him to walk into your house with a box of plumbing tools to fix your shower when you hadn’t yet given him a date or time for it. Plus you were avoiding him. Running away with your little friends and picking up stuff to hide your face from his view. He was plenty sure that when he’d rung your doorbell, you weren’t always away from home.

He should leave.

Fixing the shower could wait. He could confront you some other day.

But you were putting on such a pretty little show in nothing but your panties and he was only a man. A bad one.

His boots stayed put on your hardwood floors as you enjoyed yourself in front of the mirror. You spread your knees and let your fingers between your thighs, eyes closed, lips parted and low whines escaping your lips in just a few minutes. He palmed his growing erection over his jeans, consequences of being caught be damned. He was a foul beast already. What bad was another sin on the list? Besides, you were the one who’d left the fucking door open.

Your soft whimpers grew into moans as you brought yourself closer and he forced his feet to stay put despite their urge to walk up to you and give you something to really moan about.

“Fuu– mmm Joel, pleeease.”

He let out a gasp, all his restraint flying out the window as soon as he heard his name from your lips. You couldn’t actually be doing this… There had to be another Joel in town. Younger, better looking, smarter.

Your voice grew needy and the pitch higher as you kept at it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Gimme it, Sir.”

No, it couldn’t be anyone else.

Joel toed his boots off and took quiet steps towards you, emboldened by the filth that spilled from your lips. If this old man was what you wanted, he wouldn’t stop himself from reaping the benefits. He wasn’t a goddamn saint. Never was.

He stopped in front of you, surprised you still hadn’t sensed his presence. As though the universe heard his thoughts, it had you open your eyes. You gasped as soon as you saw him and buckled off the chair, but Joel caught you. You shuddered, unable to cope with the sudden touch.

“J-Joel?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he said, touching your cheek with the back of his hand. You whined, your body molding itself against his chest. You brought a hand to his arm, feeling the rock hard muscles underneath his sleeves and your other hand worked between your legs.

Your fingers no longer felt adequate as you felt his large fingers on your cheek. “Want you, please,” you whined, desperate to return to the edge where you had been right before you saw him.

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me…” he spoke dangerously, soft brown eyes clouded with a kind of desire you had longed to see in him for weeks.

“Want you…want you to be with me,” you repeated stupidly, your desperation clouding your senses too much for you to say anything else. While in the past you only wanted to get rid of your virginity, your goals had become more specific with his arrival. You wanted him. You wanted his big hands and broad shoulders, to hold on to them as you rode him. To watch his grumpy expressions turn to ecstasy under you.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said, his tone low and almost threatening. Any other threat from him, you would’ve heeded. But not this one.

“Touch me!”

It was as though something in him snapped at your words. While darkness only loomed over him before, it now completely took over.The hand that previously only caressed your cheek now wrapped itself around your neck. Before you could completely process the move, his other hand slapped yours away. He replaced two of your puny fingers with his middle finger, eliciting a strained moan from you.

“Touching yourself to a Playboy magazine, huh?”

You only nodded, unable to form words now that a fantasy of yours had finally come to life.

“Dirty little thing…Thought you were a nice girl and all. Helpin’ out at the clinic, head buried in books all the time. Turns out you actually got your head in dirty magazines.”

You whined, your pussy clenching and gushing around his finger at the way he was speaking to you. The same man who insisted on calling you Ma’am despite your protests was calling you a dirty girl now. The veil of respectability seemed to have floated away at the sight of you naked and pleasuring yourself. Had you known that this was all you needed to get Joel Miller to touch you, you would’ve done it much sooner.

He added another finger, the girth of him enough to stretch you more than you had done for yourself. You brought a hand up to his shoulder and fisted his shirt, needing something to anchor yourself to.

“You ever been taken by a man, sweetheart?” He asked, his tone too cool and casual for what he was doing to you. You shuddered, partly from his phrasing– taken, he said. Taken. Like you were a thing. Like the women in the magazines positioned so uncomfortably just so their breasts could look a certain way for the picture. Printed on the cover page with the words Entertainment for Men written on top. You shook your head, feeling small as you confessed it for the first time.

“Any man?”

“N-no,” you managed to breathe out, whimpering at the way the bulge beneath his jeans twitched at your simple answer. He took a step to position himself behind you, letting you lean your back against his chest. The angle at which he touched your pussy changed, opening your world up to a wonderful new kind of pleasure.

“A virgin. Pretty young things like you ain’t for men like me,” he whispered in your neck, making you shiver. His thumb roamed between your legs as far as they could reach, caressed you gently, his softness with you contradicting his warning about men like him. The hand around your neck slithered down your torso, cold air forcing you to face your new desire of having your breath kept hostage.

He took your left breast in hand, squeezing the flesh like someone starved would hold on to a piece of bread. It felt more like a punctuation to the warning he issued than a part of sex. Just then, his thumb between your legs stopped its search, stopping a little above the fingers inside you.

A moan you didn’t recognize as yours at first filled the room and you buckled forward. Blunt nails sunk into the flesh of your breast as he saved you before you could fall. He hauled you back up, making you collide against his chest.

You gasped and quickly grabbed the hand between your legs, the sensation too intense for you to know what to do with. His thumb kept on, rolling over something there that set your person on fire.

“Fuuuck! Joel– I– I– hnnng–”

“I know, sweetheart,” he crooned, keeping at whatever the hell he was doing to make you feel this way.

“Please… I don’t– what was that?”

You felt his chest rumble before you heard his laughter. Heat rose to your face and your throat felt strained though there was no hand around it anymore.

“Never touched your clit? Do you even know what that is?” He mocked, the cruelty somehow not repelling you from him. He forced you to look up at him. Your heart lurched at how close you were to his face. You could see every gray hair, every minute blemish and line.

“Don’t know your own fucking body but you want a man? You don’t know what you’re handing me on a silver platter. I ain’t like the other guys in town. I walked across the fucking country and lemme tell ya, there’s no pretty things like you out there. I’m starved.”

“Take me, then,” you begged, using his own words from earlier. “Please. Whatever you– a-aaah!”

He ramped up the pressure on that spot– your clit– and with it, took your ability to speak coherently. It was as though he’d done it on purpose. You hated it. To be so bereft of control. To be a puppet in someone’s hand. For someone to acquaint themselves with parts of you that you didn’t know of. But it was too much to fight, so you let go. Let him play with you. Take you. Like a thing.

You renounced control of your lips too, his name slipping out effortlessly like it did when he caught you. Then you renounced what was left of your dignity and began begging relentlessly. For what, you didn’t know. In his hand, you’d gone from woman to pupper, your strings pulled by a man, your voice now his. Sounds that would be indiscernible from that of a wounded animal emanated from somewhere deep within you.

Perhaps none of this was real. Why else did your own voice grow so distant from you? Why did your vision become blurry? Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. Your eyes clenched shut, depriving you of your blurred vision. Your toes curled. You wanted to shrink into yourself, shrink away from all this goodness. You went higher and higher, soaring like a bird. Every nerve ending in your body felt electrified, awoken like one switch turned on every light on last winter’s Christmas tree.

You let out a loud cry, the soaring bird in you reaching its peak before beginning its fall to the ground. You could hear your breaths again, labored but doing everything to stabilize itself. Your thighs still shook. Your chest rose and fell. A hand caressed your hand. Behind you, something strong supported your back. Kept you from falling backward.

“Joel…”

“I know, I know…” he whispered into your head. You opened your eyes and looked up at him, surprised to see a softer visage. He picked you up off the chair like you’d seen him lift giant logs before. With ease. You didn’t protest as he carried you. Didn’t protest when he laid you out on your bed.

He bent down and picked something up. No questions, no instructions. He simply spread your leg away from the other. Cold air touched the gushing mess dripping out of you and you shivered, feeling a sudden need to cover yourself but unable to defy him. His hand was on your pussy again. His hardened, calloused fingers behind a soft fabric this time. He wiped upwards, collecting the mess he made out of you. When he lifted the fabric up, you realized it was your panties.

He tucked it into the pocket of his jeans and then looked back at your face, the intensity of his gaze making you want to run. Problem was your weak legs wouldn’t take you anywhere. You didn’t screw your eyes shut. You didn’t pull your blanket to conceal yourself. You looked back at him, defiant. Like you were trying to prove something. I can handle a man like you.

“Be a good girl from now.”

That and a condescending pat on your pussy and he was gone.

#joel miller smut #Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller x reader

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picassopedro · 2 months

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This was SO sweet 🥹

— beneath the mask

din djarin x f!reader

rated t - 1.3k

tags: medieval!au, light angst, anxiety, arranged marriage, soulmate au, reader has a mother & father

prompt: "I wanted it to be you, I wanted it to be you so badly” from the writing challenge hosted by the amazing and lovely @moonlight-prose 💖

when a mysterious stranger wins your hand at the tournament, you can't help but wonder of his intentions

With each step down the aisle, your legs threaten to give out.

A clicking of your teeth as you tremble, before you're gritting your jaw, biting your anxiety back. You have a reputation to uphold, even if you're only the daughter of a lord from a lesser house.

You're still a lady.

And this marriage would ensure a home for you. Protection. More than, if this man is what he says he is.

But a part of you desperately wishes that it was someone else at the end of the aisle.

You'd searched for a long time. For the glimpses that flash in your dreams at night. Knowing that he was out there - the one you had begun to think of as yours.

Your soulmate.

Never managing to meet the same eyes that reflect back at you in the darkness, just before you wake. Not once in the hundreds, thousands of people you’ve looked at, throughout your years.

And when none were found, you slowly gave up. Knowing the world was too large and you were too small, too poor, to seek them out.

Eventually agreeing to the match that your mother and father arranged.

If you could not have him, then you did not want anyone.

And now - the figure that waits for you stands tall.

Encased in gleaming armor, showing none of the nerves that wrack you. Making you wonder if you should have protested. Taken the path of the unwed, even if there was hardship in your future.

The stranger had won your favor, in the tournament. That is how the story will be told, passed on by your father.

Looking back, you remember very little from it. Knowing deep down that the winner would be the one to have your hand, whether you liked it or not. So much of it had turned to haze, as you had sat frozen there.

All but too nervous to watch, as swords clashed, shields splintering.

Men you had known and grown up with falling beneath the sword of the mysterious man, clad in silver armor.

A Mandalorian, it was rumored.

Something from stories, you didn't know they still existed. An ancient clan of knights and warriors, honoring weapons and myths over sworn deities. Never revealing their faces to outsiders, and sometimes even to their own.

He had never killed any of them, and there was some comfort in that.

But that didn't mean he did not wound.

That he wasn't vicious, ferocious on the battlefield. Driven by an unseen force. Unrelenting, even when blood was drawn - splattering a bright crimson against his armor.

Showing just how he came to earn his station. The leader of his tribe, from the whispers you heard. Traveling far - slipping into the last few open brackets in the tournament, just as the first morning was starting.

Ripping through them all, in the days that followed.

You were given as the prize, in the end.

Even before the day ends, you would belong to him - ferried off to a new life tomorrow.

And this is what also slows your feet.

Wondering why such a man would come for you.

At the end of the aisle, you halt. The clergymany is speaking, but it's all white noise. Your own eyes wide and face solemn as you stare at your betrothed - your features reflected back at you in the tinted glass of his visor.

Acutely aware that you haven't seen his face. Not knowing what your husband was to look like.

Was he younger than you? Or older... older than your father?

Was his face kind, or was it as sharp as his movements? Was it all snarling teeth, beneath?

Were his eyes blue, or green, or just maybe... brown? Like his?

You don't know. You think not. Leaving you to wonder how you will bear it - to spend each day staring into their eyes while dreaming of another’s.

It's only when a voice raises that you're snapped from your thoughts. Realizing that the ceremony is waiting for you.

Managing, with a stammer, to repeat the words. To pledge yourself - your life and love - to this stranger.

The words repeated after, a low voice layering with metal. The shaking of your hands is still visible when they reach out to meet his, the tips of yours resting against wide, steady palms.

Covered in gloves but solid, like the rest of him.

Only the peek of tanned skin visible when he peels the glove from his hand. A small comfort coming in the warmth of his hand, as you slip the ring on his finger, settling it just above a scarred knuckle.

The careful brush of his fingers - a calming stroke against your skin, when he slips a matching one on yours.

Gentle, after everything.

Not him.

But perhaps, not a monster.

The celebrations swirl past you. There's music you don't remember. A meal that sits heavy in your stomach, from the meager amounts you managed to swallow.

A smile plastered on - assuring your excitement to family and friends - all while you worry about the hours to come.

Will he be as gentle as he was during the ceremony?

Or will it be more like the battlefield?

These thoughts linger, as the hours pass. Until the sun dips below the horizon, until the stars blanket the sky.

And then, you're alone.

Waiting in the finest room prepared for him in the guest wing. The pretty, ivory gown stripped from you, replaced with something thin and fine and silver - hand-sewn and intended to please him.

Pacing, until you hear the heavy steps approaching - as he returns from a meeting with your father, your dowry and your life handed over.

Leaving you frozen in place, as the door opens. Where he lingers, filling the space.

A different man than before, you think.

There had not been a slope to his shoulders, the way he moves as if afraid to frighten you.

His voice is different too - soft now, coaxing.

"I wish our meeting had been under more pleasant circumstances." Your husband tells you, as the door slowly shuts behind him.

Trapping you, now. The iron latch heavy, as it locks into place.

"But I could not bear to stand by." He continues, that hard edge creeping into his voice again, "You must understand."

"I don't." You manage - your brow pinched, shifting the smallest step backwards as he moves forward.

He goes still, at your retreat.

"Do you not, ner kar’ta?" His head tilts, "Do you not know why I have come?"

The shake of your head is small. Not understanding the name he calls you, his intentions.

He hesitates then, for a second. Before his hands are reaching - grasping the edge of his helmet. Slipping it from his head, as his head dips.

His hair is dark, beneath. Messy and curling, greying at the temples, down to the scruff that lines his jaw beneath plush lips and the curve of his nose.

And his eyes. That pretty shade of brown, the dark fan of his eyelashes.

You know them. Though you've never seen them, yourself.

For a moment, you can't breathe. Frozen for an entirely new reason - starting back at the eyes that you've seen so often.

"It's you," You manage. The words are no more than a soft gasp.

He lets you touch him, then. Fingertips tracing his jaw, those eyes slipping shut when your fingers brush the nape of his neck. Somehow knowing how the curls would feel against your fingers, already knowing each detail of his face.

Hidden deep down, revealed bit by bit in your sleep.

Only now, do you see all of him.

And only now, do you lean in. Your head tipping towards him, just as his forehead presses against yours. And it's now that you understand the warmth of his touch - the way it seems to soak into your skin. A lost piece of you, now becoming complete.

You hadn’t been able to find him - so he had found you, instead.

Unable to help the smile, as the dark pit in your stomach blooms into spring.

I wanted it to be you, you think - as your heart finally starts to beat again. I wanted it to be you so badly.

There's a hitch in his breath, with your touch. Fingers that stretch out and then curl, until you're taking them yourself, slipping yours between them.

"Now do you know?" Your husband murmurs, in the voice that you know as well as his eyes.

And you do - the answer coming easily, as you nod, "Because you're mine."

"Yes," He smiles.

"Yours."

i cant stop writing soft!soulmate din 💖 thank you for reading!!

ner kar’ta - my heart

#din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin fic rec

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picassopedro · 2 months

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I’m not going to say where…but the hotel he’s staying at in Vancouver is one block from my office 👀

PEDRO PASCAL THE MALE TV STAR OF THE YEAR | People's Choice Awards 2024

#might have to start hanging out around there on my lunch 🫢#Pedro pascal

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picassopedro · 2 months

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for every mood, there is a pedro pascal character as husband

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picassopedro · 2 months

Text

i know who you are | 1. the beginning

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Chapter Summary: A head injury on patrol causes you to lose your memories of the outbreak and the people you have grown to know and love over the last ten years.

Chapter Warnings: language, descriptions of blood and wounds, vomiting, angst, amnesia

WC: 7.6K

A/N: I shortened the timeline a bit - all of the events from the first game have happened, but this takes place ten years after the outbreak instead of twenty.

Series Masterlist

Pain.

That was all you could recognize at first. The back of your head throbbed so badly, you couldn't even open your eyes. There were sounds, but they were unidentifiable through the searing, red hot pain radiating across the back of your skull. Tenderly, you reached your hand back to press against the source. You recoiled instantly, the pain too much to bear. A thick and sticky wetness coated your fingers.

Then you smelled it.

The smell of metal. Coppery, familiar. Then... did you smell fireworks? Was it the Fourth of July? A few years back, your older brother was messing around with fireworks and nearly blew off his hand, ending the night in the emergency room. Your parents never let him forget it. Is that what happened? Did he make some stupid bet with you? A game of chicken wasn't out of the realm of possibility. He always brought out your competitive side.

You forced your eyes open just a crack, the sun immediately causing you to close them again. It was too bright and your brain was vibrating like it was trying to escape from the confines of your skull.

You were outside. It wasn't dark, fireworks wouldn't make sense. What was going on?

Then you heard your name. Someone shouting it, over and over, panic stricken.

You tried to hold up your hand, wave them off, tell them to stop being so loud, but you could barely lift your hand before the nausea hit. Unable to stop yourself, you rolled onto your side, your head screaming and punishing you for the sudden movement as you heaved, emptying the contents of your stomach into the grass. The force of it made your head hurt even more, if that was even possible.

The smell of acid mixed with the smell of metal, now.

Maybe you were dying.

Someone's hands were on your shoulders, pushing you onto your back, yelling your name over and over.

"Stop," you pleaded weakly, tears springing into your eyes. The pain was too much.

"Jesse! Get her water!"

You groaned and covered your face with your palms. The sunlight was so fucking bright that you could even see it through your eyelids, a red glow everywhere you looked. You needed darkness. You needed quiet.

"Here, drink," you heard a man's voice say, then the hard plastic pressed against your lower lip. You whimpered and tried to pull away, the thought of anything in your stomach making you feel sick again.

"Shit, Joel's gonna fucking freak," you heard another male voice say from behind your head.

Against your better judgement, you forced your eyes open. Blinking rapidly, you locked eyes with the first person you saw. A man with dark, curly hair that went past his ears, with patchy facial hair and soft, brown eyes. Your eyes drifted down to his dirty, denim jacket, and then you saw his hands. Fear shot through you when you saw the drying blood, fist still clutching a gun, and as you tried to scramble away, you bumped into someone behind you, causing you to panic.

Why were they surrounding you? Who were these people? It wasn't fireworks, it was gunpowder.

"Get the fuck away from me!" you screeched, but the dark haired man inched forward, his free hand reaching out to you, telling you to calm down, it's okay, sugar, but you continued to crawl backwards, ignoring the pain throbbing behind your eyes. What did these people do to you?

"Whoa, it's alright," the other man said. A younger man, also darker hair, but shorter.

Your chest heaved as you gasped for air, panic seizing you from head to toe. Your eyes flicked around the forest, the huge tree trunks making it impossible to figure out where you were.

"W-where am I? Where's my mom?"

The man holding the gun frowned and exchanged concerned glances with the other man.

"She's gone," he said gently, as if it were obvious. A strangled noise got caught in the back of your throat when you looked at the man's gun again.

"What did you do to her?" you asked, voice wavering. The man's eyes dropped to the gun in his hand and he quickly holstered it.

"I didn't do anythin' to her, sugar," he said, and again looked at the younger man before continuing. "She died the first day."

"What?" you asked, lip trembling. What the fuck was going on?!

"First day of what?"

"You don't remember?" he asked, and you could see the worry in his face. His eyes wide and his hand a little shaky.

"No, I don't fucking remember! What the fuck are you trying to pull?" you exclaimed, your voice rising the angrier you got.

"Sugar, do you know who I am?" he asked, sneakily taking the handgun that laid abandoned by your side in the dirt and tucking it into the back of his pants.

"No," you spat, then winced and clutched the back of your head again. When you pulled your hand back, you saw fresh blood coating your fingers. Your heart began slamming in your chest and you were finding it difficult to bring in enough air to keep you level.

"Jesse, get a rag," the man ordered. Jesse jumped up and jogged over to a backpack discarded on the ground. Old, worn, faded, with splashes of blood.

Then you saw the bodies.

Well, you supposed they could be considered bodies, but they didn't look like people. Not anymore. Their skin was sagging and grey. Clothes, torn and dirty. Mangy hair ripped out in handfuls at the scalp. Their mouths were agape, revealing yellowed teeth and stinking of rot.

"What the fuck?" you whispered as your vision narrowed. You faintly realized Jesse was pressing a rag against the back of your head, trying to stop the bleeding and had you not been so scared and confused, you might have shoved him away.

"Tommy, what do we do?" Jesse asked, and you could hear the fear in his voice now. His hand shook against your shoulder as he tried to keep you still.

"We gotta get her back home, have Nick take a look at her," he said, and you looked back and forth between them, flabbergasted. Talking about you as if you weren't right there.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," you told them. You tried to stand up, but fell to your knees. Tommy knelt down next to you, his arm circling around your shoulders, but you shrugged him off.

"C'mon, sugar. We ain't gonna hurt you, you just hit your head and you need to see a doctor," Tommy said. "Jesse, grab me my first aid kit."

"I gotta go home," you mumbled, and forced yourself to stand again. You couldn't see straight. Everything around you was spinning even though you were fairly certain you were standing still. "I need to see my dad... my brother."

"Shit," you heard Jesse mutter under his breath as he hustled over with a small, leather bag.

"Okay, why don't we take you to a doctor first, then we can talk about your family, alright?" Tommy asked gently. "I'm just gonna patch you up til we get back," he added, reaching into the bag for some medical tape. You watched as Tommy instructed Jesse to hold the rag against your head while he ran the medical tape around, holding the cloth in place.

You didn't have much choice. As you looked around, you were becoming more and more aware you had absolutely no idea where you were or what was happening. You definitely weren't home. There weren't trees like this back home.

So, begrudgingly, you agreed to follow them. Tommy stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled, a sharp, piercing noise that made you wince. You were confused until you heard the soft pattering of hooves approaching, and through the trees, three tacked up horses emerged. A pale yellow one slowed and stopped a few feet away from you, snorting loudly and stomping its foot. You watched as Tommy and Jesse grabbed their backpacks and mounted their horses. Then Tommy seemed to realize the problem and quickly slid back down to the ground.

"I'll give you a boost," he said, crouching next to the yellow horse and lacing his fingers together. Slowly, you walked forward, eyeing the horse wearily before gripping the saddle and stepping one foot into Tommy's hands. He hoisted you up as you tossed your leg over the side of the horse and you bent forward, momentarily burying your face in its mane while you tried to stop the world from spinning. Fuck, your head was going to explode.

You followed Tommy's horse while Jesse took up the rear, all of you maneuvering around the rotting corpses littering the ground.

"What is this?" you asked, utterly confused. "Did I faint when we found a bunch of dead bodies or something? We have to go to the police," you told them, panic rising once again.

"We will," Tommy said, and you took a deep breath. Okay, things were making sense. You hit your head. Maybe you fell off your horse and knocked yourself out. You don't remember meeting these men before, but they seemed to know you, and they didn't appear to be threatening. If they were, they wouldn't give you your own horse, right?

"How far away are we from your home?" you asked after about ten minutes.

"Not far. Maybe another half hour or so. You holdin' up okay?" Tommy asked, twisting around in his saddle to look at you, his eyes briefly glancing over your shoulder at Jesse.

"Yeah, I think so. My head really hurts, though," you said, blinking slowly. "Do you have a farm or a ranch or something?"

"A what?" Tommy asked, confused until he looked down at the horses. "Oh, right. No, but we do got a barn."

"Oh, okay," you said uncertainly. You looked around at the trees as your horse obediently followed Tommy's. It was so quiet. You must have been deep into the woods because you couldn't hear any road noise at all. Looking up, you didn't even see or hear any planes. You had never known quiet like this before. It was almost... peaceful.

You looked back over your shoulder, making eye contact with Jesse, who gave you a nervous smile.

"Is he your dad?" you asked, and Jesse snorted.

"No," he chuckled, then cleared his throat and wiped the smile off his face, becoming serious again. "No, Tommy's just my friend. Our friend," he added, and you slowly nodded before turning back around.

You loosely held the reins in your hands as you made your way through the forest, the only sounds coming from your horses and the birds singing in the branches above your heads. When you crossed a small stream, Tommy called over his shoulder not much further now.

At the end of the forest was a clearing. You could see it already. A huge gate and reinforced walls surrounding what you assumed was home to these men, but it looked like a fortress in the middle of nowhere. There were even guards with guns strolling along the top of the fences.

This didn't seem right.

"Stop," you told your horse, but of course it kept walking.

"Stop!" you shouted, and it pinned its ears back. You looked up at Tommy, who had now turned around in his saddle.

"How - I don't know what I'm doing, tell it to stop! I want to stop!" you told him as the panic rose from your chest and squeezed your throat.

"Pull on the reins," Tommy said, and you quickly tugged them, making the horse come to a sudden halt.

"Where are we? What is this?" you demanded, narrowing your eyes at him. By now you had made it just outside the gates, and the guards on top were looking at Tommy questioningly.

"This is Jackson," Tommy said calmly, then slid down from his horse to approach you. "This is where we live. We got a doctor here who can take a look at that head wound."

"Why don't you live in a normal house? A normal town? I don't understand," you said, and the tears began to well up in your eyes. You were so frustrated and everything was so confusing and all you wanted to do was go to bed and forget this ever happened.

"I'll explain everythin', I promise, but first we gotta get you to the doc, alright?" he asked as your tears began to fall. Tommy glanced up at the top of the fence and nodded. You watched as a handful of men began to crank open the gate, revealing the beginnings of a quaint -looking town.

"Can you get down? Go slow, I'll catch you if you fall," he said, and when you looked into his eyes, you could see affection there. You did as you were told. Swinging one leg over, you slowly and carefully lowered yourself to the ground, Tommy's hands reassuringly hovering above your shoulders until you were standing on your own two feet.

"Are we... together?" you asked him.

Tommy and Jesse both laughed heartily and then he quickly shook his head.

"No, sugar," he said, a smile still etched across his face. He looked over at the open gate and his smile slowly began to fade. "But we oughta get you to the doc right away."

You sat on the edge of an exam table, head tilted down, chin against your chest as the doctor Tommy introduced as Nick stitched up the laceration on your scalp. He had numbed the area pretty good with something from a very large needle that sent you spiraling into a frenzy until Nick and Tommy managed to calm you down and convinced you they were not in fact trying to drug you and sell you into sex trafficking, like you had accused them of trying to do.

Once the doctor started to work on your injury, Tommy excused himself, mumbling something about needing to talk to someone and that he would be back as soon as possible.

Nick said he had to cut away some of your hair, that you would have a small bald spot for a while, but the rest of your hair would be able to hide it effectively.

After he took care of the cut, he began to examine you further. He flashed a bright light into your eyes, making you wince and recoil. He asked you strange questions that you were confident you didn't answer correctly based on the expression on his face.

"Cordy- what?"

"Cordyceps," he repeated.

"No, I have no idea what that is. Is it a band?" you guessed, and he shook his head.

"Well, you certainly have a concussion, and I'm afraid you have some memory loss," he said, sitting down on the small stool across from you.

"How much is 'some'?"

"Uh, difficult to say, but ten years? Give or take?" he said, and you balked.

"Ten years?!"

He nodded.

"I'm afraid so. Can you tell me the last day you do remember?"

"Well," you began, relaxing your shoulders as you thought. "I remember it was fall, but it was still hot out. I had a long day at work - I'm a banker," you told Nick, and he nodded. "My feet were killing me, I had barely sat down all day. It was family dinner night at my parents' house. Me and my brother go over there every Friday. My dad made ribs out on the grill so he wouldn't heat up the house with the oven. My mom was wearing this new, green dress that I thought looked hideous but I lied and told her it was cute. And my brother was telling us about a girl he had met the weekend before."

Nick looked at you to continue, but when it became clear you were done, he sighed.

"That's the last day you remember?"

"Yeah," you said slowly, finally picking up on the concerned look he was giving you. "Was that really ten years ago?" you asked, softly this time. Nick pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and nodded.

"Oh my god," you breathed, looking around the sparse, run down room. What happened in ten years to make the world look like this? You were about to ask when you heard shouting coming from the lobby of the infirmary.

Nick jumped up and opened the door, then turned back to you.

"I'll be right back," he said, then shut the door quickly behind him.

You sat on the edge of the bed, legs lightly swinging as you tried to piece together what you knew.

Ten years.

Ten whole years, just... gone.

What memories did you make in that time? Your mom is dead, but what about the rest of your family? Is there anybody in this town that you might actually remember? You looked down at your body. You thought you looked the same, maybe a little thinner, but otherwise the same. Did you ever get married? Have kids?

The shouting got louder and pulled you out of your reverie. It was a man's voice, and it was growing closer. He sounded angry. Livid, even.

You could now hear him opening up the other exam room doors and calling your name, ignoring the voices of Tommy and Nick urging him to stop, and a jolt of fear shot through you. Glancing around the room, you looked for something, anything that might protect you or reinforce the door, but it was too late.

The door swung open and you jumped off the table. If this man was going to hurt you, you wouldn't go down without a fight.

He paused in the doorway, his eyes raking up and down your body, assessing you silently while you did the same. He was tall. Broad shoulders strained underneath a black T-shirt. A blue flannel was clutched in his fist. You could see his muscles twitching under his tanned skin, and when your gaze finally met his, you felt something else other than fear. Something you couldn't quite identify. You knew this man, but you didn't know how.

His hair was dark and had loose curls, similar to Tommy's but shorter and a little lighter. The beard surrounding plush looking lips had a dusting of white at the corners of his jaw, but it was his eyes that drew your attention the most. A deep, beautiful brown that told a whole story in just one moment.

Nick and Tommy stood behind the strange man, looking back and forth between the two of you. Dragging your gaze off of him, you looked at Tommy, hoping he would explain.

Then the man said your name softly and your eyes flicked back to him.

"What?" you finally said with an edge to your voice, growing annoyed with how nobody felt compelled to say anything. They just kept looking at you, waiting for you to acknowledge him as if you'd known him your whole life.

"You remember Joel. Right, sugar?" Tommy asked, and your eyes drifted back to him. All three men stared at you, the room so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Slowly, you shook your head, and Joel's face fell.

"Is it permanent?" Joel asked, turning to Nick.

Nick paused, his mouth opening and closing as he considered his answer before clearing his throat.

"It's too soon to say-"

"The fuck d'you mean?!" Joel roared, grabbing Nick by his collar and shoving him up against the door. You stumbled backwards in surprise.

"Joel!" Tommy yelled, yanking on his shoulder, trying to loosen his grip on the poor doctor but Joel just shrugged him off.

"Fix her!" Joel yelled, redness creeping up his neck as he slammed Nick up against the door again.

"I-I can't just fix her! What do you think this is? Look around!" Nick stammered, his fingers clawing at the backs of Joel's hands.

You gasped and felt your knees give out from underneath you. Slowly, you sunk down to the floor, crippled in fear. You huddled against the side of the bed, your hands clamped over your mouth as you rocked back and forth, trying and failing to keep your tears at bay.

"Joel! Let 'em go, you're scarin' her!" Tommy yelled, and that finally seemed to snap Joel out of it.

His grip instantly loosened and his head swiveled towards you, his eyes softening when he saw you curled up on the floor. He rushed forward but you held out a hand to stop him.

"Don't come near me."

He froze and stared down at you, hurt written all over his face.

"I'm sorry, baby," he whispered, and you flinched. Baby?

"Maybe we should give you two a minute," Tommy said. Your eyes widened and you shook your head.

"N-no! What do you mean? No!" you cried out. You clawed at the table, pulling yourself up as the tears dried on your face. Joel took a few steps back and stood against the wall, crossing his arms and dropping his head, hiding his face.

"It's just Joel, he ain't gonna hurt you," Tommy said softly, but you still shook your head.

"Look what he just did!" you exclaimed, not even caring anymore if you were hurting his feelings. "How can you say that?"

"Because he loves you!" Tommy said, sounding exasperated.

The room fell silent, the only sound coming from you as you struggled to catch your breath. You glanced over at Joel but his chin was still tucked against his chest.

"Is that true?" you asked him. He nodded, but still didn't look up from the spot on the floor.

You sighed and rubbed your palms roughly over face.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? There's just a lot happening right now and I'm very confused," you said, suddenly feeling guilty.

"I get it," Tommy said, looking back and forth between you and Joel, but Joel still appeared to be fixated on the floor. "Why don't you go home and rest. Can she, doc? Maybe some sleep will help?"

Tommy raised his eyebrows at Nick, trying to get him to agree and play along. Say yes. Don't piss off Joel.

"Yeah, perhaps it's a good idea if you went home. There's some evidence to suggest being around a familiar setting might trigger your memory to return," Nick said, and Joel finally looked up from the floor.

"What else can we do?" he asked as your fingers fidgeted at your sides. You really didn't like the idea of going home with this man. He clearly had a short temper and that set you on edge.

"Are there any personal effects that she holds some sentimental value to?"

Your gaze bounced back and forth between the men as they all talked about you like you were some science project.

"Yeah," Joel said with a nod.

"Alright. Start with that. Anything since you've known each other would work best, see if it jogs her memory. A necklace or a trinket-"

"Yeah, I get it," Joel said, finally chancing a look in your direction. You quickly dropped your gaze from him and looked back at Tommy.

"Can I talk to you?" you asked Tommy, who looked at Joel. Joel didn't say anything, he just stared right back at Tommy, his jaw clenched and his shoulders rising and falling slowly, as if he were trying very hard to control his breathing. You looked back and forth between them, waiting for the silent standoff to end.

"I'll be outside," Joel finally muttered, then stalked out of the exam room with Nick in his wake, leaving just you and Tommy.

"I don't want to go home with him."

Tommy sighed and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his eyes.

"It's your home, too," he said.

"He scares me," you replied, crossing your arms. "He's a loose cannon. I-I don't feel like I know anyone here and everyone seems to know me. Do you know how that feels? Do you know how scary that is?"

Tommy dropped his hands and looked up at you.

"No, I don't. And I'm sorry, but I promise you nothin' bad's gonna happen. Joel's always had a short fuse but he would never, ever lay a hand on you. He's been head over heels since the moment he met you, and you love him back, sugar."

You looked around the room, needing a break from eye contact for just a minute while you gathered your thoughts.

"How long have I known him?" you asked.

"Five years."

You nodded and chewed on your lower lip.

"And how long have you known him?"

"All my life."

Your eyes darted over to his in surprise and he gave you a small smile.

"He's my older brother," Tommy explained, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh," was all you said, suddenly feeling like shit for saying such things about his family.

"Listen. Why don't you give it a chance, hm? One day. See how it goes, and if you're still uncomfortable, we'll figure somethin' else out," Tommy offered. You considered it for a moment before reluctantly nodding your head. Aside from just walking out of Jackson, you didn't see much of a choice.

To say the walk to Joel's house was awkward would be putting it mildly.

You weren't sure if he overheard your conversation with Tommy, or maybe he just could sense how you felt about going home with him, but ever since you forced yourself to leave the exam room to find him waiting for you in the lobby, he had been very quiet.

His feelings were hurt, that much was obvious, but what could you do? It wasn't like you set out to intentionally hurt him. You had no idea who he was at the time.

You still weren't sure who he was.

You tried to subtly admire his profile as you walked side by side. He had a strong jaw, a sharp nose and a full head of hair, although you could tell he was older than you. By how much, you weren't sure.

You tried to see underneath the gruff exterior, wondering what on earth made you fall in love with him, but it was so hard to see past your first impression.

Well, second first impression.

Then he turned his head to look down at you. Your eyes met and you thought you felt a small flutter in your chest, but you couldn't tell if it was nerves or fear or something else but his eyes were absolutely beautiful. There was something so sincere about them and you found it oddly funny that they seemed to betray the rest of his hardened expression.

"Anythin' lookin' familiar?" he asked you. You blinked and looked around.

The street he was leading you down was filled with people. Children laughing and playing, adults chatting and smiling. If it wasn't for the setting being so strange, it would feel normal. You squinted at some of the faces as you walked by, hoping you would recognize somebody, but you didn't.

"No," you said with a shake of your head, and you thought you saw his shoulders slump next to you but you didn't want to get caught staring at him again, so you focused on looking straight ahead.

The two of you remained silent the rest of the walk, although you could feel the energy radiating off him and for the first time, you began to realize this must be just as hard for him as it was for you.

You were examining the huge watch towers that surrounded the town and wondering what on earth would require such firepower when you realized Joel was no longer at your side. You swiveled your head around, suddenly lost in a sea of people that were smiling at you as they strolled on by but you didn't see a single recognizable face. You felt the panic begin to build again until you heard your name and a gentle hand on your elbow. You looked up and actually felt relief when you saw Joel.

"Sorry, thought you were still with me," he said, then tilted his head towards a side street he must have began to walk down without you.

"We live down here," he added. You heard someone call out both your names as you walked down the street. Joel waved to an older gentleman on his porch and after a brief delay, you waved as well.

"This is so weird," you muttered, shaking your head as you looked around.

"Yeah, I reckon it is."

Joel stopped short in front of a small, two-story house with a large front porch. You looked up at it, taking in every detail. The shutters, the rocking chairs, the small garden out front surrounded by a white picket fence, hoping something would click but you still felt nothing.

"This is your house?" you asked him. He watched you carefully as you continued to look around, wishing he would see something in your eye that would give him a shred of hope.

"Our house, yeah," he corrected you. You glanced up at him and quickly looked away, feeling too guilty when you saw the look on his face.

"Sorry," you whispered.

"Don't be sorry," he told you, but he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and glanced around. "D'you wanna look inside?"

You nodded and followed him past the gate and up the little stone path that led to his - your - porch steps. A flash of yellow in the garden caught your eye and for the first time, a small smile played upon your lips.

"Oh, I love black-eyed susans," you said dreamily, your hand instinctually reaching out to touch the delicate petals.

"Yeah, I know. You told me your mom planted 'em every year," he said, stopping at the top of the steps to look down at you.

"That's right," you said with a smile. "Although it drove her crazy because-"

"The bunnies kept destroyin' 'em," he finished for you.

You stared into each other's eyes for a moment: him, waiting for you to remember, and you, wondering how you could forget.

"Yeah," you finally said, then dropped your gaze and cleared your throat, giving the flowers one last look before ascending the stairs to the front door.

Joel unlocked the door, pushing it open all the way and stepping aside so you could go in first. You peered inside for a moment before taking a step forward.

The first thing you noticed was it smelled faintly like firewood and coffee. The kitchen was to your left, living room to your right, and a staircase was in front of you next to a small hallway that appeared to lead to a back door of the house.

Joel stepped inside behind you and shut the door quietly, allowing you to take your time and process everything at your own speed. He desperately wanted to drag you around the house and show you things you should remember, but he refrained. Instead, his eyes followed where yours went. When you looked at the kitchen table, he thought remember when we had breakfast there this morning? When you looked at the fireplace, he thought remember on our anniversary when we couldn't make it up the stairs quickly enough so we made love in front of the fire? When you noticed the board games, boxes all frayed and worn, sitting on a bookshelf behind the couch, he thought remember when you beat Ellie in Scrabble and she flipped the board over?

But of course, you didn't remember any of those things.

You looked around blankly, and he could tell you were trying to remember but not a single shred of recognition flickered across your face. Your eyes landed on the kitchen counter and you took a step forward.

"We had coffee together today, didn't we?"

Joel's heart fluttered excitedly in his chest.

"Yeah, you remember that?" he asked, quickly joining you at your side. You looked up at him and he could immediately tell what your answer would be.

"No, I'm sorry, it's just-" you pointed to the two mugs still sitting together on the counter and he nodded solemnly.

"Oh, right," he said, then walked over to pick them up and rinse them off in the sink. He turned around and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he watched you slowly navigate the kitchen. Opening and closing drawers and cupboards, picking up a recipe book and flipping through it, then looking at the paintings on the walls.

"Did you or I draw this?" you asked, stepping towards a portrait that was clearly of him.

"Neither. Ellie did it," he told you, and you looked at him curiously.

"Ellie?"

He nodded and just as he was about to open his mouth to explain, the front door whipped open, startling you.

"Is it true?" a young girl with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail asked as she barged into the kitchen. When her eyes landed on you, she dropped her book bag and stepped forward, peering at you as if you were under a microscope.

"Ellie-" Joel began, pushing off the counter, but she cut him off.

"People are saying you lost your memory or something, is that true?" she asked again, and you nodded slowly.

"Holy shit!" she sputtered, and Joel repeated her name again, but harsher this time.

"Sorry," she mumbled, then pulled out a stool that was tucked under the kitchen island and plopped herself down. "Are you, like, okay? How's your head?"

"Uh, better now. The doctor gave me some medicine and it finally stopped hurting so much, but I got a pretty bad cut," you reached back and touched the bald spot with your fingertips. "He had to stitch it up."

"Can I see?" she asked, and you couldn't help but laugh a little, completely missing the way Joel perked up when he heard it.

"Sure," you said, turning around and lifting up your hair. "Can you see it?"

"Yeah, fucking gross, dude," she said with a shudder. You dropped your hair and turned back around.

"Is she your daughter?" you asked Joel, and Ellie burst out laughing.

"No way," she said, and he just rolled his eyes.

"I don't understand," you said with a frown. "Where are your parents?"

"They're dead," she told you so casually it almost gave you whiplash.

"Oh, my god! I'm so sorry," you said, feeling terrible, but she just gave you a look like you were crazy. Maybe you were.

"It's cool," she said, looking back and forth between you and Joel. "So she really doesn't remember anything?" Ellie asked him.

"Only stuff from... before," he said, narrowing his eyes at Ellie as if trying to silently communicate with her.

"Oh," she said, nodding slowly as if she understood. "Shit."

"Before what?" you pressed, but they both ignored your question.

"Why don't you give her some time to settle in," Joel told Ellie. "Meet us later for dinner at the Bison."

"Yeah, okay," Ellie said, sliding off the stool and picking up her abandoned backpack.

"You don't live here?" you asked her.

"Sorta. I live in the garage, see?" she said, pointing out the window to a building out back with a large window in the front and a small light next to the door.

"In the garage?" you repeated, appalled, but she just laughed.

"It used to be a garage. Joel helped me fix it up and it's more like a guest house now. Right, Joel?"

"Yeah," he said, walking deeper into the kitchen so he could look through the window with you. "You helped her paint it," he said quietly.

"I did?" you asked, and they both nodded.

It looked like they were both waiting for you to say something further, waiting for you to maybe recall the color or the weather that day, but nothing was ringing a bell. You looked at them hopelessly and Joel averted his gaze.

"Go on, Ellie. I'm sure you got schoolwork," he said, and she rolled her eyes as she turned and headed towards the door.

You watched her walk through the backyard and unlock the garage, catching a brief glimpse of the inside before she shut it softly behind her.

"You wanna go lay down for a bit?" Joel asked after he noticed you yawn, and you nodded. You followed him up the creaky staircase, your eyes drifting over everything you could find, hoping something would jump out at you along the way. When he got to the top of the stairs, he stopped suddenly between two bedroom doors and you gave him a confused look.

"What's wrong?" you asked, the look on his face beginning to worry you.

"Nothin', I just realized..." he trailed off and took a deep breath, still staring at the two doors. "We share a room and I just realized tonight'll be the first time in years we sleep apart."

You looked away, feeling uncomfortable. You could see the anguish all over his face. His jaw ticked to the side and he was blinking faster than usual and the guilt was burning a hole in your stomach.

"I'll stay in the spare room," you said, breaking the tension. "Can you just show me where I keep my stuff and I'll-"

"No," Joel said, shaking his head. "I'll go in the spare room. You stay in our room. Maybe it'll help... it should be more familiar to you in there."

You decided not to argue with him. He finally stepped towards the door on the right and pushed it open, leading you into a master suite with a queen sized bed in the middle of the room. There was a quilt on top that appeared to be handmade in various shades of greys and purples. You ran your hand over the material thoughtfully while Joel opened a few dresser drawers and pulled out some spare clothes for himself.

"This is pretty," you said, and he turned around to look at the quilt.

"Becky a few doors down makes 'em," he said, turning back to the dresser. "You really wanted purple and I fought you on it, but you always win," he said with a chuckle. You smiled to yourself as you continued to look around the room while Joel collected a few more belongings. You noticed a pair of reading glasses on top of an old western book on one end table. The other end table had a few loose hair ties, a homemade lip balm, and a black, leather bound book with a pen on top. Without even thinking, you walked forward and picked it up, flipping through the pages one by one. It appeared to be a journal, and it looked like it was your handwriting.

Joel stepped out of the bathroom attached to your room and saw you holding the book. He swallowed and watched your face closely, looking for any sign that what you were reading made sense.

"I was gonna show you that tomorrow. Thought it would be too much today," he said after a few minutes.

"I kept a journal?"

"Yeah. You don't write it in often, but sometimes if somethin' special happened, or you just felt the urge, you would write it down," he said, putting his toiletries next to his clothes on the bed.

You closed the book and placed it back on the table, staring at the old cover, lost in thought. You had a million questions and you had to start somewhere.

"Joel... what happened?" you asked him. He frowned, not following at first until you clarified. "In the world, I mean. What happened? Because all of this," you waved your hands around the room and gestured out through the window. "This doesn't seem right. Did I join a cult or something?"

Joel shook his head and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I don't wanna overwhelm you," he began. You sat down as well, making sure to put plenty of distance between you.

"I'm already overwhelmed. Just please... tell me what's going on."

He sighed and looked at the clock on the wall.

"The world ended," he said bluntly, glancing in your direction. You stiffened but you waited for him to elaborate. "It was quick. Happened on a Friday, everythin' was gone by Monday. There's this fungus called cordyceps-"

"Nick asked me about that," you said, and he nodded.

"Well, best guess is the fungus mutated and got into the food supply. It, uh, it infects the brain. It grows and takes over, but it doesn't kill you. Well, not technically." He could see the confusion on your face. He wasn't explaining this right. "The fungus wants to spread, you see? That's it's basic function. If it killed the host, it wouldn't be able to spread. So, the host remains alive, but they're no longer... them."

"And the hosts are... people?" you guessed, and Joel nodded.

"Yeah. Spread like wildfire. One person would get bit-"

"Bit?" you repeated, eyes wide.

"Yeah, it's how the fungus spreads. Through blood. One person would get bit and they turn within hours."

"And there's no cure?"

Joel paused and took a deep breath, his gaze darting nervously around the room.

"No, there's no cure," he finally said.

You sat back on the bed and thought about what Joel just told you. Suddenly, things were starting to make sense. She died the first day.

"And my family?" you asked softly, closing your eyes as you waited for the answer. Joel looked at you, his heart breaking that he had to deliver the news.

"They didn't make it," he said, and one tear slowly escaped and slid down your cheek. "It was a miracle you even made it. That any of us made it," he added, hoping to take the sting out of it.

"A miracle?" you scoffed, opening your eyes now. "How do you figure, Joel? What's the fucking point in living like this?" you asked him angrily, standing up from the bed and pacing around the room.

"Don't say that," he said sadly, rising to his feet. "Believe me, I thought the same thing," he said, unconsciously scratching at the scar on his cheek. "But it turns out there's plenty to live for. It ain't so bad."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?" you challenged, eyes brimming with unshed tears. "What is there to live for? Because I have to be honest, I'm not seeing it."

Joel swallowed as he watched you angrily move around the room.

"Love," he said quietly, and you stopped. You stood with your back to him, your shoulders rising and falling as anger and frustration coursed through you.

Finally, you turned to look at him, tears silently falling.

"But everyone I loved is dead," you sobbed, burying your face in your hands. "My family is dead! Everyone I know is gone! What do I have left?" You dropped your hands and looked at him, tears steadily falling as you waited, completely forgetting the obvious answer.

"You have me," he said, his voice cracking. "And I know that don't mean much now, but I promise you, it will."

Your head fell forward, chin tucking into your chest with your hands on your hips.

"I'm so sorry," you whispered, still looking down. "That was so rude, I didn't mean to say it like that."

"This is hard for me, too," he said, taking a few steps towards you, then stopped. He wanted to pull you into his arms and hold you close, tell you everything was going to be okay, but he had to remind himself that he was essentially a stranger to you.

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizin' for somethin' that ain't your fault," he told you sternly. You dragged your eyes back up to him, your shoulders slumped forward, eyes puffy and red.

"What if my memory never comes back?" you whispered. It was a question Joel didn't want to ask out loud but knew eventually it would be brought up. He took a deep breath and looked you square in the eye.

"Then I'll have to make you fall in love with me all over again," he said with a small shrug, and you let out a huff of laughter at that.

"You sound pretty confident," you replied.

"I did it once before, I can do it again," he told you, his gaze never wavering. "I'll never stop tryin'. What we have together, it's... it's rare. And it might sound stupid, but we're meant to be together. If you let me, I'll prove it to you."

Something in his eye made you feel calmer the longer you looked at him. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't joking. He meant every word. You tore your gaze away from him and looked around the room again. The room you shared with him. The room where you held each other, kissed each other, made love together. Years of memories etched into the floorboards. Countless secrets whispered into the pillows. Laughter and tears echoed against the walls. Your eyes found him again just to realize he never looked away. He stood tall and firm in the middle of the room, patiently waiting for you. And you had to assume if he felt this strongly about what you had, then it must be worth fighting for.

"Okay."

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#Joel miller fanfiction #Joel miller fic rec #Joel miller series #joel miller x reader

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picassopedro · 3 months

Text

Ultraviolence

pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.

warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).

word count: 4k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.

love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)

-em<3

—

The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.

You didn’t.

After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.

In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.

“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”

There were more hounds around… waiting.

Always waiting.

They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.

They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.

When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:

“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”

But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.

This is real.

And you bear witness to his carnage.

He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.

His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.

Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.

“Put it on.”

You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.

He’s dead; you get his coat.

A fair exchange.

He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.

The man straightens up.

Tall.

“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”

Texan.

Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.

“Walk.”

Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.

Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.

There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.

Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.

Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.

Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.

The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.

A raise of his eyebrows.

“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”

But… you don’t.

“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.

That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”

“No.”

“So get movin’, then.”

That left little room for debate.

So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.

He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.

Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.

“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”

Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”

Joel.

As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.

And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.

Who hunted together.

And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.

Fuck.

Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”

Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.

“Gonna have to test her out first.”

A few snickers.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.

Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.

So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.

To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.

Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”

Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.

“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.

And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.

No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.

You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.

The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.

“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?

You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”

He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.

So much for fighting.

There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”

You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.

Then, you nod, wordlessly.

“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.

Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.

“Five.” Breathless.

“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”

A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”

He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.

It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.

It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.

“No, please, no.”

He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.

“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”

You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.

“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”

He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.

Still, the raider ignores your trembling.

“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”

His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”

You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.

As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.

A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.

Déjà vù.

Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.

Leaving his mark.

It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”

A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”

“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”

You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”

His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.

But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.

“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.

Because…

Because—fuck.

It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”

He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.

“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.

“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”

A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.

And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”

His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.

Hot.

“It hurts.”

He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.

“Cry about it.”

And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.

You hate yourself for it.

But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.

God, no—I am not enjoying this.

He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”

When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.

A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”

The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.

You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.

“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.

“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.

But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.

“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”

Joel smiles when you sob.

It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.

You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.

And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”

“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”

The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.

This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.

You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”

And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.

“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.

He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”

He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.

“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.

Christ, it feels so good.

You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—

A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.

You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).

Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.

He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.

“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.

When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.

Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”

Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”

Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.

You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.

And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.

But Joel pays you no mind.

Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.

“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”

He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.

Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.

All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:

“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”

And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.

—

He used to call me DN

That stood for deadly nightshade

'Cause I was filled with poison

But blessed with beauty and rage

Jim told me that

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Jim brought me back

Reminding me of when we were kids

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

He used to call me poison

Like I was poison ivy

I could've died right then

'Cause he was right beside me

Jim raised me up

He hurt me but it felt like true love

Jim taught me that

Loving him was never enough

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

We can go back to New York

Loving you was really hard

We could go back to Woodstock

Where they don't know who we are

Heaven is on earth

I would do anything for you, babe

Blessed is this union

Crying tears of gold, like lemonade

I love you the first time

I love you the last time

Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines

'Cause I'm your jazz singer

And you're my cult leader

I love you forever

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

I can hear violins, violins

Give me all of that ultraviolence

—

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#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #dark!joel miller #raider!joel miller

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picassopedro · 3 months

Text

tres besos (javier pena x f!reader)

summary: what it says on the tin 🫶🏻 two times javi kisses you, and the one where you kiss him back.

notes: happy early love day folks. i love you guys, so so much ✨ thought i’d celebrate with my first lil teeny bit of javi! very short but hopefully sweet!

warnings: lots of kissing (obviously), cursing, smutty thoughts & feelings, mention of coke. 18+, mdni.

the secret kiss

you know it’s wrong. you don’t want to be putty in his hands. you’ve heard enough stories about agent pena: loves ‘em and leaves ‘em. but now you’re here, in the filing room at the embassy, and all the pent-up tension between you both spills past your lips wordlessly.

javi has you pressed up against the cool metal, crowding into your space so easily. he’s everywhere: his tongue in your mouth, hands on your ass, sliding up to your ribcage. he squeezes you, groans wantonly as you bite into his lower lip in response.

murphy could walk in here any moment; find you both in a state that’d probably get you fired. you find you don’t care, though, as javi’s fingertips venture under the hem of your skirt, pulling at the top of your stockings.

javi, you whisper, voice strangled. he chuckles. i know, baby. i know.

the sensual kiss

javi calls you his princess, his sweet little thing.

you meet him toe-to-toe each time, now. you’re prepared. he’s turned you inside out so many times, but it’ll still never be enough. you pull him to you, hooking your fingers in his shirt, enjoying the slither of chest he has on show all day just for you, sheened with sweat.

you feel his moustache against your upper lip as he bends to kiss you: the sensation drives you crazy. javi’s grin presses into your own as your hands scramble for his belt buckle. he cups your face with his warm hands, holding you still for a moment. your tongues meet one another in a familiar embrace; so fucking good you just about fall apart in his grasp.

you take your time tasting him: cigarettes, sweet beer, something else you can’t put your finger on. you don’t try to work it out, you just let the waves of him crash into you. over and over again.

the soft kiss

he’s asleep on his back, one arm round you. you roll over, admire the beautiful curve of his nose in the speckled moonlight. javi is at his most peaceful when he’s asleep: all thoughts of cocaine and cartels forgotten.

his black hair drips over his forehead, badge and smokes abandoned on the nightstand. you can’t help it. you know you should let him sleep, but his lips are pursed so beautifully in that pout he has. you press your lips to his softly, and feel javi stir beneath you. always a light sleeper, anyway.

baby, he whispers. you okay?

just missed you, you smile.

you press kisses to his bare skin, drag your warm tongue up and up against his throat. you feel him shudder and flex around you, grip tightening as sleepy desire takes hold.

javi pulls you in closer; you nestle into the crook of his shoulder and inhale deeply.

home.

#javier pena fluff #javier pena x reader

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picassopedro · 3 months

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Significant

Summary: Din has been calling you riduur for months. You finally find out what it means, and get a little more than you bargained for.

Pairing: Din Djarin x gn!Reader

Word Count: ~5.1k

Warnings: pining, absolute FOOLS in love, bit of grumpy x sunshine, lil angsty, possibly incorrect lore, fluff, lots of Mando'a (translations for the Mando'a at the end)

A/N: Happy Mandalorian Eve!! This is based on a short drabble I wrote, which you can find here! It's not necessary to read it first, though of course I recommend it! The reader and Din have been traveling together for a long time, and after removing his armor in front of the reader for the first time began calling them riduur.

“Riduur.”

It may as well be your name, the way you turn at the sound of that word.

“Din,” you return, adjusting the child’s little sleeve which had fallen down past his hand.

“Are you ready?” He asks as he tilts his head to the side.

You smile and turn back to Grogu. “Dad’s impatient today, isn’t he?” The child coos up at you, lifting tiny arms, ready to be picked up. “Yeah, he is.”

“I’m not impatient,” Din grumbles lowly.

You raise a brow at that and lift Grogu into your arms. “You’re always impatient, Mando.” His head jerks to the side at your assessment.

You have to bite back a laugh. In truth, he is incredibly patient. Most of the time, and especially when it came to you and Grogu. The only time you’ve seen him truly lose his temper was with the Jawas, and really, that couldn’t be helped.

The child reaches for Din when you turn back to him, and the Mandalorian immediately holds out his arms to take him from you. You deposit the little green baby there before grabbing your shawl. “Yes, we’re ready,” you finally answer.

The baby gets tucked into the pouch at Din’s hip, before he descends the ship’s ramp out into the desert air that awaits you.

You roll your eyes gently.

Not impatient, but not entirely patient either.

You follow, wrapping the light material around your shoulders.

It’s subtle, but he does wait for you, his pace slower than if he were alone. His right elbow ticks out a fraction, and you smile before cupping your hand there. He would never ask you to take his arm, still the offer is usually there if he can accommodate it.

He relaxes a little when you fit your hand against his bicep. “Supplies only,” he reminds you, ever practical.

“Supplies only,” you agree. “Unless I see something for Grogu.”

“The child is becoming spoiled,” he complains lightly. “We won’t have enough room in the ship soon.”

You shrug and tighten your grip on his arm. You like the way he says we. So, you return with, “That’s just because our child deserves the best.”

Din’s spine straightens a fraction and his shoulders tilt back.

He’s somehow both stoic and incredibly bad at hiding his emotions. You can tell, just by the slope of his shoulders or the exact angle of the helmet or the precise way he stands or walks, exactly what and how he’s feeling.

Or, maybe you’ve just spent too much time around him.

Maybe, you just know him too well.

And right now, he’s swollen with pride. Though you don’t know if it's because you’ve complimented the way he takes care of the child or if it were something else. Something in the way you said our.

It’s not long before you reach the market, and Din sighs as soon as it comes into view. It’s much larger than the ones you normally frequent, a riot of color and sound that you both know you won’t be able to resist. The town seems to be in the midst of some kind of festival.

The smell of fried food greets you before you’ve even breached the perimeter of the town, and your mouth waters. Something better than rations awaited you there.

Din is single minded though, and you know he’ll immediately make for the most boring of the stalls and shops.

Supplies only, after all, is what you’d come for.

“Mando,” you remove your hand from his arm and he immediately halts at the loss of your touch and turns to you. “I’m going to go look around.”

He stares at you, helmet tilting down. He doesn’t like telling you no, and knows it wouldn’t matter if he did anyways. But, he worries and so it takes a moment for him to reply. “Don’t go far,” he advises. “Do you have a comlink?”

“Yes.”

“A weapon?”

You pretend to search your person, “Hm, what’s that again?”

“Riduur,” he reprimands your teasing.

That word makes the inside of your skin light up pleasantly. Riduur. If only you knew what it meant.

You’ve started to assume it means something similar to cyare or cyar'ika. But he’d had no problem telling you what those words meant. Darling and sweetheart and beloved. He’d had no problem telling you he was calling you beloved.

But he no longer calls you cyare or cyar'ika. Since the first time he’d called you riduur, the day he removed his armor in front of you for the first time, he’d solely begun calling you riduur.

Even your name is becoming a rarity from his lips.

“Udesii! Yes,” you cross your arms. “You know I took care of myself for a very long time without you and nothing ever happened. I’ll be okay.”

Din doesn’t answer, just sighs and gives a curt nod and marches off towards a shop selling medical supplies.

The dramatics of it all makes you giggle. You like teasing him, especially because he thinks he hides how flustered you make him well.

Although you enjoy traveling with the Mandalorian, alone time has become a complete rarity. You were always with Din, or watching your little green menace.

You eat your way through a couple of different stalls selling food, bundling up second and third servings to keep for Din and Grogu.

Din wouldn’t think to get anything beyond rations. Both you and the child like a little more variety, where Din treats the act of eating like a maintenance routine.

You drift past stalls hawking trinkets and jewelry, fending off the sellers as you crunch something sweet and sour you’d picked up at the last food stall, not entirely sure what it is.

Textiles are next, bolts of cloth you run your fingers over but mourn not being able to afford. Still, it's nice to browse, nice to feel normal. The Mandalorian isn’t hunting someone for once, and you aren’t trapped in the interior of the ship, stale recycled dry air burning your nostrils.

A little supply stop has become a little welcome relief. It’s giving you the chance to stretch your legs, to explore.

Still, your mind drifts back to Din, the way he calls you something he would not name to you.

You’ve searched before, in other markets, on other worlds, for the answer to your question. What does that word mean and why won’t Din tell you?

You’d tried to convince him once or twice, with gentle words whispered in his ear, when the helmet was off and your hands were pressed against his skin, the contours of his face still a mystery to you.

Once, you’d felt the skin of his cheeks go hot beneath your hands when you told him he used his tongue so prettily, couldn’t he use it to tell you what riduur meant?

He’d mumbled something else in Mando’a but had not explained himself.

You can understand most of that he says now, but because he’s the only other speaker, you have to rely on him to tell you what new words and phrases mean.

Because the Mandalorians are such an insular people, you never come across any other speakers you could ask. There are no dictionaries to Basic that you could download and peruse.

It’s frustrating, especially since the word seems to be laden with something heavy. Din says it with reverence, with a softness that doesn't cut through the rest of his words. His voice is softer when he speaks Mando’a anyways, but that word is held with a reverence on his tongue, like it’s precious.

The only other time you had heard him use that tone was when he once called Grogu ad’ika, which meant child.

You’ve almost given up on knowing, resigned to that fact that you may never know and he may never tell you.

Whatever it means, you’re sure it's important. You just don’t know why.

The market is loud, boisterous and colorful. Music floats through the air, shouts and laughter.

It’s nice, it makes you smile and you wish you’d taken the child with you because you’re sure he’d have much more fun with you than with Din picking out rolls of bandage and rations and pulse rifle cartridges if he can find someone that has some.

You stop suddenly in your tracks when you hear a conversation in a language you immediately recognize, the familiar syllables cutting through the afternoon chatter.

You spin and find two men in robes speaking gently to each other in Mando’a. Before you can stop yourself, your feet have already carried you to their table where they sit sipping cups of caf.

“Su cuy'gar,” you greet. They both look surprised, glancing at each other and then back at you. “Sorry to bother you. You speak Mando’a?”

One smiles, “Yes. Of the few outsiders that do, I think.”

“Were you foundlings?” It’s the only way, you think, that they could have learned it.

“Once,” the older of the two says. “This one learned it at a university.”

You can’t help the curiosity that burns through you, “At a university? Really?”

“Only the very barest basics. From a woman being courted by a Mandalorian,” he dismisses with a wave of his hand. “That was a long time ago. Really I learned from him.” He gestures between himself and the other man.

You shake yourself, “I’ve just never met another aruetii that does.” Let alone two of them, you think dizzily. Two outsiders who spoke Mando’a.

“And how did you learn?”

“My…” you trail off.

Your what? You aren’t sure what exactly Din is to you, or what you are to him. You never have been. He treats you like you’re more precious than beskar, yet everything between you remains undefined.

“My traveling companion. He’s a Mandalorian.” You swallow, “I wonder if you could tell me if you know what a certain word means? It’s one I’ve been curious about.” You don’t want to tell them that you’re seeking it out because it's something he calls you. That feels too private, too close to the chest. “He said it once and I’ve been trying to figure it out ever since.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“It would wound my pride. He’s already taught me so much. He overestimates my fluency.”

They laugh and the man who was once a foundling says, “Yes, ask us then.”

“Riduur,” you say, carefully pronouncing it so they don’t mistake it for another word. “Riduur,” you repeat with more confidence.

The men glance at each other, brows raised. “Well, it has several meanings,” the more grizzled of the two says, “But I suppose it's all the same in the end. Spouse would be the most overarching translation. Partner, wife, and husband all work too.”

For a moment, you can’t breathe, you’re sure your heart has come to a leaping halt in your chest. “Truly? Riduur?” You say it again, just to make sure. They laugh and nod and you decide to have your meltdown away from their table. “Well, thank you for clearing that up. Sorry again to bother you.”

You turn away from them, a roaring in your ears. Your heart stutters in your chest. Riduur. He’s been calling you his partner, his spouse, for months? That word so softly spoken to you - to tease you, to call for you, whispered to you in the dark, said over and over, more than your own name. It meant partner, spouse, wife, husband?

Something inside you lights up with pride. The shape of it is warm, firm in the clasp of your lungs. Riduur. It’s a living, breathing kind of word, one that takes up space inside you. One you’re proud to bear the weight of, the title of.

Spouse, you think, doesn’t carry the same gravitas as riduur. There’s something heavier and deeper in the word that a translation couldn’t really carry over into Basic.

You start back down the road, smiling to yourself, but only make it several paces when Din steps up beside you silently from between two stalls. “Dank farrik,” you gasp, stumbling back. “Where did you come from? You scared me.”

He doesn’t answer you, doesn’t even tilt his head towards you. You may as well have not spoken at all.

“Mando?”

Still, he doesn’t answer you.

You raise a brow but don’t say anything else as he herds you gently out of the market, desert dust swirling around your calves. Eventually, when you reach the edge of the town, he asks, “Did you find everything you need?” His voice is flat, rough.

“Yes, I got some food for you and Grogu to try. A little feast for you tonight, since it won’t hold.”

He merely grunts and you frown. “Is something wrong?” You glance over your shoulder. “Did something happen? Are we being followed?”

You glance around his legs at the baby, still securely in the brown canvas bag, who’s peering up at both of you with anxious eyes, big ears drooping.

“No.” He answers curtly.

The walk back to the ship is silent, and tense, and you aren’t sure why.

It’s only when you’re in the safety of the mouth of the ship’s ramp, with the baby in your arms, that your irritation spills over. “Are you upset with me? I didn’t wander. I stayed close and had a weapon and -,”

Din’s hands go to his hips, helm tilting at an angle as he regards you. His voice is agitated when he finally speaks. You expect him to tell you that you wandered too far, that he commed you and you hadn’t picked it up, that you’d unknowingly wandered into danger. And you expect to have to tell him once again that it's all fine, that you are fine, that you’d traveled without him for years and things always turned out alright.

Instead, he says, “You should not call yourself an aruetii. That is not what you are.”

For a moment, it doesn’t register with you what he’s talking about, that he’d clearly overheard your conversation with the Mando’a speakers, likely eavesdropped on it.

All you are, for a few seconds, is confused. “But…I am an aruetii. I am not a Mandalorian.”

Din’s shoulders go stiff at your words. “That does not make you an outsider. You…you are far from an outsider,” he growls and suddenly spins away from you, his footfalls heavy and loud when he stomps across the hull.

He climbs the ladder to the cockpit and disappears, leaving both you and the baby alone, still standing on the ramp up to the ship. “He’s angry with me,” you say in disbelief, glancing down at the child in your arms, not really understanding why. “We’ll let him cool off,” you decide, bouncing the child against your waist. “Hungry?”

The baby coos and you smile, worry biting into you as you settle with him in the mouth of the ship. The sun is setting on the sand, the air warm, casting red shadows over the world. There’s nothing around you but sand in any direction you glance, aside from the town from which you’d come on the horizon.

In the distance, fireworks from the town explode in the sky. You point them out to Grogu, gently feeding him bites of food that you’d gotten at the market. He makes a sound that you suppose is a giggle, big eyes focused on the colors dissipating in the sky. He holds a tiny hand up, like he’d like it to fly to him.

You curl a hand over his. “None of that,” you say with a laugh. “Those are meant for the stars, not you.”

He goes back to eating, already distracted.

A weight settles over your chest.

If Din heard you call yourself aruetii then he knows that you now know what riduur means.

Maybe that was the true source of his irritation, that you’d gone behind his back to figure out what it meant when he clearly hadn’t wanted you to know.

You rub the tip of Grogu’s ear between your fingers and sigh.

Any warm feelings you’d had are gone.

Riduur.

He’s been calling you that for months. But he hadn’t wanted you to know that he was calling you his partner. For some reason it stings.

The Mandalorian is not cruel, not the type to play with another’s feelings. But, nonetheless, it feels like he might have been. Teasing you in a way you couldn’t begin to guess at. Or, like he could pretend without actually attaching himself to you, and you’d be none the wiser.

You shake those thoughts away, listening to the music echoing over the sands.

When Grogu falls asleep and the sun is just disappearing behind the horizon, you secure the ramp of the ship and carry the baby up into the cockpit.

Din sits silently in the pilot’s chair, and doesn’t look at you as you tuck the child into the floating pod.

You fidget with his blanket, not sure what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he breaks the silence first. “Ni ceta.”

“Din,” you perch next to him in the co-pilot’s seat. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have gone poking around where I don’t belong. I’m sorry.”

His head tilts toward you, the visor impenetrable. You swallow when he doesn’t answer, an inexplicable lump forming in the back of your throat. “Don’t belong?”

“I shouldn’t have asked them what riduur meant. You didn’t want me to know.”

Din stands and holds out a hand to you. You take it carefully and let him pull you to your feet. “That is not why I-,” he stops. “Do you really not know?”

“Know what?”

“I should have been…honest about the name I’ve given you.” He tilts his head and releases your hands. “I’m upset because-,” the Mandalorian pauses and seems to consider his next words for a long moment. Finally, he sighs and simply repeats, “You’re not an aruetii. By definition you can’t be.”

You stare at him for a long moment, before shaking your head. “I don’t understand.”

He huffs, helm ticking to the side again. “Would you call Grogu an outsider?”

“Of course not,” you answer, horrified. “No.”

“And why is that? He’s not a Mandalorian either.”

You don’t have to think about it, shaking your head before he’s even finished speaking. “He’s your child.”

Din steps forward, close to you, but doesn’t say anything. “Our child,” he corrects eventually. “I am upset because you don’t seem to know you are a part of our clan. Even after knowing what I’ve been calling you. Riduur, ner riduur, for months. You still don’t know.”

Oh. Oh.

“Osi'kyr,” you murmur softly. “How could I know that, Din?”

He stands silent and still before you, so still you aren’t sure he’s breathing. “I thought it was clear,” he says stiffly. “I thought it was clear I was courting you.”

Something pleasantly warm settles in among your heart and lungs. “Maybe you should explain your customs to me more thoroughly,” you joke lightly.

He doesn’t laugh, shoulders tense, hands curled in anxious fists.

“So why not tell me what the word means?” It seems a bit past courting to you, to call someone riduur. It seems to you he’s already chosen you.

He shifts from foot to foot, the movement somehow laden with vulnerability and worry. “If you did not…want the same - I’m not sure I could bear that.”

You stare at him, not entirely sure what to say to that. “So, what,” you start, “you expected me to one day just realize you considered me your-,”

“I would have told you,” he interrupts quickly. “One day.”

“Told me-,”

“What riduur means,” he corrects. “And asked if you’d like to be that.” Din takes your hands again, “Just know that you are part of this clan, whatever your answer is.” His voice is so sincere, it breaks your heart a little. “Whether you want to be attached to me or not, you have a place in this clan. You are not an aruetii.”

You tilt your head at the same time he does, the nonverbal cues you both habit in reflecting between you. “I’m just a bit confused. Was that your idea of a proposal?” You smile so he knows you’re teasing him.

Din gives a long suffering sigh. “Mandalorians do not propose.”

“Oh. So what do you do then?” You lift a brow, sliding your hands to his wrists so you can work on tugging one glove off at a time.

“We make an agreement,” he says, not trying to stop you. His voice is hoarse. “We make vows.”

You don’t look up, tucking the gloves in your belt before tracing your fingers along the veins in his wrists, the lines of his palms. “Oh. And did you make vows to me that I wasn’t aware of?”

You’re still joking, but Din takes your words to heart. He shakes one hand loose from yours and presses it beneath your jaw, tipping your head gently back. “I did. I make vows to you everyday.”

All the air seems to get sucked out of the ship. You gape at him, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out as you struggle to find words. He chuckles, low and breathy beneath the helmet. You imagine he must be smiling. “Now you see how you make me feel. Like I can’t breathe.”

You finally manage to take a breath, lifting your chin away from his fingers, threads of embarrassment beating under your skin at his teasing. “You could have told me, you know.”

“It was too large a risk. I wouldn’t risk you.”

Maybe you should hesitate in your next words.

But you don’t.

You’ve never been surer in something.

“Din,” you step close to him. “I would take those vows.”

“They…they are heavy vows. Not meant to be taken lightly. They’re bonding vows.”

He thinks you don’t get it, that you still don’t understand. “I understand what kind of vows they are. What are the vows?” You step even closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours.

He smells like sun, like spices from the market and oil on beskar. It makes you dizzy, the usual scent of him is much cooler. Evergreen and pine.

The cockpit is dark, the very last dregs of light on the horizon gone. The contours of the helm are shadowed, the flicker of lights from the control panels reflecting in blinking lights over the visor.

There is no hesitation in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Mhi solus tome, mhi solus dar'tome, mhi me'dinui an, mhi ba'juri verde.”

You mouth the words, doing your best to translate them.

But he’s spoken too quickly, and you only understand part of it. He waits for you to ask for him to translate, giving you a moment to attempt it instead of immediately telling you.

“I only understand part…We are one together and-,”

“We are one when together, we are one when parted, we will share all, we will raise warriors,” he says easily. “We are - we are all of those things already. I have kept the promise I made.”

Your throat is dry, and you can’t think about how that’s true. “We’re raising warriors?” You attempt a joke.

“Would you not call the child a warrior?”

“I would,” you agree. “I would also still take those vows, now knowing their meaning.”

There’s a long pause in which you can feel the Mandalorian’s stare. His gaze is intense, assessing, hot against your skin. You patiently look back, waiting. “You don’t have to.”

“You think I don’t want to.”

He huffs, “I…don’t want you to believe you have to make vows to me. You are a part of our clan no matter what.”

“Would you still call me riduur?”

“If you allowed it,” he takes a breath. “Yes.”

The lip of the helm drifts up and you can sense he’s no longer looking at you, embarrassed. “Din.” His head snaps back down. “I know I am not an outsider.” You wait for him to digest those words. “I know this is my clan now. I still would like to make these vows to you.”

He reaches up and presses his palms to either side of your jaw, the crown of the helmet pressing softly against your forehead for just a moment when he dips his head. “If you’re sure, repeat after me. We’ll say them together.”

“Elek,” you agree.

“Mhi solus tome,” he starts, reverence and disbelief lodged in his voice.

In the distance, more fireworks explode in the sky. The colors reflect in the glass of the ship’s front window, sparking over the reflective helmet. “Mhi solus tome,” you say slowly, careful to pronounce each word exactly right.

You’d never imagined yourself as someone who would get married, and certainly not like this.

But that was before you knew Din. And all this feels to you is right. It’s both sudden and not.

This was meant to happen. All your years with the Mandalorian lead towards this.

You repeat the rest of the vows after him, slow and deliberate.

When the final syllable rolls off your tongue, a muted kind of joy overcomes you. You’ve been a part of it for a long time, but you feel it now, the belonging to a clan and people.

Din releases you and leans back. His chest rises and falls quickly.

You close your eyes and reach for the edge of his helmet.

You want to kiss him at the very least.

But when your fingers skim over the release, he captures your wrists in one hand. You let go and Din reaches up with his opposite hand to take it off himself.

You expect him to kiss you right away, but he doesn’t. You can only feel the lingering touch of his gaze.

“Open your eyes.”

“What? No-,” you begin to protest.

“Yes. You can now, riduur.” The word rumbles out of him proudly, heavy in his mouth.

You tilt your head and frown. “Are you-,”

“This is the Way.” His voice warbles, just a little.

“Are you sure?” You get the entire question out this time.

Now it’s his turn to tease you. “No,” he says dryly. “I’ll change my mind after you open your eyes.”

“Ha ha,” you deadpan. “You’re very funny.”

“Open them.”

You think you might be more nervous than him to see his face. You honestly never thought you would get to, and you had long ago made peace with that. It didn’t matter to you what he looked like, you knew his heart and that was more than enough.

You’ve tried to picture him before, from tracing your fingers over his face, but the image is only half formed and without detail. It felt wrong, somehow, too, to try to picture the face of someone who deliberately hid it.

Slowly, you peek your eyes open at him. Whatever you had pictured is nothing compared to the man you find yourself gazing at.

A sense of vertigo sweeps through you, because it's almost like looking at a stranger.

You have to resist the urge, for just a moment, to tear yourself away from him.

His hair is darker in color than you thought it would be, but just as feathery and lightly curled as you imagined. Din’s eyes are dark, a deep brown that you’d like to spend lifetimes memorizing, falling inside. You were right too, from your explorations of his face with your hands, about the shape of his nose, his mustache, the patchy beard. You’d pictured his eyes all wrong, the shape of jaw.

One thing you couldn’t have guessed at is the naked expressiveness in his eyes.

It makes sense though, he’s spent a lifetime without the need to school his features into anything other than exactly what he was feeling.

You wonder how many times he’s looked at you with such longing, and you never knew.

He says your name, a question mark tagged onto the end of it, his voice wrecked and strange without the modulator muffling his voice.

The sound of his voice rips the upside down feeling away. It’s his voice, it’s him. Not some handsome stranger.

Your eyes flit up from where your gaze had lingered on his lips, the pink shape of his mouth against golden skin. “I was right.”

He frowns, eyes soft and worried. It shocks you again, just how open his emotions read in his eyes. “About what?”

“I knew you were pretty. You are pretty,” you tease, pressing yourself against him, the hard contours of him biting into you. You fist your hands into the fabric at his sides. “Mesh’la.”

Din frowns at you. “I told you that means beautiful, didn’t I?” His voice is playful and doesn’t match his expression.

You nod and don’t answer, reaching up to cup your hand against his cheek. Din’s arm settles easily around your waist, dragging you closer, the weight of his helm in his hand heavy against your hip. Normally, you’d let him close the distance between you but you can’t quite manage to let him now, gazing instead at the planes of his face. “Mesh’la,” you tell him. “Ner riduur.”

“That’s my line.”

“Not anymore,” you tease. “Husband.”

You tip your chin into his and wait for him to meet you there.

He gives a slight smile before leaning into you. “Not husband. Riduur.”

“Right,” you agree, because really, it isn’t quite the same. It can’t be. “Ner riduur.”

The kiss lingers long on your lips. He’s savoring you, a warm passion that doesn’t quite extend into heat. Din’s tongue meets yours briefly, the groan it tugs from his mouth sending flashes of lightning all the way down to your toes.

The fireworks outside are no rival for the feelings clawing up the back of your throat.

You want to tell him you love him, but you think he already knows.

He breaks away to set his helmet down. When he turns back to you, his hands roam over you, free in their movement, tugging at the band of your trousers.

You can’t stop staring at him, suddenly overwhelmed, drinking in the sight of him, the naked expression of him, everything he’s thinking spread over his face like a well loved language.

All you’d wanted was to know the name he gifted you, instead - this.

You map your hand over his face, tracing the divot between his brows, the curve of one sharp cheekbone. “I never thought I would see your face,” you whisper.

Those soft, vulnerable eyes meet yours, arm wrapping around you again, as his bare forehead presses to yours, “And I always knew you would.”

Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts!

If you want more of Din and his riduur, Significant-verse drabbles can be found here!

Translations:

Riduur - spouse, partner, wife, husband

Ner riduur - my spouse, partner, wife, husband

Cyare - beloved

Cyar'ika - darling, sweetheart

Udesii - Relax, take it easy

Ad’ika - little one, baby

Su cuy'gar - Hello

Aruetii - outsider, foreigner, traitor

Ni ceta - an apology, rare

Osi'kyr - exclamation of surprise

Elek - yes

Mesh’la - beautiful

#din djarin x reader #mandalorian x reader #din Djarin fanfiction

10K notes · View notes

picassopedro · 3 months

Text

Oh my god I have no words!!

I’m absolutely loving this story - such a unique story line.

This chapter was so long (bless!) and yet I still didn’t want it to end! I can’t wait for the next installment.

Read 👏🏻 this👏🏻 !!!!!

go west, to the southern plains, go west to breathe (lover, share your road - part i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

chapter rating: T

word count: ~21K

chapter summary: at the end of the line, you make a business proposition to Joel Miller. He brings you and Ellie home to the last sanctuary left in this world in exchange for your skills. What you find there and what you find out about Joel Miller is not what you expect.

chapter warnings/tags: depictions of going hungry and poverty, sexual harassment, period accurate sexism, depictions of a sick child, reader depicted as skinny but due to lack of food not her natural body type (and this will change), allusions to domestic abuse, hurt/comfort, pining, the beginnings of a praise kink, let the idiots in love begin

a/n: shout out to the ever incredible @jennaispun for beta-ing the prologue and this first part!

“After a long walk in hell, I found you. You made hell feel like home, you made the flames feel warm. It’s true, you haven’t saved me but you were the closest thing to heaven.” — Maram Rimawi

part i:

Beneath the soot-gray fingertips of your gloves, the dust of the high plains sits coarse and heavy on the tattered, yellowing strip of paper. You hold it down flat as a brutish wind snakes up the empty dirt road through the center of Dalhart, grabbing hold of the brown dust that clings to everything — and tugs. Underneath your pale blue dress, with the hemline torn and the collar in need of stitching, your heart pounds as you read the small, almost guilty, advert:

Help wanted. Can pay.

Contact Joel Miller.

The promise of actual money should have had every able-bodied American scrambling to answer the advert, but by its place near the bottom of the announcement board outside of the country store, buried beneath slashed prices for milk and eggs and headlines out of Washington – it seems certain to be relegated into obscurity.

For all you know, this could be months, even years, old. Miller, whoever he was, could be long dead, or gone with the rest of the exodus to California. Or he could have gone the way of your “Uncle” Robert – a huckster, discovered too late; one of many who prey upon the desperation that sticks to the country like the acrid smell of smoke. Your hand shakes as you pluck the yellow card from the wooden plank. There is no contact number, no address. Another trick? Dust stings the corners of your eyes when you pinch them close, your breathing quickening, your pulse sharp in the sleeve of your ratty glove.

Oh, God, what are you going to do? What if this is nothing, just like Robert’s promise? What if there’s nothing here for you? What if –

A small hand on your forearm centers your spiraling thoughts. From beneath a faded blue baseball cap, two brown eyes peer up at you, firm and reassuring.

“You okay?” She keeps her voice low, just like you asked.

“Yeah, El–Ellie, I’m fine.” You squeeze her too-thin hand, your stomach toiling with guilt and its own emptiness. “Just figuring out what to do next.”

“Is finding and murdering this asshole Robert still off the table?”

You frown, your niece’s quick temper more from your dead sister than you. “It is. Now, I’m going inside to ask about this advert. Maybe this Miller still has a job or two open.”

Ellie’s eyes fall to the slip of paper in your hand, her aggressive scowl tightening into something that too closely resembles fear. She knows what’s at stake just as much as you do and you hate that that knowledge ages her youthful face.

“You stay close and don’t let anyone get a good look at you, okay?”

Ellie nods, already familiar with the routine, and scoops up your luggage case, her tattered satchel hanging off her other shoulder. She had been wearing pants long before reaching Dalhart, but it soothed you to think the eyes of cruel men passed right over her, their interest rarely in young boys.

A bell above the door tinkles when you open it, but by the dull, muted sound, it most likely has a few dents. Behind you, the afternoon heat follows you in, the sunlight illuminating the floating dust mites in the air. The door whines as it closes, brightening the inside of the store, where the mites settle back into the silver layer that sits over cans of tomatoes and peaches, linens, boxes of gum and cigarettes. Nearly everything sits untouched and unmoved, old dust settling between cracks and grooves, patrons not having enough money to buy something and the owner not having enough to change out stock. Struck still, frozen in a single, long exhale. The slow, creaking death of the economic system has reached Dalhart too. You shudder, suddenly cold as if in a mausoleum.

The further away from Boston the train took you, the further back in time you felt. Here, you are reminded of the old general stores of cowboys and pioneers. But maybe, that is exactly where you are: out of time.

A man in long white sleeves, coiffed hair, and perfectly round glasses, looks up from the wilted newspaper spread out over the counter.

“Can I help you?” His accent hails from the east, North Carolina most likely. However, his manners are not reflective of that famous southern hospitality. He looks at you like you’re a bad dream and it unsteadies you.

“Y-yes. I, uh, I’m hoping that you know a-a Miller. Joel Miller? I have his advert and I’m, um, I’m looking for work.”

The man’s thin eyebrow jumps mockingly. Aren’t we all, sister? But eventually, he shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re doing all the way out here, but this ain’t no place for a young lady out on her own, job or no job. Where’s your husband?”

“Dead.” Your voice doesn’t waver, but then again, why would it?

The clerk’s eyes soften, if only slightly. “I see. But I’m sorry to say, there is no job here for you.”

Your mouth instantly dries out. “What do you mean? Where’s Mr. Miller?”

“He’s a mean ol’ sunuvbitch, livin' God knows where. Comes in twice a month for supplies and he’s back out into the prairie.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t see why that’s a problem –,”

“He ain’t fit for civilized life, ma’am.” The clerk drops his nose, eying you seriously over the rim of his black glasses. “Whatever he’s offering, you don’t want no part of it.”

“I think we’ll be the judges of that.” Beside you, Ellie drops your suitcase and it loudly clatters to the ground. “Thanks for the tip though.”

The clerk’s eyes widen – this is terrible behavior even for a boy – his mouth unfurling to give a nasty tongue-lashing, when you interject, your voice thick with pleading.

“I would just like to meet the man. Please, sir.” The clerk, like most men without scruples, can barely resist the sound of a woman begging. Those uncanny blue eyes find you again. “Has he come in recently?”

You can feel Ellie’s wicked sneer behind you, the clerk’s gaze switching between the unlikely pair in his shop. Finally, he shrugs. Who gives a fuck if one more woman goes missing?

“He’s due for a resupply.”

“How soon?” Your palm sweats under your gloves.

He narrows his eyes, evidently annoyed that a woman would reject his warnings. “Soon. We have a parlor in the back if you’d like to wait for him. But you have to buy something,” he adds vehemently.

You nod, unsteady on shaking knees as you walk towards the door in the back of the store.

“Thank you, sir. You have been so kind. We very much appreciate it.”

Any chance that the clerk finds you sincere is lost when Ellie wraps her knuckles on the counter as she passes.

“Buh-bye, dude.”

The parlor is small, dark, damp, and smells faintly of kerosene and leather. A woman, most likely the wife of the clerk you just annoyed, glares from behind a counter as you and Ellie walk in.

“Lunch.” Not a question.

Ellie looks up at you, eyes wide, fearful. You hadn’t let her see what is left in your purse, but she knows it’s low.

With your stomach in knots, you wouldn’t be able to eat anyway. You pluck out a dollar, bringing your total down to three dollars, and giving it to your niece.

“Order whatever you want.”

The beating heart of the blazing Texas sun edges downward across the open sky, falling, until it drops completely behind the harrowingly flat horizon. Purple erupts in its wake, the last pump of blood of a dying muscle, and nearly instantly, the temperature drops. You watch the explosive coronary of the sky from a table at the back of the parlor, your own pulse doubling the later it gets. You squeeze your hand between your thighs to keep your fingers from drumming uneasily on the table. But for once, Ellie doesn’t pick up on your nerves.

A dollar went farther out here and, as a result, Ellie is allowed her first big meal in months. Twice now, she’s nearly forgone the silverware to shove food directly into her mouth with her fingers, had it not been for your glares to remind her to slow down.

“This is slow,” she grumbles as she licks her bowl of mashed potatoes clean. Of course, half of what she ordered sits waiting for you, but you know she needs this meal more than you do – even if your rumbling stomach disagrees. You’d already had lunch at the train station; one more missed meal won’t kill you and less for you means more for Ellie.

Suddenly becoming a parent to a very opinionated fourteen-year-old girl was not something you had anticipated, and most times you figured you were doing it all wrong. The least you could do is give her everything you could.

“You think he’ll show?”

You tear your eyes away from the parlor door, blinking back into your body out of your cloud of thoughts. Ellie’s little hands grip the bowl, a white smear sitting on her bottom lip, her eyes dark as they watch you.

You grin as her pink tongue swipes up to lick her mouth clean. How easy you forget she’s only fourteen, with her loud mouth and provoking eyes. “Eat your food, Ellie.”

The words have barely left your mouth when the door to the parlor bursts open. Two men, clearly drunk and smelling of it, stumble in. This is the part where you wish you too could believably dress up like a man. Your pulse thrums in your neck like a heightened prey animal.

One pushes the other’s shoulder, smirking, and grunting something. His friend, also in a cowboy hat but half his size, nods and makes an unsteady line for one of the tables, while the other does his best to get to the bar.

The man at the table has light green eyes, overly thick eyebrows, and a flat mouth, loose with drink. He flops into a wooden chair and you watch as the Texas Rangers badge on his chest flashes in the firelight behind him. Your stomach tightens.

He stretches out, feet crossed over his ankles, limp hands crossed over his denim jacket, hollering at his friend and the woman working, who looks equally displeased to see them as she did you and Ellie.

Smirking, his eyes slide from the wooden bar top, over the back wall, and right onto you.

You watch as his gaze blurs for a moment, a film of beastial hunger smothering the color of his eyes. You can feel your pulse in your ankles now.

“Well, now, what do we have here?” The lilt in his voice calls out two unspoken words: fresh meat. Distressingly steady, he climbs to his feet, his hat tilted obnoxiously on his forehead. “Where did you come from, you pretty little thing?”

He saunters over, his thumbs stuck in his belt, the gun at his side snug in its holster. The grin on his face is hideous. You’d smack it off if you weren’t suddenly overcome by a debilitating fear. A look like that on a man is never, ever a good thing.

“Whatcha got there, Lee?” his buddy calls out from the bar, beard drenched in beer foam.

“I dunno quite yet, Knapp,” he says over his shoulder, his livid green eyes never leaving your face. He nearly folds in half to press his spider-like hands on the surface of your table, coming inches from your face. His breath smells like corn whiskey and cheap tobacco. “Guess I’ll have to find out. What’s your name, pretty thing?”

“Or she could not tell you her name and instead, you could fuck off.” Ellie’s scowl wrenches her mouth open, her knuckles white around her spoon. There’s a part of you that fully acknowledges and accepts that if given the signal, she’d scoop the fucker’s eyes out with the silverware right here. “We’re eating here, or are you too busy smelling like a fucking whiskey barrel to notice?”

As with most adults when Ellie decides to show her teeth, Lee stares stunned before the self-righteous anger sets in. Your heart stops for a moment when you think he’s going for his holster, but instead, he uses the flat of his hand to swat her hat off her head.

“Shut up, you little fucker, where’d you learn your fucking ma–,”

Ellie’s long hair tumbles down her shoulders, the baseball cap on the floor behind her.

Lee is stunned into silence once again. The parlor goes deathly silent.

It’s Knapp who sets off the explosive spark again. “Holy fuck, you’re a little girl.”

Ellie snatches up her hat, cheeks flaming red, but Lee’s hand grabs her wrist.

“A kinda cute one at that,” Lee sneers. He twists her arm and she yelps. Knapp at the bar laughs, his paunch shaking as beer sloshes over the side of his glass. The woman is cleaning something with a rag, turned away from the scene, her shoulders hunched to her ears. You’re on your feet, your hand on her purse. “What are you thinking, hm? Dressing this sweet little girl up like a boy?”

The trigger clicks and Lee and everyone else in the parlor freezes. The edge of your lash line is wet, fear rolling through you like fog on the bay. Your hand is steady, miraculously, but your voice isn’t.

“L-l-let–,” your voice cracks and you try again. You only have one gun drawn on Lee and you pray to whatever god is listening that Knapp doesn’t remember his. “Let her go.”

This small pistol is your last line of defense against those who would take everything from you. You couldn’t keep your sister safe, your husband didn’t want to be saved, but you’d die before you’d let anyone come within an inch of Ellie. You pawned off your wedding ring long before you ever considered selling this weight in your hand. You couldn’t physically win a fight but you’d be damned if you weren’t going to take someone out with you.

There’s more than one reason you never let Ellie look into your purse. You won’t make eye contact with her now.

Lee’s eyes harden into black flints in his head. “Yeah? You’re shaking like a leaf. You ain’t gonna do shit about it.”

He twists harder, forcing Ellie to her knees, his mouth smearing into a sickening sneer, Ellie’s cries loud – “get off me, you fucker!”

All you have to do is miss. Once.

Your arm shifts right and you fire. You meant to hit the floor, but instead the leg of a chair at a nearby table shatters, wood and smoke sparking into the air. Lee and Ellie jump, their struggle broken, but Ellie’s quicker, smarter. Hunched to avoid debris, they are nearly eye to eye and Ellie doesn’t hesitate; she jerks her head back and then launches her forehead forward – square into his flat nose.

The crunch is sickening and it turns your already empty stomach. Lee shrieks, releasing Ellie, his hands flying to his misshapen nose to staunch the river of blood pouring from his nostrils.

“You bitch!” he whines, voice wet and gummy as blood trickles down his throat, eyes watering. You hear a roar of anger as Knapp stands, no longer finding any of this funny.

“Get behind me, Ellie.” You snap, eyes on Knapp as he lumbers forward. She hesitates, looking like she’d like nothing more than to kick Lee up the balls, but obeys the closer Knapp comes. She slots behind you, eyes sharp on the squealing man on the floor.

“She broke my fucking nose, man,” he cries, face already purpling.

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it, you fucker!” She snarls over your shoulder. One hand holds your elbow, and the other brandishes her mother’s knife that had been at the bottom of her satchel seconds ago. Fuck.

Ellie Williams is not, and never has been, nor will be, one to deescalate a situation. Knapp responds in kind. His drunk fingers fumble with his holster, his face contorted with rage.

“Shootin’ at an officer of the law – you’re gonna hang for this, you thieving little c–,”

“Knapp.”

A fifth voice – low, deep, a mammalian bark that grinds the chaos of the room to a halt. The large man stalls, his engine snagged by the rough grain of that voice. On the floor, Lee lets out one quiet whimper as he cracks open a pulsating black eye.

In the glow of the firelight, you watch as beads of sweat swell on Knapp’s big forehead beneath his wide-brimmed hat. His wide eyes flash between you and the man who just walked in.

“M-Miller, the fuck you want?”

Your heart seizes in your chest. Miller.

Joel Miller.

You never thought your saving grace would come in the shape of a hulking, dark-eyed man.

A well-worn handkerchief around his neck, crusted over with dust, his broad shoulders stretch a denim work shirt, the unbuttoned collar loose and just as dirty. Worked-over hands, dry and brown as the earth, curl into fists at his side. Tight jaw, flared nose, eyes black, his presence expands in the cramped room, a leviathan cresting dark waves to command the roaring void.

“Back off, both of you.”

Knapp sneers, desperately tugging at some misguided sense of bravery, with sweat running hot and fast and smelly down the sides of his rubbery face. “Y-yeah, or what?”

“You fuckin’ know what.”

Knapp visibly swallows and lowers his pistol, hands trembling. Lee whines from the floor, his eyes open as wide as the swelling will allow, abject terror on his face as he stares up at Miller. Neither of them move.

A guard dog satisfied by the corralled sheep, Joel’s heavy gaze roves from the two men, across the room, to you.

His expression doesn’t change.

The weight shifts across the stiff planes of his shoulders, and he turns, leaving as quickly as he appeared. Beneath his thick boots, the wooden floor creaks and it rouses you. Your mouth is so dry you can feel the skin of your lips split apart.

“Mr. Miller, w-wait.”

He doesn’t.

With a single glance to the men still frozen in terror, you follow him through the now-dark and empty store. The cold desert air cracks hard against your overheated cheeks when you burst through the door, into the black night. The moonlight illuminates the threads of silver hair in his beard that the dark parlor hid. His fingers work slowly, unhurriedly, as he tightens the leather buckle beneath the wide girth of his off-white horse. It lifts its head as you stumble out onto the dusty road, its round eyes watching you with more interest than its rider. White ears twitch forward, a snort from the long snout, and Joel rubs the soft place between two giant nostrils without looking up.

“J-Joel – Mr. Miller, please, I need your help.”

“Already got it.” His shoulders flex and roll as he loads up another loose sack onto the rump of the horse, then tightens the securing belt. It snorts again and shifts on its hooves, its long tail flicking back and forth.

You shake your head, swallowing the hot rush of embarrassment. The wind licks at your ankles and you fight back a shiver, bringing a hand to your shoulder to warm the goosebumps. “No, sorry, I mean – I’m here to help you. I saw your advertisement and I was wondering if the position was still open.”

The buckle quiets. The dirt at his feet crunches as he faces you.

There are no trees in Dalhart, Texas. There are barely any clouds, no coverage. Overhead, the few buildings not yet folded up in the wake of the financial collapse throw shadows over his angular face, but you can still feel the trace of his gaze over you. A curious search, the investigation of scent.

Then he shakes his head.

“No.”

Your entire chest tightens. “Has the position been filled?”

“No.”

“Then why–,”

“I don’t need you.” He lifts up the third and final sack and you feel your hope being carried away with it. “Need a farm hand. You’re not the type.”

“N-n-no, I’ve worked on a farm. I-I’ve only planted seeds but I’m a quick learner and I–,”

“No.”

“Sir – please, I’ll do anything–,”

“Then go home.” He unties the reins from the wooden post and clicks to the horse. Its big eyes watch you as he turns them for the road. “There’s nothing here for you.”

You absolutely will not cry in front of this gruff stranger. Panic icing down your spine, you follow him on weak knees. In the wake leftover from the wheat boom, Dalhart is quiet as soon as the sun goes down. Empty of people, of light, of any sort of guiding hand, you try to appeal to the last human you’ve found at the end of the world.

“Mr. Miller, there must be something you need. I’m a hard worker, smart, you won’t have to train me at all. Please. I’ve been a housekeeper, a seamstress – a nurse. I —,”

The horse huffs when Joel pulls tight on the reins.

In the moonlight, all of his hair looks gray. Your heart plunges in your throat. You can feel your stomach trying to digest your spine.

“Done any work with kids?” He asks, after a moment.

His brisk question is not what you expected. You can barely hear him over the pounding in your heart.

“Y-yes. I’ve treated children before. A-and I was a teacher, briefly. I’m very good with children, actually.”

The scarred hand at his side tightens, flexes open and closed, the tips of his thumb and forefinger twitching over the other. Over his shoulder, you think his head tilts a centimeter towards you.

“You know what? Fuck this.”

Out of the shadows of the county store, Ellie tears down the steps, her face pink and her hair stuffed back up her ball cap. She loops her small hands around your forearm and tugs, her eyes like chips of bark, glaring hatefully at the man in the middle of the street. Faint dust churns beneath her faded sneakers.

“She’s fucking begging you and you don’t give a fuck, you old shithead!” She tugs again. In the flash of the moonlight, a glassy film has settled over her eyes. “C’mon, we don’t need him. We – don’t need – him.”

“Ellie, please!” You grab her by the shoulders, a soft hand in a swirling tempest, and she settles, her mouth twisted up in anger and embarrassment. She hates that you have to beg anyone. “Please.” Shielding her from him, you squeeze her shoulders. “I know, Ellie. I know. But I have to keep you safe.”

Ellie finally turns that hot glare at you, eyes damp. Petulant when terrified, your sister was the exact same way.

Fuck, Anna, it should have been me.

“She yours?”

Joel rests his weight on his left knee, fingers loose around the reins. He’s lowered the mask around his mouth. You snap your head up, your voice thankfully steady. “She’s my niece. She . . . I’m responsible for her.”

Below your palms, Ellie stiffens.

Fifteen feet from you, Joel nods, the muscle in his jaw tight. The horse huffs and he glares at it like it just yelled at him too.

“I’m not in the habit of pickin’ up strays,” he says as if that means a lot.

Hope springs in your chest and it snags the air in your lungs. “We’re not. I-I mean, we’ll work hard. Please, give us just one chance.”

“And you expect me to take on the both of you.” It isn’t a question, but his eyebrow arcs all the same. “That’s two mouths I gotta feed, ‘steada one.”

“She can have mine.” In the silence, you think you can hear the faint choir of crickets. You remember the tarantulas and centipedes that lived inside the walls of your husband’s prairie dugout, and your stomach twists. “Ellie can have whatever you give us.”

She makes a brief cry of protest, but you squeeze her shoulders. The sharp flair of his nostrils smooths and the corners of his eyes pinches, tilting his eyebrows up. He’s still glowering, but somehow, his expression has suddenly opened, just a crack.

And then he nods.

“Stay here a night. I’ll be back in the morning with the wagon.”

And that’s it. You have a job.

You’re so elated it takes a minute for his words to sink in. He turns back down the road, the horse's hooves clipping on the dry ground. You follow after him, hand outstretched.

“Oh, no, w-we can walk, it’s no trouble. Let me just get our things and–,”

“Too far to walk. And there’s things out in the dark more dangerous than those fuckin’ rangers.” He nods to the country store, eerily quiet. It sits, ugly, like a brown old frog. “There’s a hotel just up the road. It’s not much, but it’ll do for one night.”

“But, sir, we really can’t stay. I don’t – there’s no –,”

You stumble to a stop when those merciless dark eyes root you to the ground. The leather reins squeak when he tightens his fist around them. Again, you are under the impression of a dog sniffing out your scent for any deception, any treason. He takes you in, all of you in – your ratty gloves, your torn hemline, your tattered collar – and by some miracle, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, the groove above his nose softens.

Wordlessly, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out five dollars from a brown leather wallet. He offers it to you between two fingers.

Take it, his eyes command.

You do, with a shaking hand. You hate charity, you hate that you’re at his mercy –

But Ellie has a bed for the night. Inside, warm. Where, hours ago, she didn’t. You smother your pride and nod, gaze at the scar on his cheek that you only now notice at an arm’s length away.

“One night,” he says. “For you and the kid.”

You nod again because that’s all you really can do, his pity clutched in your fist and held against your heart.

Ellie scowls as he swings up onto the horse and readjusts his mask.

“What a guy,” she murmurs to you, her eyes still narrowed. Joel clicks his teeth, and the horse trots off into the dark, a lone man riding out into the featureless night.

Evidently still feeling slighted, Ellie sticks her tongue out at the denim back.

“Better keep that tongue in your mouth, kid,” he hollers before digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. “Liable to be chopped off like a copperhead.”

Ellie’s mouth snaps shut.

The money Joel gave you is more than enough to cover a room and another plate of food. You even spurge your own money on some small candy for Ellie, determined to give Joel back every cent left over and then some, once you’ve proven you can earn your keep.

For you and the kid.

You shake your head, lost in your own thoughts, the gnawing hunger in your belly satiated, as you pull back the covers to the twin bed. The metal frame squeaks as you climb in, your night dress thin and ragged as the rest of your clothes.

“C’mon, Ellie, time for bed.” When she doesn’t move, you stop rearranging the pillows and look at her. In her own white nightie (because she’d outgrown all her other pajamas), she sits in front of the roaring fire, her chin on her knees, and her arms wrapped around her shins.

She’s quiet - either a good sign, or a terrible one.

“Ellie, sweetie, we’ve gotta get some sleep. It’s gonna be a long day tomorrow.”

You watch as her narrow back expands and falls in one slow breath, her skin bright in the firelight.

She nods mutely and climbs into the space beside you. She rolls onto her side, away from you, her hands tucked up under her head, her knees curled up beneath her.

This is where Anna would know what to say. How to soothe this girl with so much awareness in a world that is raw to even those willfully ignorant. You can’t bullshit Ellie the way you can some kids. She knows too much. Seen too much.

You settle down next to her in the shadow of her shoulder. Your fingers hover, locked between the yawning gap of touching her and not touching her, when she finally speaks.

“Is this really going to work?” Her voice is quiet, soft, dust-covered and buried. “Is Joel really gonna . . . are we safe?”

You cannot bullshit Ellie Williams.

“I don’t know. I’d like to think so. I know you don’t like him, but I think we can trust him.”

She’s quiet again, only this time because there’s something she doesn’t want to say.

“Not like Uncle Robert – or Robert, if that’s even his real name. I’d never met the man in person, but I wanted – so badly – to believe . . .” You swallow, your own shame boiling your skin. “I think we’re safe with Joel Miller.”

The god’s honest truth.

She hears it in your voice.

Ellie tips back to look you in the eyes. She’s lost so much weight recently. “Yeah?”

You tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, the ghost of your thumb across her cheek. She allows the show of affection. “Yeah, El. I do.”

You want to say: you can trust me. I’ll always take care of you.

But you know it would only come out hollow.

Neither of you would think it was honest.

She pulls away from your grasp, her eyes almost golden in the firelight. She nods and stares at the burning wood.

“Okay.”

“So . . . is your car, like, broken or something?”

You elbow Ellie and she sits up from hanging over the edge of the wagon. She frowns at you – what? – and you both glance at Joel at the front of the wagon. If the question annoys him any more than he perpetually already is, he doesn’t show it.

“Don’t have one.” He says to the back of the horse. The wagon rocks and sways over the clods of dust and stone in the road. “Never did.”

“Uh, why?”

“Cars break down in the dust storms. Short out. They end up being more trouble than they’re worth.”

Again, that half-centimeter turn, his tone implying what his eyes can’t, faced away from you. Ellie narrows her eyes at the back of his head. She wrenches her mouth open, fire in her eyes, but she catches you glaring, and her mouth snaps shut. Pouting, she chucks a lone pebble off the back of the wagon.

The sky is strikingly blue, bright as a livewire, the air warm and crackling with the early summer heat. Away from Dalhart, away from the collection of dust on every surface, dripping through every crack, you find the clarity and distance of the southern plains to be . . . unexpected. So careless and abrasive one minute, but then, in moments like these, it became hard to believe that nature could ever be so cruel as to make the earth rise up and swallow it all whole.

You swing your legs off the wooden edge, the sunshine warm on your knees. It’s no use trying to hide how badly your socks need darning, so you lean back and stretch your legs as far as you can, your face tilted towards the sky, the still air peaceful. This morning, you’d put on your yellow plaid dress, torn cotton lace around the sleeves that stop at your elbows. You tucked your hair up and pinned your straw hat to your head. It was a reflex, to present your most beautiful self to a man, even one you barely knew. By the way Ellie had rolled her eyes, she felt no such compulsion.

Demure, your mother always told you, you’re not very pretty, you’re not very bright, the least you can be is demure.

The wagon shudders, clicks, over the empty road and you open your eyes. Ellie is turned away from you, eyes out to the fields on either side of you. You don’t understand what she’s looking at, until you realize that’s exactly it: there is nothing to look at. On the other side of those loopy barbed-wire fences through cock-eyed posts, there are miles and miles of nothing but churned-over dirt. A lazy wind spins over a patch of emptiness, tossing clods and sand into the air, an aimless sadness as tangible as the dust itself. Phone lines stand, corroded and chipped, along the side of the road like tangible manifestations of a deadly infection.

“There’s no crops here either.” Ellie says, voicing loudly what you only thought. You can’t see her face but she sounds as stunned as you are. “What happened?”

You watch over her shoulder, eyes level with the earth bleached of all material, all life. With the drought, your husband’s field shriveled up in months, the cracked ground peeling away from the sodhouse in some places. You still have nightmares about waking up with grit between your teeth, choking and coughing up bloody chunks of mud.

This is desolation on an epidemic scale.

“Ask different people ‘n they’ll tell you different things.” Joel says in his slow drawl, the crackle of the earth soft beneath the wooden wheels. “No one really knows. But nothing like this happened when the buffalo grass was here, ‘steada wheat.”

“Wait, you were here before Dalhart?” Ellie twists on the wagon, leaning over the lip where Joel sits and drives the horse.

“My family was. Here before anything. My grandpa befriended the Comanche Indians and –,”

“You got to hang out with Indians?” Ellie nearly hurls herself over the edge of the wagon to try and look him in the eye. “What are they like – did they teach you how to shoot a bow and arrow – can they really ride horses like that –,”

“Ellie!” You want to grab her by her collar and yank her back into the wagon. “Not so many questions.”

The noise Joel makes is somewhere between a grunt and the word no.

“It’s fine –, “ he looks down at Ellie, still curled around the back of the seat, her eyes wide with a giant smile on her face. His ever present scowl doesn’t seem any deeper, nor does it deter her. Joel turns away again and in the sunlight, his hair is gooey, caramel brown. You stare at the dirt road while listening, the back of your neck hot. “They’re good people. Didn’t deserve what happened to them – to any of ‘em. But they taught my grandpa and grandma how to take just what they need, nothing more. But then everybody needed grain, offered money for cheap, easy labor. They poured in here, into the prairie, and in years, it became this. Folks blame the drought, but it’s more’n that.”

Ellie’s inordinately quiet. She knows exactly what your husband did to you, to your family, and now, maybe to the entire land.

“‘Next year’ people, they claim,” Joel continues, his voice deepening with anger, “‘next year’, things’ll be better. ‘Next year’ the rains’ll come. ‘Next year’ the wheat’ll return.” He shakes his head, boots creaking against the toeboard. “Anyone who thinks that is lyin’ to themselves. Anyone’s who’s been here, seen what’s here, for us it’s been –,”

“The end of the world.”

The silence that follows your words stretches long, an anchor dropped off the end of the wagon and rattling around the wheels. You swing your legs, fingers curling around a tear in your hemline. It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words to describe the state of things. That’s what your husband called it and you believed him.

Evidently, Joel agrees. His wide shoulders taught, the denim blue faded beneath the boundless sky, he nods.

“Griiim,” Ellie mutters as she curls up and drops her chin on her knees.

You’ve been watching a single cloud chase the sun from the floor of the wagon when Ellie, silent for all of about fifteen minutes, lifts her head from her hands draped over the edge. Her eyes go wide, her ears pink from the sun, and says:

“Whoa.”

The horse huffs as you sit up, a soft wind snagging the loose hairs on the back of your neck, and your mouth drops.

Grass.

Fields of it.

The air is fresh, warm, and filled with the scent of living, breathing earth. Tipped with lush purple seeds shaped like paintbrushes, a sea of stalks bend and ripple in the cooling breeze, undulating like waves on solid ground. The wind is soft here, teasing, rolling through the tall grass, carrying the scent of growth and green in the air. You’re suddenly aware of how dry your mouth is, cracked and padded with dust.

“We left it be.” Joel offers simply, voice too gruff to surely be filled with pride. “It’s endured and survived, and so have we.”

Further back, you can see where the line of his property ends – a harsh division of paradise and purgatory – and marked to the north by a dip in the ground and even over the crunch of the wheels over the ground, you hear it: water.

A river. An oasis in a wasteland.

Ahead of the white tufts of hair on the horse, the road curves, disappearing into the sea of grass, but letting your graze drift up, you see an a-frame home, white like a lighthouse at the edge of a storm. The instant the home comes into view, Joel clicks his tongue, urging the horse faster – eager.

He leads the horse up through the road, through the grass, and on the other side, by the river, two cows chew up the green, oblivious. Beyond them, tucked behind the house is a barn. Low to the ground but wide, hunched like a fighter with a heavy center of gravity, it looks ready to endure and survive. As this entire secret world had.

Joel tugs the horse to a stop, the wagon rattles as it slows, by the wide porch of the a-frame. It sits also low to the ground, wider with a dark roof, held together with something black and smeared. You’re so distracted by the unique qualities of this house in the middle of paradise that you miss it when the door creaks open until you’re staring down the barrel of a shotgun.

“Who are you?” The voice behind the gun is deep, even if the barrels shake slightly. In the dark of the doorframe, you can’t quite see their face, only their short stature.

You see Ellie’s hand twitch towards her knife, which she now carries in her sock since the night of the county store.

However, Joel is less concerned. In fact, the boulders of his shoulders loosen, ease to simple muscle and blood. He makes a noise that on anyone else, it might be considered a laugh, a chuckle, but he isn’t even capable of smiling –

He slings down from the seat and pats the horse.

“Easy there, Annie Oakley, it’s just me.”

The shadow in the doorway stiffens.

“Dad?”

The shotgun lowered, the shadow staggers into the light. Brown eyes, just like his, scrunched against the blinding sunlight, a girl with the most beautiful head of curls blinks at Joel, her thin hand held up to shield her face.

“Hey there, baby girl.”

In a single leap, she jumps down from the porch but all too quickly, the smile slips from Joel’s face.

“Hang on, not too fast–,”

She stumbles towards him as best as the metal braces around her knees, down to her ankles, will allow, defiant and smiling, despite the beads of sweat that have swelled over her forehead. Joel surges forward, faster than you thought possible, and reaches for her, nearly on one knee.

“Slow down, please, Sarah.”

“Dad, I’m fine,” she huffs before tossing her arms around his neck. “I’m fine. Just – missed you, is all.”

You can’t see his face, but he straightens up still holding her. With one hand he flattens those curls to her cheek, and kisses the other.

“Enough to forget all the things I taught you about gun safety? You just tossed that thing aside,” he scolds fondly. She rolls her eyes as he sets her down.

“Okay, but if you didn’t know it was me, you would’a been totally scared, right?”

She watches as he chuckles, a deep, warm sound, but her own smile flatlines when she spies Ellie climbing down from the wagon. You ease off the edge, your lower half sore from the ride.

The girl, Sarah, narrows her eyes.

“Who are you?” She positions her body slightly in front of Joel’s. “And why are you dressed like a boy?”

Joel’s soft scolding – “Sarah” – is lost beneath Ellie’s scoff. She adjusts her satchel.

“Why are you dressed like Raggedy Ann?”

Her father’s massive hands clench down on her shoulders, Sarah’s scowl evident that she’s about half a second away from launching herself at Ellie, leg braces be damned.

“Now, let’s slow down here.” Joel’s deep baritone is light, but just as firm as his grip. If you knew him better, you’d think he is about to laugh, the lines around his eyes thick, while his mouth stays flat. “We got off on the wrong foot. Sarah, this is Ellie and her aunt. They’re going to be staying with us for a while to help out with your schooling.”

Those curls go flying, her frown now pinched in worry. Another girl caught between a child and adult – for the sake of their single parent, you notice, your chest tight.

“I thought you needed a farm hand. You were going to teach me.”

“You know you already read better than I do.”

“Dad–,”

“Miss here is also a nurse.”

“Oh. Oh.” She glances down at the metal braces as if she’d forgotten they were there. The skin on her knees is chaffed, rubbed pink. “She can . . . help me?”

Twin pairs of brown eyes settle on you, one hesitantly curious, the other aggressively determined.

You can, right?

Ellie’s staring at the braces, her gaze distant, heavy. She’d seen this before, but everything back then moved too fast. Back then, there was no time for braces.

Braces only help a small percentage of polio patients. The lucky ones.

You nod, your heart hammering under your chest bone. “Yes – yes, sir. I think with Ms. Kenny’s therapy, we might be able to alleviate some pain.”

Those eyes, exactly like and so unlike her father’s, widen.

“Really?”

You introduce yourself with your first name, pressing the crease in your glove between your nail and your thumb with your other hand.

“I’d like to try, Sarah.”

You suddenly understand that Sarah is Joel Miller’s most guarded secret, out here in paradise, paradise as the most beautiful prison in the world. He continues to stare at you from under thick eyebrows after Sarah moves away from him. Ellie, caught off-guard by her forward movement, takes a significant step back.

“I, um, got some marbles out back,” Sarah starts, thumbing over her shoulder, and every other word sounding like an apology. “If you wanna play.”

Ellie jerks forward, her eyes round with excitement, but stops. She looks at you.

“Can I?”

Soft when eager, just like her mother. So unlike you. You nod.

“Stay close, okay?”

You and Joel watch as Ellie and Sarah toddle around to the back of the house, Ellie quietly narrating every thought she has as she keeps pace with Sarah.

Those look actually really cool, you know?

Yeah?

Totally. Have you read Amazing Stories? You look like you could be part of the Space Family Robinson.

Who are they?

Oh, you’ve never read those!? Okay, so they’re a family who live in space and they go on these awesome adventures together to different planets and . . .

The farther they go, the faster Joel turns back to stone. His gaze lingers just a hint longer before those dark eyes pin you to the ground.

“You said you can clean? Cook?”

You nod quickly. “Yes, sir.” Guard dog Joel. Stocky pitbull, teeth long and wet Joel.

He tilts his chin towards the house.

“Kitchen’s in the back. I gotta clean up the wagon and the horse, then gonna tend the field. I’ll be back in a few hours, but Sarah knows where to find me if y’need somethin'.”

You nod again, but he misses it, turning away to unbuckle the horse. You slide your trunk and Ellie’s satchel off the end of the wagon and head into the shadow of the house.

The white clapdoor snaps shut behind you, followed by the softer snik of the screen clicking into its frame. Slipping the bobby pins out of your hair to release your hat, you take in the Miller home.

The air is cool. Dust motes float in the sunlight streaming in from the second floor over a staircase with wooden wainscoting leading away from the open front room. With a brief glance up, you can see the faded white walls of the upper hallway, some not-yet-seen window drawing in bolts of morning light that pierce the air in bullet holes. It’s quiet and it smells warm, like lace kept in the back of a drawer near a wall that faces the heat outside.

A blue two-seater couch faces a squat fireplace, with a Queen Anne table sandwiched between the two. Behind you, a large grandfather clock ticks and waits, a server waiting in the shadows with a watchful eye to report back to its master on the going-ons of the house. With only a cedar hutch, a few daguerreotypes, a smattering of books, the room is sparsely decorated, but kept clean and organized. You could see Sarah, a focused look in her eyes, sitting on the steps of the stairs and making Joel move and rearrange furniture over and over again until the room felt right.

Through a white arched doorway, you find yourself in the kitchen. The light sparks more brightly here, the sky a stark blue through the four square window over the kitchen table and above the sink, reflective of the sun. You realize then the house runs north to south at an angle, where there are limited windows in the walls on the east and west sides, thereby limiting direct sun exposure and, more importantly, heat. Both the kitchen and the front rooms had been built out of the line of the sun, making cooking and cleaning and living bearable without a painful glare.

A thoughtful and patient consideration.

Someone had attempted to add some levity with brown and blue plaid wallpaper around the cove of the dinner table, all the way to the other side of the room around the kitchen counters and stove. But unfortunately for everyone else, the wallpaper is hideous, only tampered by the off-white counters and cupboards.

The cupboards have glass doors, blurring ceramic cups and plates on the tops of the shelves.

It reminds you of the small apartment Anna and you lived in back in Boston, when it was just the two of you. It wasn’t much, but it felt sturdy, secure. Safe.

A door to the right of the stove has a latch, and you lift it and poke your head inside. A chilly darkness greets you, along with the scent of wet, deep earth. A basement? No. Not this close to the kitchen. Curiosity pulling you forward, you descend the sturdy wooden stairs, into the sunken darkness. You count ten until a draft licks your ankles. You keep going, one squeak of wood after another until - you touch soil. The heady scents of pine bark and peat moss soothe the air from where your feet press into the ground, fertility thick like mushrooms in the gut of a lichen-drenched tree. But it’s dark, too dark to make out much, barely your own hand in front of your face. With your fingers outstretched, as if you’ll bump into a gas lamp conveniently on the ground, you shuffle forward and almost immediately a cold chain tickles your face. You grab out of instinct and pull.

Nearly blinded by the light that erupts from an exposed bulb directly in front of your left eye, you stagger back, wincing, your footsteps muffled by the earthen floor. You blink through the tears as the secret at the end of the stairs finally reveals itself.

A pantry. A cellar.

At least twenty feet deep and ten feet high, with rows and rows, stacks and stacks, wood shelves cover nearly the entire length of the underground room. In between the rows, large barrels sit, quiet and sturdy, with bottles of vinegar and olive oil sitting on their rims.

You realize two things within seconds of each other.

This house has electricity. It stands above the ground, proud, independent, full of heat and light. So unlike your husband’s dark hole in the ground.

and

there is so much food.

Pickling jars. Seed pouches. Culled wheat. Cans of fruit and vegetables and eggs. Olives with squash and pumpkins. Crates of potatoes and half bottles of wine and syrup. Onions and carrots and spices and garlic.

A feast. Meals for days and days and days. The bounties of earth stored, safe beneath the ground, like a secret.

It’s more food than you’ve seen in years.

A hunger like you can’t remember having roars in your stomach out of nowhere and everything pitches to the right. The edges of your vision blurs, your shoulder knocking into stone wall, and breathing becomes a nearly impossible task. You turn, nearly stumbling up the dozen steps that have turned into a thousand.

The tacky memories that stick to the crevices of your dreams yawn awake, bringing with them dry mud in your mouth and thick salt to your eyes. Mud, dirt, dust – everywhere. In that stinking hut in the ground, the dust replaced your molecules, your atoms, until you too might blow away, until you are cracked and empty and dry. The static from the dust storm memories shoots down both of your arms and you sway on your feet. Your heart suddenly pounding so achingly fast, you have to drop your forehead against the flat surface of the closed door to keep the room from spinning.

You had forgotten what safety looked like.

You had forgotten what living could be.

You know the ringing sound of that gunshot is just in your head, it’s not real, but you shudder all the same, your hands curling into claws under your chin, your nails tearing up the white paint.

You’re here, not there. You are safe. Ellie is safe. That house and him have been entombed together under piles of dirt, with the bugs and the rot and the stench from the weak stove. Rivers of sweat rolling down the back of your neck, you beg yourself to stop shaking. You feel like cheap terracotta pottery – made from dirt, left too long to bake in the sun and made brittle; one good tap and you’ll shatter.

You breathe in and taste wet salt. Breathe out and cry – cry from the fear and the dread and the relief and the hope. God, that hope tastes worse than all the dirt in the Panhandle of Texas.

You cry and cry and cry until you don’t feel so brittle anymore.

Sunlight has struck copper, heavy, tangy in the mouth, when the back door opens and the house is instantly filled with the sound of girls’ rabid conversation. You step back from the stove, cheeks warm and arm sore from continuously stirring the rice and vegetable soup. It’s not as thick as your mother once made, but without milk, it would be nearly impossible to improve. You smile at the girls as they tumble in, more dust mite than human, whispering about some secret.

“Having fun?” You ask with a grin on your face as Ellie helps Sarah take off her shoes, already attentive to what a girl with her health concerns might need.

There’s an overlap of chatter as Ellie and Sarah both answer you and then, answer each other.

“Well, good,” you say, turning back to the stove, making sure the bottom of the soup doesn’t burn, “but whatever you got up to, it’s all over your faces so please wash up before dinner.”

“It smells real good, miss,” Sarah says as she hobbles over to the sink and starts rinsing off her arms and cheeks, while Ellie takes off her own shoes. “What is it?”

“Something my mom used to make when the cupboards were bare.”

Sarah stills, the water rushing over her soft skin. Those inquisitive eyes are just as captivating, just as forceful as her father’s, but for entirely different reasons. She tugs the words out of you by the sheer, needling strength of her gaze.

“I mean – I found the cellar, the house is incredibly well stocked, but I didn’t see any preserved meat or dairy and I didn’t – I didn’t think your dad would want me poking around out back.”

Immediately Sarah softens and rolls her eyes. “Dad’s all bark and no bite,” she huffs. “We’ve got stored beef and cheese in an ice chest downstairs. I’ll show you around tomorrow.”

You smile and those brown eyes go warm in the coppery light. “Thanks, Sarah.”

“Bunch up, I gotta wash my hands too.” Ellie none-to-gently bumps Sarah with her shoulder to get to the sink but before you can scold her, Sarah swings back, using her precarious momentum, and pushes Ellie back. They both giggle. Something that’s been cramped far too long in your chest loosens.

“So, Sarah, tell me where you are with your schooling. Do you have books, diagrams?”

She thinks for a minute as she opens a drawer that leaves her back to you and takes out two, then four thin cloth placemats. She hobbles back to the table to carefully spread them out.

“I was up to seventh grade before the school shut down. That was about two years ago, so Dad’s been trying to make sure I don’t forget anything. He got me a Midsummer Night’s Dream by Shakespeare a while ago and made me read it out loud to him. He has me work on my letters every day – including cursive.” She adds, with a bright spot of joy cranking her mouth open. You imagine someone like Sarah would have beautiful penmanship. ��He shows me around the yard, asking me to identify plants and animals, especially anything that might be poisonous. I don’t think he really understands it but he explains what happens when you add water to a seed and keep it in damp earth. Oh, and he has me help balance the books for the farm – what we made, what we sold, how much we have left, stuff like that.”

You smile at her over your shoulder as Ellie hands her bowls. “Accounting.”

“Huh?”

Ellie rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, don’t worry about it,” she whispers conspiratorially.

“What your dad is teaching you is called accounting,” you say a bit firmly, eyes tracking your niece as she shows no shame. “It’s a very special skill to have, especially if you work on a farm or in a business. Do you like it?”

She nods rapidly, those cork-screw curls bouncing around her thin face. “Yeah! I do! I’m much faster than Dad when it comes to figuring out the sums and dollar value.”

In the front hall, the clap door creaks open then slams shut, heavy footfalls proceeding the man that makes them.

“Does that happen a lot?” you ask softly as Sarah sidles up next to you to peer into the pot.

“Where I know more than my dad?” Sarah smirks up at you, all devious youth. “More often than you think.”

A mini sun bursts from the ceiling as Joel flicks on the light switch and is almost immediately tackled by Sarah. The copper sun on the horizon finally, in the distracted moment, slips down and drags the night behind it. It’s purple twilight outside when Joel lifts his head from the embrace around Sarah’s shoulders to stare at the two strangers in his kitchen.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you say brightly and you can almost picture your mother in the same exact position in front of the stove, stirring soup until her cheeks were pink, her hand resting low on her back, her tummy round and full in her second attempt to keep her husband’s rage diverted from her. It’s a boy, she promised.

The memory makes you so violently ill out of nowhere, you lose your appetite. But you persevere; you carry on and load up the bowls Sarah stacked for you. Ellie saves you from having to dislodge the prickly knot in your throat when she snags a bowl and eagerly yells, “get it while it’s hot!”

The arrangements from the stove to the table are a bit of a blur, the slick anxious weight from earlier today curling around your lungs again as you remember shadows in chairs like these, but so different from the flesh-and-blood bodies that occupy them now.

You’re dazed, a little light-headed, but not so much to miss the glance between Joel and Ellie. A junkyard puppy skirting the territory of an older watchdog, a bone in each of their mouths and dragged to opposite corners of the battlefield. Satisfied with the lines of demarcated territory that had been drawn, they call a temporary truce by eating in complete silence, until Sarah groans.

“Oh my god, this is better than it smells!” she hums, her mouth full of potatoes.

“Just wait till she adds chicken,” Ellie grumbles, mouth cupped open to keep from spilling. You watch her, a faint smile on your face, and the slippery feeling fades. When cleaning up, she missed a spot on her left nostril and you fight the urge to clean it with your thumb.

“There’s more.”

Your gaze snaps to Joel hunched over his bowl. The spoon that Ellie and Sarah have to both clutch in their fists to eat barely swings between his massive fingers.

Joel’s dark eyes trace down your nose, your chin, your neck, to where your hands lay flat on the table in front of you. Your own bowl and spoon sit on the counter behind you. You worry you might have upset him, with the way he’s frowning.

“There’s more,” he repeats, same tone.

“I'm sorry?”

He puts his spoon down and clears his throat, then nods to the pot on the stove. Ellie watches him out of the corner of her eye.

“I saw how much you made. If you’re hungry, you should eat.”

As though speaking a language only you could hear, he looks at Ellie the same time you do.

She frowns. “What? Is there something on my face?”

Sarah begins to giggle, nodding, when Joel starts again.

“You should eat. There’s enough.”

It’s like his eyes can see through your blue veins and clammy skin, to your yellow bones and clawing stomach. You choke on the mudball that’s been hovering in your throat for months and nod.

“Alright.”

You don’t know if you’re actually hungry – you can’t really remember the taste of warm food – or if you’re doing it just to appease him, but something about the heat of the bowl and solid spoon in your hand, it rouses you from this sinking you find yourself in. Your bones feel like jelly.

“How’re the fields, Dad?” Sarah asks with her big eyes, seemingly unaware of the layered exchange between you and her father, or kind enough not to address it.

He responds to her, his voice deep in the cavern of his chest. It’s an easy way he speaks to her, heavy with the seriousness she’s earned to be talked to like an adult, but gentle enough that for all his low grumbling, it comes out as a thick murmur. You find yourself listening to their conversation, their interactions, as soothing as music turned low from a well-tuned radio. Ellie is even roped in when Sarah tells Joel all about the Space Family Robinson and Ellie’s knife. “It’s really cool, Dad,” she says preemptively. “She knows how to use it and she’s really safe.”

“Well, if it’s really cool . . .” he fills his mouth with potatoes, tamping down the ghost of a grin on his lips around the spoon.

Ellie shuffles in her seat, her own hesitant smile glittering in her eyes, and with only minor prompting, she holds no prisoners when gleefully telling Sarah that she’s got the story of finding a mess of wriggling worms out by the back of the barn all wrong.

“Just keep ‘em outta my side of the bed, alright?” You grin at her, spooning another dribble of soup into your mouth. You’ve realized too much, too fast can just as easily twist your stomach so you focus on cradling a digestible amount of food – broth, potato, carrots – in the well of your spoon.

But the landscape beyond the silver lip has stilled. Both girls are happily slurping up the last bits of their meals, throwing quips back and forth, but Joel’s shoulders have locked up again, the bones of his wrists flat, a static alertness that you’re sure would travel all the way down to his ankles if he was standing up right. You aren’t sure if Sarah has picked up on the subtle change in his breathing – from the deep well of his lungs to shortened and shallow – but somehow you have.

You’re staring at him far too long.

Those thick eyebrows pitch down again. Beneath the loose button that pins your dress closed over your chest, you feel a swell of heat and you wish you were like Ellie, capable of making an easy joke – what, is there something on my face? The heat bubbles almost uncomfortably under his weighted gaze.

“I hate bugs,” you blurt out, desperate to give him what he wants, if only you knew. The girls glance at your sudden outburst. “I don’t like worms especially. I don’t mind straw beds, as long as they’re clean – I mean, I–I hope they are, the straw beds, not the worms.”

Another eternal second of being pinned down by Joel’s frown, this one decidedly less hostile, before understanding breaks open the harsh lines of his mouth and around his eyes. His eyes go wide for less than breath, then he drops his gaze to the bowl. His shoulders shift, muscle redistributing weight as he settles his thick forearm closer to the edge of the table.

Oh, that relief of muscle says.

“You’re not sleeping in the barn.” Joel says, head tucked down. At that, Ellie slows her ravenous eating and frowns at him.

“Then where are we sleeping?”

Joel lifts his head, a new, special emotion just for her tugging on his mouth: exasperation. “My room. You two in there and I’m takin’ the couch.”

Shame and embarrassment drip down over your skull, between your ears, like a cold, runny egg.

“No, we couldn’t possibly–,”

He shakes his head, eyes still on the split potato chunk at the bottom of the bowl. His hand flexes briefly and you think of it around the bridle of the horse.

“It’s not up for discussion.”

Beside him, Sarah frowns at him and you’d wonder how many times in her life he’s ever said that to her – if you could think properly over the roaring of blood in your ears.

“Joel,” you say, something syrupy under your tongue molding the words Mr. Miller into a tone you’d use for an old friend. “I can’t ask you to–,”

Hand flexes. The seat of the chair squeaks.

“You’re not askin’, I’m tellin’.” You’re still vastly underprepared for when those eyes - those deep, dark eyes - suddenly snap on you, as if your very presence commands his entire attention. You notice the dirt underneath his nails and around the knot of his wrist on the table. He’s filthy.

Quietly, with the surety of a dog slipping its snout between its paws, he cuts the last chunk of potato in half with the curve of his spoon. “The new mattresses’ll be here next week. We’ll make do ‘till then.”

The slurp of soup between his lips seems to signal the end of the conversation, but you can’t quite mash together your kaleidoscope-spinning impressions of the man across the table from you.

“Thank you . . . Joel.”

He nods, back teeth breaking apart the soft mush of the potato. He swallows and glances back up at you.

“It’s good,” he says, briefly holding his spoon aloft. “You did good.”

His words burst the choking bubble in your chest and warmth drips down your spine, splashing in the cradle of your hips. Hunger rises, but it’s a different kind of hunger. A growl of neglect. One you sometimes wondered if it was even possible for you to ever even feel.

Even while you were married to your husband.

You put your spoon down to keep your hand from shaking. The soup won’t feed this new churning hunger and, frankly, you don’t know what will.

You did good, he praised, parsed out like torn bread tossed across a black lake.

It makes you warm in places food never could.

The immediate next morning, you meet the sun early, eagerly. Eager to wake and rise and become so useful, you are intricately tied to this house; if you are removed, a vital piece of the land, the prairie is torn up along with you. Ellie sleeps softly next to you, curled up in the same position she was in the hotel bed, tucked in so tightly as if to take up the least amount of space possible. She sleeps, unbothered, blissful, and again you fight the urge to brush the hair that covers her sleeping eyes. You settle for tugging the beautiful quilt, with its stunning blue and red and green patches, up to her shoulders.

As you tie your dress up, your suitcase partially open and on the ground, movement from outside in the dawning pink catches your eye. A brisk shadow, those thick shoulders proceeding a taught waist are unmistakable as they move towards the barn. You stand, transfixed for a moment as broad hands slide open the barn doors, you hear a faint creak, and he disappears inside. The capability of those hands; the surety, where every action is deliberate and intentional – it makes something arc up your throat. A warm piercing that bursts through bone and muscle alike. Trembling fingers tug at the wilting lace around the cuffs of your dress, imagination stretching out into the dark morning, inspired by curious and impossible ideas of those hands.

Something – most likely Sarah next door – squeaks the floorboard and those tendrils of thought snap back as if someone had slammed a lid shut. You glance at the clock and make a mental note to wake up earlier tomorrow, to beat him to the kitchen.

You are also desperately eager to get out of the room where you can practically smell Joel on the walls. It’s simple, just like the rest of the house, but amongst the hand-drawn sketches of himself and birds (likely gifts from Sarah), the half-spent candles and well-read books, you find him in everything. You wonder, briefly, if the indentations made on the cotton mattress are from him or you – the scent of his hair in the pillow from sweat or soap.

The encroaching feeling that you don’t belong here in this house nearly swallows you whole as you dress in a room you definitely don’t belong in.

Joel remains a distant figure, a familiar shadow across the lightning horizon, long after you finish the eggs and toast. You consider perusing the pantry for blueberries or something similar, when Sarah comes down. Fresh-faced, dressed with the care most people reserve for church, she stumbles in, her braces clacking as she finds a seat at the table.

You notice a brief flash of pain across her face when you bring over a plate of food. She unconsciously rubs a circle with her thumb on her left knee as she picks up her fork.

“Pain today?” You ask, eyes on her knee, even though it’s obvious.

She nods, strained. “Just a little bit. But it’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away when it warms up outside.”

You doubt that is remotely true, but you let her hold the comforting lie. She doesn’t seem like the type to swallow pity with ease, and neither was Anna. You put on that detached but focused "nurse's" mask, your lips a straight line and brow furrowed, your voice slipping on something more commanding too.

“Let me see.”

Sarah blinks at you briefly, evidently surprised by your shift in demeanor but eventually, she obeys. She drops her fork and slides the chair back, the chair legs squeaking against the rough wooden floor.

You crouch in front of her, gathering up her ankle first and testing its mobility.

“When were you diagnosed?” you ask, as soft as you are firm.

“Never, technically.” She watches you and occasionally winces. You wonder how long she’s grown stiff like this. “The doc had left over braces that Dad bought before the guy skipped town.”

“So then how did you know it was polio?”

By her sudden stillness, you know this is the first time that word has been uttered under this roof in a long time. You lower her ankle, rising gaze meeting hers. Her mouth is pulled tight. You can practically read the familiar headlines as they scroll across her mind.

New Polio Cases by the Thousands

Polio Claims Life of Infant

Polio Outbreak: Thirteen Dead

“Not every case is serious,” you say, gently, using the word serious in place of fatal. You don’t want to scare her unnecessarily. But by her wide eyes, you know the word sits in her chest all the same.

“I know. And I know it can be made worse by moving too much. That’s why Dad’s always on me about resting and going slow.”

You return to your examination. Her skin is rubbed raw in some places by the braces. You remind yourself to ask Joel for some old sheets to make better padding.

“That’s not always true,” you say, shifting to her other leg. “Even though she was sore after, Anna often said she felt the stiffness go away after walking around the neighborhood block.”

Curious, Sarah tilts her head, those lovely curls swaying like leaves in a breeze. “Who’s Anna?”

Your skin around your eyes tightens – how could you be so careless with such a secret – when you hear feet thundering down the stairs and a second later, Ellie swings around the lip of the doorway.

“Is that toast?” She asks, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you got bacon, I’m gonna start kissing faces.”

You and Sarah exchange a small grin before you stand up right and Sarah returns to her own meal.

“No bacon today, but who knows what else is stored in the pantry?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Ellie exclaims as she slides into a chair, her own plate pilled far too for a girl her size. “Treasure hunt.”

You see the tips of Sarah’s ears go briefly pink at Ellie’s language but the muffled smile on her face hints at awe, impressed – so you let that one slide. A stream of light through the half-shut curtain tugs your thoughts outside, to the man literally toiling in the fields.

“Does your dad want me to bring him some food?” You ask, standing from the chair and glancing out the window. You can’t see him any more and for some reason that makes your chest go tight.

Sarah shook her bouncy curls. “No. He’ll come in and get it when he’s hungry.”

You didn’t like the idea that you weren’t going to be directly feeding the man who employed you literally to cook for him and his daughter.

“Does he like coffee?”

Sarah arches an eyebrow at you. “Yeah, he loves it. But I’ve tried for years to make it the way he likes and he always drinks it, but I think a little piece of him dies inside every time he does.”

“Then you must be a great cook too,” Ellie smirks up at her. In response, Sarah smiles impishly around a mouthful of eggs.

You hold that little bit of information about Joel - something you knew that he didn’t know you knew - close, like a dollar bill in your pocket. You drum your fingers, searching for memories of how Anna used to shoe-string coffee when you couldn’t afford a maker in Boston.

“Did you eat?”

Ellie’s voice tears your gaze from the window. Her plate is only halfway empty. Her fingers uneasily move the fork around.

“Yeah,” you answer truthfully. In fact, you are rather ashamed by how much you took, sitting at the table in the purple dark, before you remembered that you had to feed three other people. “I’m good, Ellie. Thanks.”

She nods, returning to her plate and shoveling two bites into her mouth without slowing down.

“What’s first today?” Sarah asks, her eyes bright. “I can show you my sums. We have a chalkboard in the barn.”

You smile at her eagerness to show off while Ellie dejectedly pokes at her remaining floppy eggs. She had never been one for school, another thing you found hard to relate to about her. Fortunately for her, Anna nor you ever had the time to be as diligent about her education as Joel had been for Sarah. And unfortunately for her, you intend to fix that as quickly as possible.

“I’d love to see them, Sarah, but would you mind showing me around the cellar first? Maybe there is bacon hiding down there somewhere.”

You don’t miss the small smile that creeps across Ellie’s face.

“Junk or keep?”

Sarah looks up from the tip of her stick dragging nonsense through the barn’s dirt floor, her chin flat in her palm, elbow on her knee. She frowns at Ellie holding up . . . something that might have been a tractor part at one time.

“I don’t even know what that is, so – junk?”

Ellie shrugs, tosses the piece back and forth in her hands, and then chucks it like a ball to the opposite end of the barn. It collides loudly with the wall and Flora, the white and black cow, lifts her head at the noise from her stable and lets out a low groan.

The entire barn smells of hay and animal but in a way that is warm, almost comforting. The two cows lazily munch from their troughs in their stalls, occasionally eyeing you as you carry items back and forth. It’s fortifying in a way only working outside and with your hands can offer.

You turn to her disapprovingly but she’s already back, elbow-deep, in the pile you had designated hers to sort. Sarah, to whom you suggested rest this morning, goes back to boredly drawing circles in the dirt. Even though she clearly hates the idea of being idle, you are surprised she takes your medical advice without any fight.

If you had successfully completed your duties as cook, now it was time to take on your other task as teacher. Sarah had a few textbooks, but mostly outdated and only one copy. You know trying to find a full library in times like these is laughably impossible, but there is nothing wrong with hoping for a blackboard. You’d made one before when the school district you tempted at didn’t approve new funding, and you feel confident you could do it again. Trouble is, you have nowhere to put it, much less set up a laughably impossible classroom for two students.

Until Sarah casually mentioned the unfortunate pile of junk in the back of her father’s barn, “taking up at least half the space in there.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Yuck – is your dad a hoarder?” Ellie asks with slight disgust as she pulls up a stack of newspapers held together by twine. “Why does he even have this stuff?”

Sarah grins, delighted by Ellie’s prickly teasing. “This place actually used to be pretty organized. This was his space for a long time – where he went to think, or figured out what crops we needed for the next year.”

Her smile crumbles. “But, uh, then I got sick and now he doesn’t come out here unless it's for work.”

Ellie pinches the soft of her cheek with her teeth, nodding, her eyes downcast.

“So . . . junk?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

The stack of newspapers comes up to her knees and Ellie struggles, off-balanced, to carry it across the hay-covered floor.

You reach for it and she gives it to you gratefully. You take it with a smile; you never know what she’s going to appreciate or just see it regretfully as charity or pity.

“I think your dad is losing it,” Ellie says as she wipes sweat from her brow, shaking her head far too seriously. “Losin’ it, big time.”

Sarah giggles.

You drop the stack of papers in the corner, but when you let go, the string snaps and the papers spill everywhere. With a sigh, you kneel down and gather them back together, but not before a few headlines catch your eye.

Your heart twists.

Paralysis Takes Three Children

Join the Mothers’ March on Polio

QUARANTINE: POLIOMYELITIS

Why would Joel keep these? Everyone knew how devastating polio could be to children, even infants. Why would he –

Roughly dispersed throughout the article, sentences and phrases were underlined in blue pen. Sentences containing, “iron lung”, “bedrest”, “antibiotic” –

No cure.

Warmth spread out across your chest. Joel was looking for a way to treat his daughter, the only way he could in a town without a doctor: outside information. Something about this makes the space beneath your chest bone hurt so badly, you get a little nauseous.

Now you consider conserving these papers as if they are important historical documents. Behind you, where Ellie and Sarah are lobbying jokes back and forth, you see more stacks of neatly contained newspapers. He looked everywhere and found nothing.

You reshuffle the stack that fell, when you spot something else that hardens the warm feeling in your chest and makes it brittle.

Mob Over Breadline Kills FIVE

Experts Say There is No Way Out of This Depression

Mother of Drowned Children Claims She Did “What Was Best”

The rough floor hurts your knees. Eyes closed, you try to ignore the flood of images of what you witnessed in Boston, how desperate and cruel people became in Oklahoma. With each memory, your heartbeat pounds harder.

Red. Blood. Pink. Skin. White. Bone.

The riots got to be so terrible, but people were just hungry.

Ellie calling your name jerks you out of the sinking muck of memories.

“What? What is it?”

She eyes you with distant concern then glances at Sarah. “She wanted to know where you learned all this stuff.”

“About cooking, and teaching, and nursing,” Sarah clarifies. “I think I’ve read every book in our house probably four times and I still feel like I don’t know anything.”

“You probably know more than you think,” you offer as you scoop up the uncomfortable newspapers, easily switching tracks of thought to mute the swell of horrors from the rotting box in your mind. You leave them in the corner for Joel to do what he wishes with them and stand, dusting your dress off. “What do you call the process by which plants get energy from the sun?”

Sarah’s eyes brighten immediately. Where her body fails her, her mind is as sharp as a tack.

“Photosynthesis!”

“Good,” you nod, smiling. “And what’s the primary source of energy in animal cells?”

“The mitochondria!”

“Very good.”

Ellie sighs angrily from her pile and puts her hands on her hips. “I think I’m gonna make like mitosis and split, if we keep talking about all this boring stuff.”

Scorned for her love of learning a second time and already in a bad mood from the pain this morning, Sarah frowns.

“What’s your problem? Why do you act like school sucks? You had your mom teaching you –,”

“She’s not my mom!” Ellie snaps back, her knuckles white around a rusted bucket. “She’s just my aunt!”

“Yeah, well, I have an uncle I never even get to see!” Sarah stands up as smoothly as she can, but her knees and ankles are pink again. Her calves shake. “You’re lucky!”

Ellie’s teeth clench in the back of her jaw, lip curling.

You remember distinctly more than once having to pick Ellie up from school early because she’d been caught fighting and you take a step in her direction, even if Sarah could no doubt land a few solid ones in.

“And you’re–,”

“Ellie.” You know how rough Ellie can be. You remember the tone to take with unruly students, even if you don’t mean an ounce of it. “Don’t. Just let it g–,”

“Why do you always take her side?” That ire whips around to you. Loyalty, that was another trait her mother favored. Ellie’s shoulders roll forward, her fists clenched. “Why do you let her talk like she knows anything about us? About Mom?”

“I’m not taking a side, Ellie,” you say firmly, your chin tilted down to her. One day she’s going to be taller than you, you know it. “Both of you, this is enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ellie tosses the broken bucket in her hand to the ground and storms towards the barn doors.

“You just like her because she’s a fucking dork like you,” she growls under her breath before shoving open the large square door.

It swings shut, the metal clattering against the wood. The brief stream of light filtering in is shortly swallowed up into the shadows again.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah says almost immediately, her brown eyes swiveling on you. Her skin is tinged a little lighter and there’s sweat along her hairline. With a fleeting flash of worry, you wonder if she’s in more pain than she lets on. “I didn’t mean it . . . I mean, I think she is lucky to have – but . . . I shouldn’t have said that.”

She drops your gaze and you think those dark eyes might be softer, wetter than usual. She plucks at the hem of her dress, her mouth twisted to the side.

Where Ellie explodes outwards, Sarah implodes inwards. You never could understand Ellie’s inclination to destroy everything around her.

You hand her a broom, with a smile on your face.

“Do you want to tell me about your uncle?”

She takes it slowly from you, eyebrows furrowed down. This is a look you are familiar with, even when it comes to Ellie. She is stuck between answering like a kid, getting it all off her chest to be free of the emotional burden, and swallowing it all to please the adults in her life.

You’ve also found Ellie tends to open up when she doesn’t have to look you in the eye. Sarah’s own gaze is stuck to the floor as she vaguely sweeps at the hay.

“We don’t talk about Uncle Tommy a lot,” she mumbles.

You focus on untangling an old bridle. “Oh? Why?”

“Dad’s still pissed at him for moving out to California. Said he left what’s really important for a bullshit dream.” Her eyes pop up, wide and shocked. “Sorry, that’s what he said.”

Despite your limited time with him, you can easily see how Joel Miller might take something like that personally, but you just store that away too, another breadcrumb leading the way.

“Why California?”

“It’s–,”

The barn door opens again and Joel’s shadow breaks through the almost painful white light. Behind him, Everett (the horse) snorts and huffs, pulling along the giant creaking plow, the air suddenly pungent with the smell of warm dirt, leather, and animal sweat. Joel murmurs something to the frothing snout and wipes his own forehead with the back of his arm, smearing sweat and dirt across his browline. He stops when he sees you two staring.

By Sarah’s wide eyes, it’s clear Uncle Tommy is a subject that is not often brought up in this house either. Joel frowns, but just as he opens his mouth, you interject – you know how to deflate a potentially angry man.

“We were just cleaning up the back of the barn,” you say, careful not to use words like junk or scrap heap. “I’m hoping to use the space as a school, for Sarah and Ellie.”

His gaze settles on you, like the dust at his feet.

“Mhmm.” His tone scrapes something low in your stomach.

“I’m sorry – I should have asked – I didn’t think –,”

“No, it’s –,” he shakes his head. His eyes catch Everett’s foamy nose and he pats it, noting the long sweaty forelock. “Smart. Next spring, we’ll come up with something better, but there’s no time now, with the harvest comin’.”

You nod, peeling off what you were going to say from the back of your teeth with your tongue. Joel casually drags his fingers through Everett’s forelock before stepping back to unhook the plow’s leather buckles. It’s when he shifts towards Sarah, looking to her, that he grimaces.

He put his weight on his right knee and it immediately caused him pain.

“We could help,” you offer, eyes on his knee, his thick fingers rubbing into the muscle just above his knee cap. "Ellie loves being out in the sun and I can teach her how to plant–,”

“‘M fine,” he mutters gruffly, straightening up and wiping his hands on the cloth around his neck. “Sarah, go inside for a bit. There’s something she n’ I gotta discuss.”

His tone indicates this is not the time for eye rolling but she does it anyway.

“I’ve said for years that you need help, Dad. She’s just offering to–,”

“Sarah, inside. Please.”

Sarah scowls and drops the broom against one of the stalls. She hobbles out of the barn, first scrunching her nose up at Joel’s obvious smell, then muttering something about having to go look for the hell spawn. You finger the scrap metal in your hands, a fluttery nervousness growing in your stomach the closer Sarah gets to the door. With one more disapproving shake of her thick curls, she shuts the door behind her.

Everett nickers and paws the ground, eager to be returned to bed after a long morning of work. Light streams in gold from the slanted windows above the loft, separating the front stalls from the back of the barn where you stand, fidgeting. There’s no escaping the hot animal smell now, and it’s your turn to be intercepted by Joel.

Another apology is nearly out of your mouth when he speaks first.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” He asks, his mouth set into a firm line. In the half-darkness of the barn, you can’t quite make out his eyes.

You swallow against the encroaching dryness in your throat. “I-I have a gun. Keep it in my purse, o-only for emergencies and I–,”

“That’s not what I asked.” He shakes his head, tone soft, almost gentle. He glances past you to the stacks of newspapers you had moved into the corner, the ones about violence and pestilence. He rubs his fingers between the bridle and Everett’s thick hair. “Found a hole in the barbed wire fence today.”

You frown, the tension of his voice indicating a severity you are utterly unprepared for. “What does that mean?”

“Someone tried to cut through.”

A white hot panic lurches up your spine out of nowhere. Fueled by fear, you see the outline of your husband shambling across the propertyline and you go cold.

“W-why would someone do that? What are they after?”

His hand stills as every muscle in his body briefly tenses. Eyes dark beneath a tight brow, the tightness in his jaw is an answer and a threat all at once. He looks almost offended by your question.

You know exactly what they would take.

All you can do is nod.

Everett nudges Joel’s shoulder, impatient to get out of the harness, for that bath he so very much deserves. As though you had disappeared, Joel unbuckles the restraints, taking a brush to the gray coat as he goes. Maybe you’d misread that last signal and he thought he told you to fuck off.

You move towards the back door when his voice, timbre deep and low, stops you again.

“I’m gonna to teach you to shoot.” He announces to the lathered withers of the horse. “But you keep that gun on you, at all times, especially when you’re out with the girls. You got that?”

He pauses just as he slides the hitch off the horse's back, his arms covered in dirt as dark as the leather. It’s minute, the shift in his weight, but you suddenly realize he wants verbal confirmation.

“Y-yes. Yes. I’ll take it with me.”

The minutia shifts again, a lessening of tension across his broad shoulder, his thick back. He nods.

“Good.”

The aching need for him to say more, for that good to turn into you did good or good job – or good girl – it sparks so fast and hot inside of you, you think you’ll choke. Instead, you leave through the door on unsteady legs, jaw locked tightly shut.

You find comfort in the monotony of sewing.

Anna always scolded you for it, that you were “giving into women’s work.”

How are they ever going to take us seriously when you actually like doing this dainty shit?

But where Anna seemingly delighted in her mile-a-minute thoughts, you need an outlet – some way to settle, to ground yourself in the here and now. Furthermore, you could sew anywhere – on the train, on the bus, in a foreign house in the middle of nowhere where you were, again, dependent on the kindness of a complete stranger –

It isn’t sewing specifically that you enjoy. If there was another activity where your mind could detach itself from your body, you would have liked it too. Here, in this space of blank concentration, you separate further from yourself with every stitch you pull together. Here, you are not a sister, a housewife, or an aunt. Not a nurse or a teacher or a failed fieldhand.

Not scared of living or scared of your husband or scared that you’ll fail your sister over and over and over again –

For a handful of minutes, you are not scared and you are the closest thing to yourself you can possibly be. You think, as a child that might have been the closest you’d actually been to understanding your own wants and dreams and desires, but now it is through this act of repetition, of delicate guiding, do you find yourself remembering what it was like to exist unafraid, as thoughtless as a child.

You sit on the edge of Joel’s bed, eased into something vaguely like relaxation by the needle and thread in your hand. You’d found some old pillows in the barn earlier today and surprisingly the stuffing was still intact. After watching Sarah struggle today, you knew you couldn’t spend another second watching the poor girl hobble around on painful braces.

It’s twilight, the sun gone beneath a blanket of scarlet and indigo, everyone fed and full – the girls almost instantly forgetting their first fight in favor of a discussion about their most effective marble-flicking techniques – and you already have at least one leather-bound pad that is twice as thick as her old one. You grin, excited to share your creation to her. You wonder what Joel will say.

Through the wall over your shoulder, in Sarah’s room, you can hear the low murmur of their voices, as quick and fast as two co-conspirators. You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but the words don’t matter. It is the high joy in Sarah’s voice, or the creaky laughter from Joel. They could be speaking in a completely incomprehensible language but the sentiment is unmistakable: you make me happy and I love you.

I love you.

The needle and thread stills in your lap.

You glance out the window, to a much smaller shadow in front of the barn as it cuts and darts in the blurry half-light. The silver tip of Anna’s knife winks in the glint of the light from the windows as Ellie slashes and digs in the open air. Alone.

In the late hours, in the hours when the veil between life and death felt so especially fragile, Anna made you promise that you'd look out for Ellie, to raise her as your own. To finally give her a childhood like the two of you never had.

You had done that. You raised her. She’s alive and healthy and fierce.

But would she find your sentiment about her unmistakable? Do you know hers as intimately as you knew your sister’s?

Do you make her happy when both of you are constantly reminded of the ghost between you?

Sarah’s chatter echoes throughout the dark house, disembodied and entirely untethered.

It’s one week into this new, adjusted life in a house you haven’t yet found a home in when the unthinkable happens.

A loud, wet cry startles you awake and immediately your hand flies towards Ellie, panic like ice in your jaw. Your palm touches her shoulder, but she’s already sitting up, eyes towards the door. She glances at you and from your stumble out of a dreamless sleep, you realize it wasn’t Ellie who made that noise.

It comes again, as sharp as a bone crack, and you both scramble out of bed.

Sarah.

Up against the far wall, in the corner where her bed tucks up into the corner, Joel holds her like a lion clutches to prey.

Giant, fat teardrops pour down the sides of her ashen cheeks, those bright eyes clamped shut, her mouth twisted in agony and she claws at her father’s forearm across her shoulders. His other hand is going white from her fingers crushing his in a bone-cracking grip. His voice is soft, firm, and fast in her ear, comforting and scared as hell, as she whimpers.

Every muscle from her thighs down is stretched taut. Every muscle unwillingly tightened, flexed, the chemicals in her brain battling the commands of the bacteria. The pain, as described in medical journals, is crippling.

Ellie glances at you out of the corner of your eye. Muscle spasms.

“Sarah, darling, how long has this been going on?” She’s trembling from the pain and exhaustion. You wrap your robe around you before kneeling down to inspect her — and you feel Joel’s glare nearly singe the skin from your face.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarls and pulls her closer. Sarah whines and buries her face in his shoulder, trying to stifle her sobbing to keep from shaking and causing more spasms. “She’s–,”

“I can help her, Joel.” Your training became a bulwark – strong, immobile – in moments like these. Maybe it was all an act but that first rush of hope that you could ease pain, soothe what hurts, made you feel like you were made of gold. You let that unbreakable shine pierce Joel’s gaze. “But you need to listen to me.”

Sarah squeaks and you watch his resolve instantly break. Shakely, he nods.

“Ellie,” you instruct over your shoulder. “Go start boiling water. There’s a pail out on the porch.”

She is out the door before you finish your sentence. She knows exactly what you need.

Help on the way, you turn back to Sarah, her feet twisted in grotesque contortions.

“How long has this been going on?”

“About ten minutes,” Joel grumbles. She squeezes his hand so hard you hear his knuckle pop. She sobs, open mouth, and he presses his cheek to her. He murmurs softly, “I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.”

“Is this the longest fit she’s had?”

Joel reluctantly nods.

“Sarah,” you say and gently touch her knee. She peels her eyes open, cheeks stained with tears, eyes wet with fear. “We need to loosen your muscles, okay? That’s what’s causing you pain right now. So, we’re going to use heat and pressure to do that.”

She nods, gaze solidifying with your every word, every word a new step out of the path of pain. Joel smooths her curls off her sweaty forehead, his own wide-eyed stare never leaving your face. You roll up your sleeves and curl up your hair off the back of your neck just as Ellie stumbles back into the room. She’s got at least five towels around her neck, and she’s red-faced and straining from keeping the pail of boiling water from spilling or burning her. She eases it down next to you and hands you a towel. Both of you each take a side and immediately tear the one in half.

Before you wore gloves, some sort of protection, but now there is no time. You hear Ellie inhale sharply, recognizing what you’re about to do a second before you do it.

You dip the towel into the steaming water, let it soak, and pull it out. You grit your teeth against the immediate burn on your palms, the trail of fire over your knuckles and wrists, as you squeeze out the dripping water, Sarah’s soft cries in your ears enough to push past your own pain.

Half-way between an inhale and an exhale, you think you hear your name.

Ellie already has another dry towel loose around one of Sarah’s legs. She glances at you, her brows knitted together.

Ready? She asks without words.

You drape the hot towel around her leg and Sarah yelps. She thrashes in her father’s arms as you wrap the towel tighter and tighter. Expecting Joel’s inevitable bark, a hard shove against your shoulder, get away from my daughter – but it never comes.

As soon as you tighten the towel as firmly as it can safely go, Ellie slides in next to you and begins to massage the muscles in her calves, her feet, her toes.

Sarah whimpers again, but the sound isn’t as sharp, pain-choked. Joel holds her tighter, as if her torso is also knotted and could be relieved with warmth.

On an inhale, you pick up the other half of the towel, drench it in boiling water, and wring it out with your bare hands. A silent prayer for lotion is fleeting as it drifts through the dense focus of your mind. You squeeze out the dripping water and wrap Sarah’s other leg, prepped again by Ellie. She watches you as you tug and tuck the steaming towel, her own focus as sharp as a tack, mirroring your motions as you knead and massage the muscles.

After a few minutes of faint whining, a couple of sobs, the room slips into an exhausted silence. Her breathing slow on his chest, Joel draws back her damp curls and finds her face relaxed, asleep. His mouth parts and the skin around his eyes goes slack.

Relief.

With a shudder, Joel knocks his forehead against hers, his thumb on her chin as if to feel her breathing. You look away, the moment so tender it shouldn’t be witnessed.

You realize then how badly your palms ache.

The towels have lost their immediate heat, so you unwind them. Ellie’s small hands overlap yours as she helps. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eyes. The both of you fall back into roles most comfortable to you.

The wet towels gone, you wrap her legs more tightly this time, slightly past the edge of comfort. You ease her back, flat into the bed, and some small part of you is aware Joel is letting you guide her. He slips out from behind her when you tuck her in, tight with another blanket around her legs. She could be exhausted for days after this.

“We’ll need to keep heat on her legs every thirty minutes, fifteen if we can manage,” you say as you fold up the damp towels. Joel hasn’t moved. Stares down at Sarah’s small body. “I’d like to keep a warming pan here, to have hot water on hand if she wakes up in pain again. When she comes out of it, she needs water and food. Have her eat it slowly, small bites at first.”

You remember a doctor at the hospital where you trained as a nurse give advice to a newer doctor: medical mysteries and illnesses are one thing. Nervous parents are something else.

You call his name and he doesn’t move.

You step forward, touch his forearm, and he blinks at you. He feels so remarkably solid.

“Joel. She’s safe.”

“Do you want me to go get more towels?” Ellie’s gathered the damp towels off the floor, her chest wet. She stares at Sarah’s bed frame.

“Get breakfast first. Then I might need your help later.” She nods, turns to go, but hesitates. Her mouth is pinched tight, eyes wide, looking for something to ground her, to calm the vortex that the adrenaline in her veins widens with each beat of her heart. She looks so . . . childlike.

She looks so much like Anna.

The momentary fortified strength shatters and you're afraid again. What do you say to comfort her? What would Anna say? Good job, I'm proud of you, thank you -

But then she turns away, carrying the dripping towels, and you lose your chance to parent.

Joel has curled himself into the rocking chair by her bed, so close his knee touches her mattress. He holds her thin hand in the cup of his two massive palms. His heel taps loosely, quietly against her rug, every possible outcome of this morning striking him in the chest with each drop of his foot. His face is a blurred, dark shadow, hanging between his shoulders.

To describe Joel in this moment, nervous seems quaint.

In silence, you gather up the tepid pale of water and exit the room, closing the door after you.

The rest of the day passes in haze, tendrils of sleep still between the cracks in your brain left there by the harsh break into consciousness.

You have Ellie feed the animals, and you start a load of laundry. The ratio of dry towels to wet is rapidly becoming unbalanced and you know after the initial attack is over, pressure is more important than heat. Sarah has barely moved all day but she is responsive and drinks water when she comes out of her deep sleep. You’ve made soup again – a heavy meal that doesn’t require much managing and can be easily re-served – and it gives you time to think. Sarah mentioned the doctor skipping town, that he had all but dropped everything and ran. You wondered what else might be in the doctor’s old shop. Morphine seemed too valuable to have been ignored in any ransacking, but often doctors kept a secret supply, unbeknownst to even most nurses for special cases or when supply was low. You think about that and stir the pot as the sun crawls across the sky.

With your head bent over the pot, something moves in the field outside and you watch with surprise as Ellie leads one of the cows, Fauna, out of the barn. Through the rippled glass, you watch her talking to the cow, her face scrunched up in concentration, and shockingly, Fauna appears interested, her big ears flicking back and forth. But Ellie leads her only a little bit from the barn, in the grass but visible from the house. She drops to her knees and takes out a wooden stake and a hammer — nevermind where she found those – and then ties Fauna’s lead rope to top of the stake sticking out of the ground.

Ellie wags her finger, her back to the window, her stance very serious. You smile to yourself and to Anna as she marches back inside and shortly returns with Flora, the other cow, to do the same. She gives them both a stern talking to, as evident by her hands on her hips, before turning back to the house. You glance down, knowing she wouldn’t appreciate it if you saw her babysitting the cows. It was what Joel did every morning – let the cows out to graze – but she did it in her own Ellie way: on a smaller scale and perhaps with a little more gentleness.

See, Anna, she’s all grown up.

By nightfall, both of you are exhausted. You don’t know how Joel manages to run this place by himself, especially with a sick child, but after one day, you’re ready to curl up into bed and never leave. Ellie looks like she’s about to face-plant into her soup, her eyes half-shut. You smile, stretching, before gently shaking her shoulder.

“Go to bed, Ellie. You’re exhausted.”

She blinks harshly, indignant and scowly, as you take both your bowls to the sink. “‘M fine. Just a lil’ –,” she yawns deeply, “sleepy.”

“You’re right. My mistake.”

“Besides, we got coffee coming, don’t we?”

On the counter, your make-shift coffee press gurgles, the cap steaming from the bubbling water over the grounds you found in the cellar. You eye her over your shoulder.

“You don’t even like coffee.”

“Yeah but you’re staying up, right? You and Joel?”

Neither of you had seen Joel leave Sarah’s room all day. Ellie eyes the ceiling as if she can see right through it.

“I’m taking him some food and a cup of coffee,” you say as you finish drying the plates. There’s a rigidness to your hands as you delicately lay the plates flat, unconsciously careful to keep them from making a sound as they touch. “But at St. Joseph’s, some of the nurses would offer to keep vigil, to give the parents a chance to rest.”

You know in your heart he won’t take it. You just hope he finds your coffee inoffensive.

But Ellie doesn’t respond. She sits still, staring at the ceiling.

“Ellie, she’s going to be okay.”

Those bright eyes fall on you. “You can’t know that.”

In your hands, you wind the damp towel between your fingers. They’re pink and still ache but the rough linen is a welcome distraction from the churning acid in your stomach.

“This isn’t going to be like last time,” you say, your hips against the counter. “Sarah’s infection is nowhere near her lungs. And she’s been responding to treatment.”

Ellie drops her gaze, her bottom lip curled between her teeth.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it. Unless you can swear to me.”

One of life’s simple truths: parents lie.

You recognize there is a part of her that wants you to look her in the eyes and lie. She’d be angry, eventually, if your lies were exposed, but in that moment, as she sits in an unfamiliar house, at an unfamiliar table, with you and this wretched ailment the only things she knows to be constant – she wants a comfort you can’t give her. You are not capable of parental truth.

“I can’t promise anything.”

She inhales, breathes shaky, and exhales, the spoon in her hand trembling. “I know.”

Hands full of a white, chipped food tray, you knock twice carefully with one hand like you had been trained to before opening the door. The lamplight has been turned on, but the room, blanketed in darkness and shadows, looks the same. Sarah sleeps deeply, if not well, her hand curled by her face against the pillow, her heavy storm of curls cradling her head gently. Joel watches her, as still and silent as the moon. His foot has settled, but now he breathes so slow he might not be breathing at all.

Of all the terrible things you had seen during your time as a nurse, witnessing someone like this is always the hardest. Feeling helpless is a sentiment you are all too familiar with and the thought of someone just sitting there and watching you with your grief makes your skin itch.

“Joel.” A formality, because those trapped in a cyclone of worry require a slow approach, easing a startled animal. “I brought you something to eat.”

Speaking, it lets him acclimate to your voice.

You set the white tray on Sarah’s dresser, a piece of furniture meticulously crafted. Like Joel’s room, there are books everywhere, but more animal drawings, some directly on the walls. Sarah’s brilliant personality expanded here, in the blues and pinks, not capable of being contained in a single body.

A body that seems so small and fragile in that little brass bed, while her father looms impossibly large.

“Joel.” Again, soft, but this time you put a hand on his bicep. Never near the neck, an older nurse warned you, that area is sensitive. His denim shirt is soft beneath your fingers, nearly bleached white from the sun and worn smooth from dust and dirt and wind. You think you smell churned earth and hot leather in the instant it takes you to kneel down beside him, your grip sliding from his shoulder to his forearm. With the other hand, you tip a steaming cup into his open palm.

“Sarah told me you liked coffee.”

Slowly, as though he had blinked and reality disintegrated and reformed around him, Joel’s gaze slides from Sarah’s waxy face, to yours, and then the hand on his forearm. The back of your scalp prickles, the bulwark of courtesy shaking, before you remember you’d done this hundreds of times, to people of all ages, men and women. He seems to understand this – a professional gesture – and he takes the mug from you. With an almost perplexed expression, he stares into the nearly black liquid, his jaw tight.

And then he drinks, without saying a word.

You think you might have heard a low rumble from him, a pleased groan as heavy as the plow in the barn outside, but the floorboards creak when you stand up, so you might have been imagining things.

“This tastes good,” he says bluntly, voice weather-beaten. You smile into the bowl of soup as you wave a hand over the steam to cool it down to something bearable. “How?”

Despite his monosyllabic responses, you take this as a good sign. Something tells you that you’ve made exceptional progress by getting him to talk at all.

“I got pretty good at making cowboy coffee, as my sister used to call it, before we moved to Oklahoma. You already had the beans in the cellar,” you say, shrugging as you bring the soup over to him. He eyes it warily, as if this is not the appropriate time to eat, as if his own suffering would make Sarah’s lessen.

You’d only ever seen that instinct in a handful of parents while in the hospital and it made something wide and warm press up against your chest bone.

So you don’t give him a choice. You push the soup into his hands with enough speed that he has to take the bowl or drop it entirely. He, like most people with common sense, takes the bowl. He has a second to frown at you before you turn away to Sarah.

“And I suspect they were hidden down there on purpose?” You ask as you take out another blanket from the basket beside her bed and flutter it over her legs. You remember stories about the women working with Elizabeth Kenny filling quilts with rocks or beans, anything with weight, and putting them over the affected limbs of polio patients. The compress soothed the ache.

Sarah snores gently in her sleep as her father behind you laughs, a soft rush of air from his nose, his mouth preoccupied with a half-grin.

“I try not to hurt her feelings,” he admits quietly. You hear the clatter of metal on porcelain as you fold and refold the blankets to carry more weight. “That girl is a lot of things, but good at making coffee isn’t one of ‘em.” He slurs around the soup in his mouth.

It’s hard to believe she’s only a year older than Ellie. They have both lost things, indescribable things at too-young an age. But where Ellie carries it in the grip of her hand around her knife, Sarah takes it on the chin.

Polio, a disease of freezing agony.

You wonder how much of Sarah’s inner world she keeps to herself.

Like with Ellie, you fight the urge to brush a lovely curl away from her cheek.

“You have a special girl here, Joel.”

You feel his gaze on the back of your neck and you drop your gaze from her pristine face, remembering it’s not your place to look at her like that. Not like how you want to look at her.

Not like how you might want to look at him.

Joel shifts on his feet, leaning forward to put the now empty bowl on the ground.

“I know.” By the strength of his tone, he admits to knowing that you see the bright light about Sarah like he does and so he lets you look. Your heart stutters at this silent transference and you grab blindly for that mask of noble duty.

“How has her breathing been?” You sit down next to her and pick up her wrist, feeling for that steady pulse. You relax slightly when it’s easy to find. The beat of it is a little faster than you would like, but it hasn’t woken her up.

“Good.” A disgruntled groan from the chair as he adjusts behind you. His voice is rich like molasses, dripping warmth down the knots in your spine. “Woke up here n’ there, like you said. Gave her food. Got her water. But she just went right back to sleep.”

“But she ate and drank?”

He nods out of the corner of your eye. You check the mobility of her joints and they seem to be back to their natural looseness. Whether she’ll feel strong enough to walk is another matter entirely, but it’s not good to worry him unnecessarily.

“That’s good, Joel. That’s really good.”

You smile at him and finally, finally, the corners of his eyes soften, his brows pluck up, and he breathes deep. The tension leaves his body the way steam leaves a lake in the hours before dawn, the cup of coffee resting on his thigh. His gaze falls from your face to hers, shrouded in shadow.

“She’s never slept this long after an attack,” he says quietly. “Always restless, pain flaring up. We once stayed up a whole day and night when it got bad.”

He shakes his head, clears his throat a bit as if the words in his mouth leave behind a mucky, sour taste.

“Thank you. For treating her properly.”

For doing what I couldn’t.

It’s true. But no amount of reassuring – I’ve just had training, you did the best you could – would dissipate that repugnant scent of guilt lingering in the air. You are forced to let it linger, unable to say a single damn thing that would mean anything to him.

As he finishes the last dregs of coffee, Joel unwinds his long legs from beneath the seat and his knees crack. Stiff joints after a long day of stillness, but immediately his fingers fly to that same spot he touched in the barn in that afternoon, his mouth tight from the unexpected flash of pain.

Immediately you kneel down, worried at the slight hiss he made, fingers inches from his thigh when he straightens.

“You don’t have to–,” he shifts as if he can pull away from your touch and stay seated. “It’s not that bad –,”

You frown at him. “Can the person here who has had actual medical training determine that?”

Something light flickers over his eyes, so fast it might not have been real, smoothing the lines around his mouth. Joel nods, glancing to the floor.

“Yes, ma’am.”

That single word almost splits your skull in half like lightning.

You are immediately grateful for the heavy shadows in the room. Your palms, smarting all day, are now blistering with heat. Mouth shut tight, you don’t trust whatever sits behind your lips, so you begin your inspection of his muscles. Thumbs down, you feel along the lines that lead down to his knee.

Hard, firm, you notice. Made solid by work and toil. A few of the bricklayers and farmers you’d attended to had muscles like these. Despite the rough denim and how unsettling it is to be this close to him, it’s easy to lose yourself in the methodology of the human body. You’ve learned to read sinew and bone and scar tissue like a map and you come to find that the topography of Joel Miller is mountainous.

“So, mhm, where’d you learn to make coffee?”

You thought the stiffness in his thigh was due to lingering pain, but when you look at him and his guarded expression, chin tilted into his chest, fingers tight around the bottom of the seat, you realize he is uncomfortable. He is made uncomfortable . . . by you. Something sharp pokes through a slot between your ribs and you sit up straighter, trying to make your touch even more clinical if possible. But what he says next, you aren’t sure if it’s genuine or genuinely meant to hurt.

“Your husband?”

You shake your head. “My sister, actually. Ellie’s mom. We’d trade night shifts when she was a baby. One of us would come home from our second job, and the other would leave for their first. Anna said she’d never have survived those first years without coffee.”

You can hear the question he wants to ask buzzing in his head, your thumb rubbing therapeutic circles around the inflamed area. But instead he asks:

“And you . . . you like coffee?”

You shrug. “I don’t think I ever slowed down enough to ever taste it in the first place.”

With Joel Miller, silence means a thousand things. It’s not the way he looks at you, but the way he looks into you.

“Anna always said we’d be fine, that two unmarried women with a baby could make it in the city. But I wasn’t so convinced. There wasn’t much time for something like enjoying the taste of coffee because I was always busy taking every job I could get.”

“Like treating sick kids.” He says it like he just found a piece of you off the ground and added it to a sprawling puzzle. He politely stares over your shoulder.

You swallow, throat tight. “Actually, um, Anna had it - polio - too. I took the job as a nurse to learn how to treat her from home.”

Those heavy eyes swing into you full force and you can feel your stomach roll and collapse against your spine.

“Every case is different, Joel. What I did for Sarah, it wouldn’t have helped someone like Anna.”

“But she died?” A third unwelcome presence.

“Yes. She went fast. There was nothing anyone could do to save her.”

There was nothing you could do to save her.

Your thumbs are starting to ache, but you don’t want to leave just yet. You want to sit and listen to his voice, even if it’s pitched in anger towards you.

But it’s not. His next words come out soft, if not a little bit disbelieving.

“Where did you come from?” Joel asks. “You said the city, Oklahoma. How’d you end up in fuckin’ Dalhart, Texas?”

You use your elbow on the thicker muscle up his thigh and he tries very hard not to wince.

“We grew up in Boston. City girls all our lives. We had big plans of catching the bus line and going all over the country, just the two of us, but then Anna got pregnant and overnight, everything changed.”

He nods, knowingly. You add that to your own Joel Miller mosaic.

“I met the man I’d marry while I worked as a maid in a motel. He was a banker, or so he told me, and he wanted to whisk me away. We were three months behind on our rent, so I told him yes, I'd marry him after knowing him for a week — as long as I got to bring Anna and Ellie with me. All he talked about was money, so I thought he had it. What he did have was enough to get us to Oklahoma, buy some farm equipment for the wheat boom, and then lose it all in a handful of years.”

“And then we lost Anna. We lost my husband. I went back to trying to find a job in town with no jobs.” You pull your hands back, the deep tissue of his thigh flushed with blood from your therapy, and having nothing more to do, little more to say, you drop them into your lap. “Just after we missed the payment for the equipment for the second month, I got a letter from a man claiming to be my long lost Uncle Robert. I hadn’t eaten in three days and Ellie just got tagged by the police for shoplifting. I sent him a letter back and he said if I sent him our last twenty dollars he’d get us set up in Dalhart where he had a successful car dealership. I did and he didn’t and if you hadn’t picked us up, I don’t know what we would have done.”

You sit with the hot truth of it and he sits with the both of you. It’s silent in a way that only a house in the middle of nowhere can be. Sarah stirs in her sleep, her legs rustling the sheets, but doesn’t wake up.

“You don’t have to do that here, you know.” He straightens his legs, just as quietly as the rest of the house. He crosses his arms over his chest and you think about the muscle just under his forearm, thick and immobile as sea-drenched rope. “Not eat . . . for Ellie’s sake. There’s enough for you and her. Always.”

You think of the cellar with its soft dirt, cool air, the endless rows of stored fruits and vegetables and meat, buried like a still-beating heart beneath the dust-whipped house in a paradise on the prairie.

“But I understand the inclination.” With you on the ground before him and Joel leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his broad back arching under the stripe of white moonlight, he looks at you.

Really looks at you.

Like recognizing like.

A passing in a distorted mirror that might be me but it’s not but I think I know you all the same there is a thing just like me out in the world and it sees me.

Slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid you’ll bite, he reaches forward and takes your wrist from your lap. The calluses on his thumb brush roughly against the knot of bone as he twists your palm upward. Pink, too pink, a stinging color, even in the low lamplight. Joel works his jaw back and forth, staring at your palm with weary concern, as if it told him things he didn’t want to know.

His gaze lifts and your fingers curl instinctively in. He’s trying to make you look and you don’t want to. He sees your sacrifice and you don’t want it called that, there’s certain nobility in sacrifice, in a sort of suffering for other people, but it’s not sacrifice if you go willingly and despite you not wanting to look, not wanting to put a name to it, not wanting to take up any space at all, he looks at you like he, a man as broad and wide and powerful as he, is grateful.

For you.

Every bulwark inside of you, every foundation that you had built yourself because you never had the chance to grow hearty roots somewhere permanent, rumbles. Shakes, beneath a single solitary, rolling earthquake. A landslide of earth behind the strength in his eyes.

“For her, for Sarah, I’d do the same,” he says.

For her. For the children in your lives.

Do you even like coffee? All you know is how to make it. What would you do with it if you did? If you liked coffee? If you loved it.

If there was someone outside yourself and Ellie to make you coffee simply because you wanted it. Because you were in a circle of people for whom people would do things for. For her. For you.

The heart of Joel is like coffee: dark but warm.

Your wrist slips between his fingers, finding refuge again in your lap.

“I know.”

You wonder what it would be like to be within Joel’s circle of people for whom he does things. To be given coffee, just because you want it.

You bet it’s warm.

You stand up, collect the empty, used things, and wish him a good night.

A noise and sunlight startles you awake. Your eyes tear open, hand flat on an open pool of sunlight in the center of the mattress, head twisted and knees bent up by your chest. In your sleep, your body twisted itself into a Gordian knot, unable to escape the dreams about the cellar ground turning into coffee beans, and the cramped bloodflow leaves you disoriented until you can roll onto your back and remember where you are. The smells that surround you.

You hear the noise again and you think of Ellie and in that instance where complete consciousness returns to you, the weight of her is gone. Literally.

Ellie is not in the bed beside you.

The room’s brightness is suddenly too bright, the clear, electric blue sky too blue – it’s too beautiful and it lulled you into a sense of comfort. Stupid, so stupid. You ignore the warm floorboards against your bare feet, the faint birdsong from outside, as you rush towards the source of the sound, towards Sarah’s bedroom – oh god, I was wrong it’s too late it took her in the night and I –

The sound you do not recognize, the sound you could not comprehend while buried in dreams and memories, is the sound of laughter. Loud, full laughter.

The brass bed creaks as Ellie uses the mattress to fling herself into the air. On the other end, just as determined to reach the ceiling, is Sarah. Hands outstretched and reaching, her legs bend and flex and propel her up and up. Every time she gets within a handful’s reach of the ceiling, Ellie’s laughing, cheering her on, and then it’s her turn, Sarah giggling as Ellie’s face scrunches up as she reaches out towards the blue sky on the other side of the roof.

“Oh, hey!” Ellie says, pink-faced and causal, half-way out of breath. Sarah spins, mid-way through a jump, her eyes bright, sweat peaking on her brow line. “Sarah bet – I couldn’t touch – the ceiling — so we’re taking turns – loser has to shovel – the barn!”

You watch, dumb-struck, as the bet continues, the girls laughing and criticizing each other and offering techniques as they work in tandem to fling the other one higher. Sarah is flush with vitality, with life, with a dewy glow reserved for spring mornings when the earth stretches awake after the death of winter.

And Ellie . . . she looks her age.

The earth has shifted beneath your feet, while you were sleeping, and a seedling has been planted, the dawn of something new, something fresh and utterly unexpected. You can feel it in your bones. Hear it in their laughter.

“Not a bad thing to wake up to.”

Joel, arms crossed, eyes soft, leans up against the door frame, blue striped pajamas low on his hips, a thread-bare white undershirt cupping his biceps. He eyes you from toe to head and stops when he meets your eyes. You wonder how long he’d been standing there – if he too woke to noises he couldn’t explain, rushed in here, and found something miraculous.

The smile crinkles his eyes as it unfurls across his face.

“I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while,” he says quietly, head tilted towards the bed, as if there could be any other meaning. “I owe you one.”

You could say the same thing about Ellie.

There’s the line, the boundary of the circle to the place of being warm. He’s not cleared the way for you, not invited you across, but he’s shown it to you. You can see it, feel it, and know what it takes to get there.

Your smile blooms. The girls’ laughter rings throughout the house and into the sunlight.

But, outside of paradise, away from the river and the white a-frame house, from the horse and the cattle and the long strands of prairie grass, where there is not enough to eat and the earth is in its death rattle, the wind blows. It swallows up dust, and dirt, and fine sand, gluttonous. It swirls and pulses, agitated and restless and seeking violence. Spinning with the power to blind with a single whip of dust, it spins up over the earth in its death rattle, where there is not enough to eat, towards the prairie grass. Towards the horse and the cattle. Towards the river and the a-frame.

Towards paradise with the promise of total ruin.

END OF PART I

series masterlist | AO3 Link | prologue | part ii

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #Joel miller fic rec #joel miller series

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picassopedro · 3 months

Text

Thank you for tagging me!!

You write tension SO well:

1. ‘“Din, please,” You panted, unable to catch your breath between the heat of his body, the heat of the water and steam surrounding you both, the heat he was stoking in your very nerves.’

2. ‘a crackling sounding from the modulator as your words settled in the air’

3. ‘Items in the cabin began to float, the panels on the walls shaking with the emotions you were feeling, crates jostling in their secure holds against the walls.’

Some other quotes/parts that I loved and stood out to me:

1. “That’s a good sound, mesh’la.” 🥵

2. When San is asleep in the hammock and Din says let’s go to bed and she’s like naaaah I’m comfy where I am - I felt like that this showed she still has her independence and as much as she has feelings for him, she’s still good on her own!

3. In contrast to the above - Cara noticing San’s belongings everywhere and how she’s fully acclimated to the ship and being with Din (the two pillows!!! 🥹)

4. Cara giving Din a hard time about San and grilling him in general I LOVED like yes roast him!

5. In general love the pace of their intimate relationship

As always another incredible chapter! I totally lose myself in this story when I read these chapters (and as someone with ADHD, that’s really rare!)

Thank you for sharing with us!! Can’t wait for the next one!!!

of beskar and kyber {chapter 13}

Pairing: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive! Reader (the Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader)

Summary: Shadows and light play across your mind and feelings as you reveal more about your past to Din. Propositions made and discussions about what to do next as things back on Nevarro spiral as a result of Din's defiance of an organization he took part in for years prompt you both to evaluate everything you've become to each other.

Word Count: 12.6k (!!!)

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, language, mentions of past trauma, mentions of past sa trauma (non-descriptive), anxiety, confessions, illusions to the pull of the force, allusions to past violent tendencies of both reader and din, brief mentions of death, allusions to order 66, reader has a lot on internal monologues in this one, nightmares, bad dreams, anxiety, outbursts, emotional turmoil, readers shares more of her violent past with din, sexual content, sexual intimacy, body worship, fingering, sexual themes, argumentative language

A/N: returning to this fic with a beast of a chapter that traverses so much. it's the longest one i've written yet and i am so excited to share it with y'all. i sincerely hope y'all like everything i poured into this. please let me know what you think?

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Water gently splashed against the side of the tub, bubbles sticking to the porcelain, small waves created by the movement of Din’s hand as it trailed down your navel. Fingers eliciting tingles of pleasure as they smoothed over soft skin slick with the oils added to the water not even a few moments ago. You gasped, head thudding back against his broad, bare shoulder as the tips of them brushed over course hair before slipping between your folds.

Your nails dug into the skin of his thighs, mindful of the healing wound there, his bronze knees bent up and cresting over the water, caging in your wriggling form nestled back into him. Your hips bucked as his fingertips ghosted over that exciting bundle of nerves to stroke down toward your fluttering entrance. Water sloshing at the sudden disturbance. He groaned, deep and gravely right into your ear, the helmet hiding little of his arousal as he carefully rubbed around it. You clenched, body feeling how close he was and needing to be satisfied.

His index finger hovered over you, a silent question and you whined out a needy sound. Not caring if it was desperate, your fingers gripped him tight, and you bucked your hips to get him closer. He circled your entrance, once, twice, three times. Pleasure rocked through you, a fire blooming to life in your core.

“Din, please,” You panted, unable to catch your breath between the heat of his body, the heat of the water and steam surrounding you both, the heat he was stoking in your very nerves. A hand shot out of the water and scrabbled at the back of his helmet; fingers slippery with bubbles.

His thick finger slid in easily, between the water and the slick that was surely tainting the water you were both partially submerged in. The hand he had curled around your middle was reaching up to cup a breast covered only in sweet, scented bubbles and you moaned. Low and guttural, the stretch so unlike anything you felt before. Almost sweet in a way that it had never felt before.

He crooked his finger, nudging it deeper inside and grazed against a soft spot that had white sparking across your vision. A keening whine sprouted from you, loud in the marbled room. He stilled for a second, reveling in the way you felt around him, clenching him tightly. There was no discomfort, with you feeling so completely safe and protected.

“That’s a good sound, mesh’la.” His raspy voice was close, the bottom of his helmet hooked over your shoulder. He carefully pumped his finger into you, trying to go slow in case it was a stretch that overwhelmed you. But you huffed as you moved against him, the palm of his wide palm rubbing at you in a way that stoked the fire licking at your nerves.

“M-more, please. Linibar or'atu, copad at aalar or'atu be gar.”

Need more, want to feel more of you.

Your words were a quiet plea on shaking breath, a heavy exhale as he gave you what you wanted, slipping a second finger in alongside the first on his next plunge into the silky, wet heat of your core.

Back arching, pressing you impossibly closer to him, feeling the hot line of him as it nudged at you from behind. You whined out as his fingers stilted and he flexed them, stretching you out to see what felt good, what lit you up even more. They crooked inside of you and brushed against something that had you crying out, that same spot from earlier, he rubbed at it deliberately. Stomach lurching, the flames that had been slowly smoldering sparked across the entire expanse of your body.

“Ha-ah, Din, gedet'ye vaabir ibac tug'yc!”

Please do that again!

Your hips bucked into his hand, urging him desperately as you felt a tightening form low in your stomach. He remained still save for the crooking of his fingers once more and you moved against him. The water licking up the sides of the tub at your rushed movements, bubbles inching higher up both your overheated bodies.

His fingertips hit that spot on each thrust as he pumped his fingers in a steady rhythm, arms muscles tensing as he wrapped himself around you completely. The fire crackled and you cried out as pleasure tingled all the way to the tips of your fingers, heart beating hard in your chest. Your vision was blanketed in white sparks, and you clenched them shut and tried to catch your breath. Din’s hand worked you through the aftershocks, his palm hot against your skin where it brushed against you.

“Clenched so tight around me, mesh’la.” He rumbled into your ear, his hand gently moving away from you. He rested it low on your stomach, taking in the way your muscles jumped underneath his touch as your fingers around the back of his helmet pulled him closer. Your lips pressed to the column of his neck, tongue darting out to taste the exposed skin there.

He moaned a guttural sound at the feel of you marking him for your own, the hot swipe of your tongue giving way to a gentle nip of teeth. You felt him twitch against your backside and you shimmied back to press against him, loving the velvet softness of the hot line he made against your skin.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” He said softly, despite the thrumming in his own body, the sinful sounds falling from your lips, because of him, for him, having worked him up.

“Need to touch you now, it’s your turn.” You slipped away from him with a hush of the water, turning in his grip. The tub was only so big and you nudged at his knees, still cresting up over the water’s surface to lay flat where your body had just been. You held tight to the curve of his shoulders, moving to straddle the width of his hips. You could hear the crackling of him sucking in a deep breath through the modulator as you settled over him, hovering.

“San…”

“I know I don’t have to, cyar’ika.” You leaned your naked chest to his, the soft hair decorating his chest tingling against your hardened nipples and you tossed your head back. Chin jutted up, it exposed your throat to the man so close, his hands loose around your waist tightening and pulling you flush against him. A strangled noise fell from your open mouth as his cock bobbed up and nudged at your core hovering so close to him.

“Din,” You panted, fingers splayed on his neck, reaching up towards the bottom of the helmet. He paused, his fingers so tight around your hips, and you realized how he read that. The desperate plea of his name coated by the velvet caress of your voice. The sultry glaze to your eyes as you stared directly into the dark visor that covered his own.

“I don’t want you to remove it, just..just want to feel, but…but I understand if that’s a line you need to draw. I respect you, I respect your Creed. I’ll keep my hands to myself if you aren’t comfortable.”

His hands snapped up to grip yours tightly, bringing them up to the underside of his helmet, the seal deactivating as he moved a thumb to press something along the space beneath his chin. A hiss filled the air and your fingers twitched in his as he guided them to press against the skin just below the cool beskar. Your fingers reached toward his jaw, where the stubble of his facial hair was peeking out from underneath. It was rougher than the hair on his chest, similar to the coarse hair that was a dark shadow beneath the water. You settled over him fully just as your fingers splayed over his jaw, feeling both patches at the same time and letting out a low whine as the silken skin of his cock settled against your slippery folds.

You felt the groan that fell from him in your bones, so close to you, impossibly close.

“Dank ferrick, mesh’la.” Din growled as he slumped back into the wall of the tub, his hips bucking up suddenly. You had no fear of him breaching your comfortability, of crossing a line that had been talked over. You trusted him, you felt so safe with him. And it felt like nothing you’d ever known before, so enraptured by someone and comforted in their presence. It felt like the ocean inside you that had been choppy for as long as you could remember was beginning to settle.

Din’s hands were tight around your hips, helping you to move against him, guiding your motions as he thrusted up to slide against you. Your soft, slick folds nestled over the length of him, creating a channel of friction that was too much for the man. His breathing hitching as he chases his own high, another one flaring quickly in your middle to match him.

He didn’t last long, the drawn out groan of his peak rumbling through you, the modulator no longer hiding the deep baritone of his voice in a veil of mechanics, but unfiltered for only your ears to hear. He bucked up, body twitching as you felt him throb between your legs. The water turning murky from his spend around you both. As he canted his hips to keep you close, you felt the head of his cock nudge at your fluttering entrance and pleasure ripped through you. Keening, the waves crested in a delicious feeling that took over your body.

It was a few moments before you came back to yourself, body limp as you leaned all of your weight against the temptation of Din below you. Forehead nuzzled into his heaving chest. Letting your body move along with the way his own moved as he came down from his own pleasure. His arms were now wrapped around your back, holding you to him, his head knocked back against the tile lined around the tub.

All you could whimper was his name, a small sound more breath than voice.

“I’ve got you, mesh’la,” He spoke softly, voice back to that modulated mockery of what you knew his deep, velvety voice actually sounded like now. “Fuck, mesh’la, you did so good for me.”

“W-wanted to.” You placed a kiss to where you could feel how fast his heart was beating. A delirious giggle sprouting from deep within you.

The room was soft, from the carpet plush at your feet to the bedding atop the large bed, to the blanket thrown over the back of the couch and the one in the crib that had been delivered to the room right before your arrival. It was quiet, the faint neon lights of the city blurred behind drawn curtains in the middle of the night.

Din was asleep beside you, safe inside the covers while you struggled to catch your breath as you had been jarred into consciousness from a bad dream. Silently, you slipped from the bed, leaving the warmth of him behind. Silent tears were cascading down your face, the fear and loss of the dream too much for you to handle and your mind had decided to pluck you from the pain of it just as the figure of your guardian had fallen in front of you once again.

Feeling raw and exposed, you slipped on your cloak that had been draped over the back of the couch in the living room. The door to the bedroom left cracked behind you as you walked over to the crib to find ad’ika staring up at you with big eyes. He quietly cooed as he reached out for you, his little claws gripping you tight as you lifted him up and cradled him close to your chest.

Settling into a corner of the couch, you dragged a blanket over both you and just sat there, not bothering to turn on a light lest it wake the resting man who was snoring slightly. You hadn’t seen him so relaxed since meeting him, something about the comforts of the booked room easing his anxieties and paranoia of always having to look over his back, always be on alert. Even if the reason you insisted on getting the room was to throw off a tail. You wondered when the last time he slept so soundly had been, when the last time you had been before your mind decided to remind you of why it was such a rare occurrence.

A small hiccup sounded and you looked down to see ad’ika clutching to you tightly, his own little mind playing tricks on him and bringing up things from the past. You let him curl a claw around a few of your fingers and brought it up to place a gentle kiss atop it. Emotions and energy flowed between you both, flashes of harsh light and the echoes of blaster bolts and the hum of swinging lightsabers sounding in your mind. He had been just a child too, when it all happened. When the only life you both had known had been ripped out from underneath you.

You thought back to the way Akiz would hold you in a similar way, to help ease your mind when nightmares plagued you. And for all the bad that occurred in your life, for all the things you had to endure, you were glad to be here in this moment to mirror his behavior for the small being cradled close to your chest. His other claw was laid flat on your chest, over where your heart was hurting. Trying to calm your breathing, you tightened the crossing of your legs beneath you both and closed your eyes.

“It’s okay, ad’ika. I’ve got you, I swear it.” You whispered to him as you tried to concentrate, meditating second nature. After a few moments, he looked up at you, his own breathing had calmed to copy yours, feeling the deep inhales and exhales of your body he pressed up to. He seemed to work himself up again, thoughts plaguing him, pushing memories of his own into your mind that were coated in fear, hitching your breath as they hit you at full force. The faint images in your mind’s eye as he had experienced the very same thing you had, a new perspective to the traumatic occurrence. Little brow furrowed and deep wrinkles in the green skin there, you chuckled lightly as you tried to smooth them out. “We’re safe, we got out. We made it out, ad’ika.”

He cried out softly, tensing in your hold. Trying to gather yourself enough for him through the haze of emotions and memories he was flooding you with, you gently rocked him. Hushing him quietly to ease his worries. His breathing evened out from the fast staccato it had taken on and the clenching of his eyes relaxed as you focused on sharing the feeling of warm water, the soft noise of cresting waves, the feeling of gliding through water on a board that you had crafted with our own small hands so long ago. Good memories from your childhood, the things you missed from it that felt like another lifetime.

A coo pressed into your neck and then a small giggle as you shared with him a memory of feeling so completely free, swiftly moving through a tunneling wave. The colors of the water illuminated by a blinding sun dulled to emulate the lights that surrounded the ship during hyperspace travel. All soft blues, tinged greens, soft white.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” You whispered, trying to keep the calm murmuring low as he relaxed under your attention. You nuzzled your forehead against his smaller one, letting him feel the calming thoughts you were pushing through the connection, hoping it was doing more good than just blanketing the harsh reality of your lives. “Let’s breath and focus, okay? We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

You didn’t hear the soft steps that moved across the plush carpet of the room or catch the glint of the dulled city lights reflected in the beskar that peeked through the opening of the door behind you.

“Mesh’la, I’ve drawn a bath for you.” Din’s voice was low, baritone close to you and you startled from where you were still cuddled into the corner of the couch. Slumber dissipated like a leak from your mind as your thoughts got staticky with anxiety at being caught unaware as you sucked in a deep breath through your nose. Ad’ika was asleep in your arms, eyes cracking open at the sound of the armored man’s voice. He jostled with the force of your jumping nerves as you flew from the couch, skin alight with the instinct to push up and away until you realized that you weren’t in any actual danger.

“Kriff!” You settled the small form in your arms down on the couch, still wrapped up tight in his blanket.

Leaning down to do so, you could feel the pull of your back muscles for your choice in sleeping arrangements. Din has stepped back calmly, not showing the fast beating of his heart or the guilt he felt at scaring you. You dotted on ad’ika, making sure he was okay and not at all alarmed by the rather abrupt awakening you both just had. Din’s hands came to grip your own, his gloves gone.

“I’ve got him, you’ve been up with him all night. I set fresh caf and one of the books from your bag out for you.”

Moments later, you were submerged in a perfect imitation of the bath you had drawn the night before.

Thoughts swirling like the cream you had poured into the cup of caf resting on a board spanning over the tub, securely nestled around the lips of it. Taking a sip, you leaned back onto the waterproof cushion fastened to the end of the tub, back muscles relaxing as the liquid warmed you from the inside out while steam wafted up from the hot water surrounding you. True to his word, Din didn’t disturb you, giving you a moment to yourself.

Warm arousal sparking through you as your body recalled the sensations from the night before. The feel of his strong body pressed against yours. The way he had curled his arms around you, the way he had thrusted up against you, dragging his hard cock through your folds, head stroking that bundle of nerves, pulling a second release from your worked up body while he chased his own. Hands recalling the feel of his thick curls tight in your fingers as you pulled on them, the feel of his jaw underneath them, the softest brushing against his lips before he had softly asked you to stop.

Guilt flared up at the pushing of his boundaries, at the closeness you both shared between bare bodies, but the recollection of how soundly you had both slept right after, curled into each other far outweighed it and you found peace within yourself. It hadn’t been uncomfortable, it had been…it had been euphoric to feel so safe with him in that way.

You hummed into the ceramic of the mug, taking another delicious sip. Leaning forward you placed the drink back on the board and took the moment for what it was. An easy morning with the two beings who meant so much to you in the other room, setting up breakfast before the day started.

The ship was silent as Din guided it through the space around the planet, preparing to jump into hyperspace. A relatively small planet he had picked out for the next stop, unsure of an overreaching plan but knowing that it was best to move. Especially now, having gained a tail in the marketplace. You had both spent a good amount of time going over the interior and exterior of the ship to ensure that no tracking beacons had been fastened to the aircraft. Even if the display on the man’s cuff hadn’t told him of the doors opening while away.

Just to be safe, to be cautious.

On alert and on guard for a majority of both your lives coalescing into an easy routine of ensuring complete safety when returning to where it was deemed home for the time being. Because that’s what the ship was to the man seated in front of you, his broad form filling out the pilot’s chair. And it was quickly developing into that for you as well, the bond between you both allowing for you to feel like you could share in his sentiments even more concretely.

The toggle he switched didn’t yield any change on the screen and you could hear the resounding sigh from the man but it didn’t sound as an alert for a message popped up. You prepared to leave the control room, knowing that some aspects of Din’s life were still unknown to you, not wanting to breach his privacy even if it was a simple message sent to his ship. But it was intended for him and him alone. It could be personal, it could be professional, but either way: you wanted to show respect for him in any way you could.

He must’ve clocked your movement, because his shoulders stilled from maneuvering his hands over the control panel and he turned in the chair to glance at you.

You offered him a tired smile, picking up the bundle that was a fast asleep ad’ika in some blankets in the third chair. The marketplace stop for supplies before returning to the ship had tired him out after his sporadic sleep the night before.

“Going to lay him down in my bed, let him sprawl out and he’ll wake to the lights.”

“Messages to me are messages to you. Unless they contain information on where the covert has relocated. But even then, I believe you’re entitled to that should you want to know. You have history and a connection with the Mandalorian culture and people.”

“But I am not Mandalorian myself, Din.” You reached out a hand to rest over the pauldron atop his shoulder. “It’s not a problem, I’ll leave you to it. Going to organize and see what supplies we have and make a list.”

You were about to cross the threshold when the voice of a man Din had last encountered back on Nevarro. The very one that had run him off world with the concentrated efforts of the entire Guild he had once been employed by. His helmet lifted slowly from where he was focused on the panel in front of him toward the hologram message as it displayed itself from another panel.

“My friend, if you are receiving this transmission, that means you are alive.”

Anger and frustration boiled in your stomach, filling you with negative and ill intentions as you turned on your heel in the threshold of the door. The figure of the man who had shot at you, who had wounded you, who had caused such a huge fight to erupt in the face of a personal vendetta he held against Din’s actions to save ad’ika formed to play the transmission. People had died, people had fled, the city had taken damage and destruction not only physically and so many individuals had been affected by the very man’s choice to move against Din in an orchestrated attack.

“You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too. I guess we could call it even.”

You couldn’t help the snarl of your lips as you took in the smug way the man’s displayed form settled his hands over his hips, seemingly unnerved by the way he had fired at you. Nearly taken your life and gotten Din caught. Nearly caused all three of you to be taken captive.

“A lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown. They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild.”

“He should’ve thought of that before he even let them set foot there.” You growled, voice low and threatening as you felt your emotions spike. Din’s visor turned to you fully, taking in the way the ends of your loose strands had begun to float, harnessed by the lack of control you were exhibiting in your worked up state. The visage you created, standing there in the semi-darkness of his control room with a bundled up child in your grip and a hard look decorating your features was formidable. Someone he would have to track and observe before moving against. Someone who would fight until they couldn’t anymore, until someone was dead and the conflict was no more. Your eyes flashed with the brightness of the transmission playing out, making him pause as he thought he caught something else in your eyes for the barest hint of a second. He turned back to view the transmission your eyes were glued on.

“We consider him an enemy, but we cannot get close enough to take him out.”

“He’s going to ask for your help.” You strutted forward and pushed the pause button on the panel without asking. The displayed figure frozen in a stance with his arms crossed and a hard look about his own features. “He’s going to ask you to risk yourself after attacking you and causing the covert to lose members and relocate.”

“He can do whatever he wants. That doesn’t mean-“

“You’re going to help him, I know you. I know you feel at fault for what happened, feel the need to right the wrongs that have sprung up because of your decisions. You worked with him, with the Guild for years, you feel an obligation to help them. Especially if they ask for it.”

“You don’t think I should.”

“No.” That same glint shone in your eyes despite the transmission no longer playing and it made the man seated beside you pause. Your entire demeanor so unlike your normal one. He had seen you be harsh in fleeting instances, more in response to something he had harshly said or done when first meeting you, in the way you had interacted with Xi’an and Mayfeld. The way in which you had cut down that thug back of Sorgan, the scratches you had left on Callican’s neck. Hints of an attitude and allusions to violence you were capable of that he had yet to see fully unleashed. It didn’t worry him, nor make him afraid, but it did make him pause. Cara had been right when she had seen your weapon for the first time: you were strong. Capable of doing so much damage with a simple twitch of your wrist. The ability to harness such a power as the Force and wield a weapon that could cut through anything made you dangerous. Even if he knew you wouldn’t use it against him or ad’ika.

“I’ve lived my life hiding and running, because taking them on and truly eradicating the threat was too much of a challenge.”

All he could do was nod, letting you know that he heard you and would take your words into account before he allowed the rest of the transmission to play out.

“If you would consider one last commission, I will very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize. Both of their prizes.”

You roughly pushed the pause button again, heart thudding in your chest.

“Din…” You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, only guessing at what the man on display was about to reveal. Something you weren’t ready for anyone to know, a part of your past you tried to forget and shove down to never be thought of again. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, feel the black visor trained on you so directly that it nearly branded your skin. “He has my file, he has the ability to find out anything and everything about me if he’s the leader of the Guild. He- he knows who I really am.”

“And who are you?” His voice didn’t hold any accusations of malice, it was even in tone, telling you he was willing to listen to what you had to say. That he wanted to hear what you were willing to share with him.

“Someone who had trained with their top forces in order to infiltrate their ranks and get intimate details of how they operated until they were found out.” You exhaled heavily, aware of how tightly you were holding onto the blankets that were swaddled around ad’ika’s form. Your fingers going numb with the force of your desperate attempt at keeping your mood from spiking anymore. “Someone who did it to save the only person who ever looked out for them.”

“Akiz.”

“He had been injured beyond general medical procedures at the time, but the Empire…they had the means and equipment that could save him. I was offered an ultimatum, and I took it. I did it for him, I turned to them for him, bid my time and learned everything I could while he recovered.”

“You said he died protecting you.” Not an argument but a statement, a recollection of what you had told him of your beloved guardian through teary eyes.

“He did.”

A moment passed with no response before Din pressed play on the control panel, giving you both a moment to grapple with the truths you just revealed.

“You are in possession of one of the most sought-after bounties they’ve commissioned for. And a person of their ranks who betrayed them and destroyed an entire fleet of ships in her attempts to flee found alongside it. I had no idea when I handed you that last puck, commissioned by her mother. The officials here found it and her name was given to me to say to you, the truth about her revealed to me to allow me to understand the severity of the issue here. Return to Nevarro. Bring the child and woman as bait. I will arrange an exchange and provide loyal Guild members as protection.”

You watched the stoic expression of the man as he delved out the information and his idea of a plan so plainly.

“Once we get near the client, you kill him, and we both get what we want. If you succeed, you keep the child and the woman. I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honor should not be forced to live in exile. I await your arrival with optimism.”

A heavy silence followed the end of the transmission, Din’s visor trained on you holding the child tight in your grip. It followed you as you finally made an exit to lay ad’ika down in bed, roving over your back in a way that made you feel utterly and completely exposed.

You were in the hammock that was strung up in the hold space, the remainder of the day spent traveling somewhere that Din had chosen to guide the ship towards. He had left you and ad’ika to your own devices, opting to stay secluded in the cockpit for the day. No doubt going over everything from the transmission and dissecting your admission. You hadn’t eaten but had made sure the small being in your care had been fed and washed before laying him down for the night.

Din would come down eventually and you didn’t want to impose yourself on him. You should’ve told him before, but he had assured you to take your time with sharing things about yourself. Understanding all too well that certain parts of both of your pasts were harder to share than some. Not borne from unwillingness but of shame and fear of how it would reflect the decisions each made once upon a time.

His steps were nearly silent, but you could hear the hush of his cape as he moved about. Your breath puffed out as you turned in the hammock, facing the wall and adjusted the blanket over you to cover you completely. A possible interaction lighting up your body with an anxious hum. He had been so quiet after your confession. You knew what the Empire did to his people, how they manipulated the very trajectory of his life. How, years later, they did the exact same thing again. Endless attacks on innocent people and powerful cultures alike in their path to controlling the galaxy how they saw fit. And to find out that you had served them? That had to have hurt him.

It had hurt you to admit it. To reveal that part about yourself that brought you nothing but shame and regret, even if it was done with good intentions to save the life of someone important to you. And they had lost their life in the end regardless. A mistake that would haunt you every time your emotions flared, and the pull of the Force took hold of you.

Din’s presence was close, having descended the ladder. You could feel the way he moved about the space busying himself with making a meal before bed. The domestic sounds lulling you into a half- conscious state.

A hand encompassed your own with a gentle tug, but you only mumbled out something incoherent.

“Mesh’la, let’s go to bed.”

“’M comfy.” Was your rather muffled reply as your face was pressed heavily into the pillow beneath you.

The silence allowed for you to slip deeper into your slumber, the figure of Din not disturbing you in the slightest. But he must’ve felt differently, his mind heavy as he tried to decide what to do, what would be the best course of action. His words were quiet, though his tone held an honest admission.

“I don’t fault you or judge you for the things you did. For the choices you made…I wanted to thank you for telling me.”

“Wanted to.” You mumbled back, brain moving slow.

A squeeze to your hand was the last touch of him before he retired to his quarters, letting you sleep where you lay.

Sorgan was a beautiful sight once again as Din directed the ship toward the planet. Telling you of his plans to pick up Cara in hopes of her wanting to and being able to help with the ask from the transmission. It had been a long conversation in the early morning, you waking to the darkness of the hold and moving to the cot alongside the resting man. He had told you of his plan, of his worries about the task. But it was a mutual agreement to take it on.

He had assured you that you would remain unharmed and by his side. That he was doing it to ensure a safer future for you and ad’ika. You brought up the argument that this may not be the only surviving ranks that still operated, but that it was likely ad’ika’s life was known about only by those that sought after him. But it was the move to make, you had agreed with him on that. Promising him that you would make sure they were both safe, that they would be your top priority in the face of conflict.

You hadn’t gone into town with Din, opting to stay behind and stick close to the ship. A trek in the trees to help keep your head level and your emotions in check. Basking in the plush atmosphere and abundance of greenery that you loved so much, had always loved so much. Ever since your first time seeing such a landscape when you were younger and on the cusp of beginning your journey to who you were now.

The pull of your lips was a genuine one as you recalled the memory of a wider smile, a gloved hand holding yours and leading you off of a ship, murmured words of comfort from a man who you trusted with your life. One who trusted you enough to take back to his home planet and show you the ways of his people once yours had been threatened and attacked. It had been a difficult conversation for you, him telling you that it was dangerous to return to your own planet. Serenity flowed through your veins as you felt close to the man who had saved you in countless ways, even when you couldn’t save yourself.

The feeling and memories of him in the trees you brushed your hand out to feel the leaves against your palms. Comforted by the way they all felt the same even if they were scattered on different planets, a part of you that you sought after even after banished yourself to a desert planet as a punishment for the things you had done, the choices you had made.

“Well, hey there, cyar’ika.” Cara’s voice greeted you as you left the protection of the trees and walked into the clearing where Din had landed the ship. She was beside Din, ad’ika choosing to move toward you while they both waited for the ramp to open and settle to board the ship. Her smile was dazzling as she took in the easy way you moved about, no longer worried about upsetting or triggering Din’s instincts to chase. No longer closed in on yourself and only a shadow of a person. You walked as his true equal now and it was a world of difference. “Don’t you look well rested.”

“Hello to you too,” You returned her greeting with a nod of your head and leaned down to scoop of adi’ka, his grabby hands too much of a cute display to ignore his silent request to be picked up. He must be tired from the walk, his legs so much smaller than Din’s, his gait less of a strut and more of a waddle. You nuzzled your nose against his tiny one in greeting. Aware of her eyes watching you, taking in the simple outfit of form fitting pants to the cape you wore over your shoulders, hair braided and pulled back out of your face as it looped behind your head and was pinned securely in place.

“Did burc’ya make you walk the whole way there and back?” You cooed, relishing in images he was pushing into your mind of his visit into town. Proud of him for picking up the skill you had been sharing with him, to make it easier to understand the things happening about him and for you to know what he was asking after less of a guessing game. You laughed as he pushed the feeling of excitement he had felt at watching Cara fight with another patron in what had to be a bet. “He’s a big ole meanie, isn’t he?”

“Don’t listen to whatever he’s telling you, he wanted to walk the whole way. Fussed when I tried to pick him up.” Din defended, though there was no harsh tinge to his words. If you could guess, you would say the man was smirking beneath his helmet, enjoying in the teasing banter.

“Is that right, wanted to show Cara here that you were big and strong, huh?”

You sidled up beside them both, following them up the ramp and into the ship.

Cara’s voice carried down from the control room to the hold, where you were tidying things up and ensuring that nothing was out of place to make the ship feel cramped with more than two average sized people aboard. You did leave out the current piece of chainmail you were working on though, not wanting to disrupt the pattern you had decided to try your hand at.

“He alright up there alone?” The woman asked as she followed Din as he made his way down the ladder, the cabinet that he stored his weapons in opening with the press of a button on his vambrace. His easy answer had you shaking your head, knowing he was about to eat his words. Ad’ika was anything if not mischievous, finding things to get into at a moment notice.

“Pick one.” Din instructed her, wanting the woman to be as prepared as you and him both for the upcoming conflict.

“Do you trust the contact?” She picked up and weighed the feel of a few pieces, her eyes finding your own at the table where you were working on hammering rings of metal together with concentration.

“Not particularly. He and I had a run-in last time I was there on some Guild business.”

“Not too fond of how he fired an actual bullet at me.” You muttered as you leaned in close to make sure the closures were secure before moving onto the next line of your work. The memories of that injury stirring in your body, phantom aches sprouting forth. It had been harsh, the recovery from such a wound, but if it hadn’t been for Din, you wouldn’t even have made it up from the floor of the ship. You felt the weight of Din’s visor on you and looked up to share a look with him. A silent confirmation that you were still okay with the decision to face the threat head on, with following his lead.

“So then why are we going?”

“I don’t have a choice.” You wanted to interject, but let the man speak plainly. Knowing why he was choosing to do what he thought was necessary. What was for the best, should it all play out according to plan. “You saw what happened on Sorgan. We had a tail on the last planet before we came to you. They’ll keep sending hunters. The kid will never be safe until the Imp is dead.”

“And you’re okay with bringing him back there?”

“Not really.” His voice lilted, his emotions obvious as he revealed how hesitant he was to take both you and ad’ika so close to danger, too close to those who were actively hunting after you. “That’s why I’m bringing you.”

Anymore of the conversation was cut short as the ship began to roughly jostle. Alarms sounding from the cockpit where they had left ad’ika alone. You easily looped the last ring on the row you had begun a few moments ago and set it in the crate designated for your work and tools. Clasping it shut from your seated position didn’t work as your hands couldn’t find a steady hold. Your hands scrabbled against it as the ship continued to warble in its course, no doubt the culprit of ad’ika messing with the steering.

“We need someone to help watch that thing.” Cara’s voice was stern, worry evident.

“San tries her best, but he is a handful. Especially if we’re going into enemy territory.”

“You got anyone you can trust?”

You were just entering the cock pit to let them know you were going to lay down for a moment, when you spied the coordinates Din was punching in.

“Arvala-7?” You turned from the control panel displaying the route of travel that Din had programmed into the system. There was a never-ending replacement of the plush, rich landscape that brought you so much comfort with that of harsh winds and gritty sand that spanned for miles and miles. So unforgiving in the way that the land simply was, no thought for nourishment or refuge to visitors. A far cry from where you felt you belonged but always found yourself returning to. A darkness shadowing over every beam of sunlight that you tried to bathe yourself in.

“Yes, but…”

“No.”

“You won’t have to disembark.”

“Burc’ya n-no, please don’t take me back there.”

“I’m not taking you back, I made sure that compound was destroyed. We’re just going to see if he’ll be willing to help.”

Ad’ika was whining, uncomfortable with the heightened emotions in the small room. He could pick them up from you and Din both, the confusion of Cara making the scene into something he didn’t like.

“I don’t- what’s going on?” Cara seemed surprised to see you openly upset, still getting used to you speaking unprompted, of moving about as comfortably as you did about the ship. She had spied the room behind the cockpit, done up with a cot and a trunk for storage of personal possessions. Your bag set atop it along with a pile of neatly folded clothing. Though the bed was made and untouched save for a smaller blanket thrown over the top. Suspiciously the perfect size for ad’ika’s little form.

The touch of your presence was noticeable all over the ship, from the hammock in the corner of the hold, to two pillows atop the second cot nestled into a small space that was undoubtedly Din’s personal quarters, to the open crate of metal working tools and pieces of chain mail in variant states of completion. You had folded yourself into the space, his space, and the two of you seemed to be on equal terms compared to when she last interacted with you both.

It could be noted that you both didn’t stray too far from each other, you from either him or the small creature of the child. A soft-spoken name for one and a comfortable, easy-going rapport with the other.

“The person who helped me last with him is on the same planet I found San.” Din spared a glance over as Cara, not willing to take his eyes off of you completely, you were so tense he worried for the soreness that would follow if he could get you to relax.

“We need him, you know this. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

“What’s a bunch of sand and red rock gonna do to you, cyar’ika? C’mon, you got me and Mando to watch out for you, no one is going to take you. I’m pretty sure the tin can over there would fire on someone if they so much as looked at you.”

“Would you want to go back to the place where you were drugged, tortured and taken advantage of? Used as a plaything for anyone and everyone?” You couldn’t help but snap, emotions jumbled and intertwined so tightly underneath your skin. Too overwhelming and difficult to separate in order to think properly. The mess of them prompting you to reveal in plain words what you normally would only allude to when asked. Din’s motions of going through the contents behind a panel below the controls halted, a crackling sounding from the modulator as your words settled in the air. Cara, similarly, dropped into your normal perch behind the pilot’s chair. At a loss for words, knowing whatever they chose to say would be the wrong thing.

You didn’t wait for their attempts at a response, instead crossing the small space and entered your quarters. Overly sensitive in the wake of memories of your past guardian found in the soothing embrace of the forest.

This was a bad idea, this was a monumentally bad idea. It didn’t matter how much faith and confidence you had in everyone’s abilities. Going back to the place that you had experienced such negative emotions was potentially triggering. You could already feel the pull of the Force when just seeing Greef Karga again, and that had only been a hologram transmission. Not even the real, physical form of the man who had shot you and nearly killed you for not reason other than simply being abord the Razor Crest.

Fear overriding everything else, self-preservation in the most selfish of ways rooted deep in your very being since you had last run from the very same people commanded you to be handed over now. You would apologize later, for your harsh words, but right now you needed to be alone. You needed to meditate and concentrate, push back the pull you felt so strongly inside of you.

Faint sounds of the pair of them could be heard as they moved about, Din rustling in the crate of errant machinery and parts he kept aboard the ship. You wondered what he was looking for, what he was doing but you felt too raw to face either of them. Their voices a soft murmur as you sit in the middle of the small space and try to focus on the push and pull of the Force all around you.

“So…”

“Don’t start.” Was Din’s simple response, knowing he was about to get an earful from the smirking woman sat across from him at the makeshift table. He had a spare bin placed atop most of the surface, tools and other parts surrounding it while he worked on a making a crude impression of the pod that ad’ika had been found in. While he knew you had only been teasing, you had been right In your observation of the small child being tired from his trip into town to fetch Cara. He was too small to be without transportation aid and the protection it would allow him.

“She seems like a completely different person. It looks good on her.” Cara lifted the mug in her hands to take a sip of the steaming caf she had made. The set up looking extremely well kept and stocked, everything neatly labeled in clean script. She hadn’t been able to read any of the words, Mandalorian, but had known that Din wouldn’t choose to spend his time with such a small thing as organization. It had to have been you who took the time to do it. “You did the right thing, not finishing her job.”

“She’s an admirable travel companion.”

“Is that all she is?”

The armored man didn’t respond, knowing what the ship looked like, what is allowed for other people to read into. He had no shame about the nature of his relationship with you, but he wasn’t sure if you would take kindly to him speaking about it plainly with the woman across from him. While he was comfortable in her presence and they were more than acquaintances at this point, he had firsthand experience with seeing how you interacted with people who seemed to know more about you than you cared for them to. He wasn’t about to break your trust, just as he wished for you to not break his own with you.

“Now I know why that lovely widow wasn’t an option.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder to where the door to his quarters was open a crack, allowing her a view of the two pillows atop the cot only big enough for one person.

“Cara.”

“San is a gorgeous woman, Mando.” Din’t hands froze as he recalled the way your face bloomed when overwhelmed with pleasure. He shifted his hips, feigning reaching for a tool just out of his immediate grasp, adjusting himself as he felt a jolt of heat between his legs. “It looks like she’s really adjusted to life here on the ship. With you. Takes care of things.”

“She fights and does her far share of the hard labor, though she doesn’t know a kriffing thing about flying or anything beyond basic mechanics.”

“And you find that endearing, don’t you?”

“She has other skills.” He stated, a slight defensive. It was easy for people to take a glance at you and see only what you allowed them to, he had done so himself when first meeting you, taking you as a quarry all those weeks ago. But Cara had seen you fight, for a moment, surely she hadn’t forgotten that so easily. He did know why he felt the need to remind her that you were more. Perhaps it was a protective manner, to rekindle the knowledge that you were skilled, that you should be treated with respect, though he knew logically that the woman across from him did and you were both on good terms with each other.

“I’m sure she does, it takes a lot to survive on your own. Especially if she was on the run for as long as her puck had described. Her own trauma would’ve been enough to take a normal person down, but she’s strong. And the way she took down that raider? It was as easy and breathing for her, even in recovery. She makes armor too?” A hand reached out to inspect the contents of your haphazardly shut crate. A nearly finished piece of chainmail in the form of a shirt was folded over the lip of it and she carefully extracted it. An impressed hum fell from her lips as she took in the care and attention your gave to the piece, the rings closely knit and fastened tightly together. “Good quality armor.”

“Family business, it’s how she’s been helping to contribute. Sold a few pieces for a few thousand each.”

Cara let out a low whistle, eliciting a giggle from ad’ika as he swung in the hammock in the corner.

Placing the piece back into the crate, she spied the open notebook you used to scribble in. The pages were folded and bent, most likely as a result of it not being clasped and she could make out the drawing you had done of a masculine figure. Keeping quiet so as to not garner Din’s attention, she reached for it and took in the broad frame that took up the page entirely. Notes and measurements in a language that wasn’t Basic nor the Mandalorian she was beginning to recognize.

“Any idea what she’s written down here next to what is obviously a drawing of you?” She turned the notebook in her hands to face Din, the black of the visor whipping up as he realized what she held in her hands.

“Put that away, I don’t think she knows it’s out here.”

“I wonder how she knows what you look like underneath all that armor.” A knowing smirk lifted the corners of her lips as he turned the book back toward her. It wasn’t a graphic sketch, by any means. Din’s form clothed in light attire, though he was without his armor in it. Ruffling through the pages, she discovered it was more of a workbook than anything else. More notations and sketches for pieces you had worked on or wished to create. She closed the notebook with a snap, winding the string around it to secure it closed and placed it back into the crate. Contemplative in her silence.

“She’s worried about the Imps.”

“It’s not my information to share.”

“We’ve all had run ins with them, even after they were ‘defeated’,” She used air quotes around the word, knowing full well that there were pockets of them still operating as if nothing had changed. Case and point with what was happening on Nevarro. Such an expansive and all powerful crusade didn’t just fizzle out, too many factions and people of power who knew how to lay low and bide their time to show their hands. “But she seems…extra cautious.”

“You’ll have to talk with her.” Din continued to work on the project laid out before him.

True to his word, Din hadn’t pushed you to disembark from the ship when they landed on the barren, desert planet. A simple announcement to let you know that they were going to close the ramp after themselves that you hadn’t responded to. They were gone for a long while, no doubt laying out the situation to Kuiil and allowing him time to ask questions and make his decision with as much information as they could provide to him.

When the ramp lowered, hours later, you emerged from your quarters. There was a lot of stuff set out at the bottom of the ramp, supplies and a very still Din. Cara was the first to begin moving items aboard and you looked around the general landscape that was visible to you before you moved to help her. A nod shared with Din was all you could manage, though you were sure it was obvious you had been crying.

“You’ve grown, flourished into something admirable.” Kuiil’s voice called to you as he fastened a harness around a few of the blurrgs he had corralled into a small pen. He looked over to the armored man, an unreadable expression that prompted you to follow his gaze. “You didn’t turn her in, you made space aboard your ship for her to live her life. As an equal.”

“I did.” Like it hadn’t been one of the most life changing things could provide for you. Heat bloomed in your chest as you slowly made your way down the ramp. A deep breath in and heavy exhale before your boot settled in the sand beyond the metal.

“Do you have experience with such creatures?”

“No. sir, but other herd species that have been domesticated in much the same way.” You reached out a hand for one of the blurrgs to inspect. The breath hot on the exposed skin of your fingers, the force of it ruffling the cape that covered your body.

“It took this one a few days to learn how to mount, do you know how to ride?” Kuiil nodded over toward Din, a soft smile adorning your lips as you tried to picture the easily annoyed man try to tame the creatures enough to allow him permission to mount. He must’ve been thrown off a few times, creatures like them picking up on emotions as easily as breathing.

“Yes.”

“We will be using them for travel, we should see if they are easier for you.”

“Do they have names?”

“They do not, but they are all very understanding in nature if you aren’t hiding from them.”

“Hmm, will be you a good girl and let me try?” You cooed at the creature, willing to try but not wanting to be thrown off in much the same fashion you were imagining they had done with Din. Carefully entering the pen, with the Ugnaught close on your heels, you approached the creature with steady hands.

It took a few moments of the creature backing away from you and then coming back before they allowed for you to grip a hand around their harness. Once you did, you pulled yourself up and planted your backside firmly in the seat atop their back. She quickly took off, racing around the pen with jumps and hops that you weren’t sure was an attempt to buck you off but to see how well you could handle riding.

Keeping your balance was easy, despite the creature’s efforts to truly test a new rider, your grip tight on the reigns in your hand. Focused on allowing your body to roll with their movements, cape billowing out with every move. After a good while, the creature deemed you okay and began to simple trot around the enclosure.

With a wide smile, you clicked your tongue and guided them back to the post where Kuiil fastened her back up. Your heart stuttered as you realized Din had leaned up against one of the posts with his arms crossed over his broad chest to watch, the glint of the setting suns playing off of his beautiful armor.

Kuiil remained close by the creatures, offering them soft murmurs of comfort as the ship traveled. Surely, they hadn’t ever been aboard such a craft if their anxious rustling was any indication. But they were behaving for the most part, taking to it well with the help of their beloved handler.

Taking over the entire makeshift table, Din and Cara were interlocked in a game of arm wrestling, a cheeky comment from the former shock trooper resulting in the challenge. They were in a stalemate, small grunts of exertion puffing from both of them the longer they tried to overpower the other.

“I got you, Mando.”

“Care to double the bet?”

Suddenly, Cara was gasping, soft grunts waning out as she could no longer seem to take in a breath. Your head shot up, looking over to where ad’ika was secure in a newly constructed replacement for his pod. A small claw lifted up and his eyes clenched shut in concentration was all you needed to know as you quickly pushed up from your seat and moved toward him.

“Nayc, ad’ika! Nayc!”

He didn’t seem to hear you, as Cara let go of the hold she had on Din and her fingers scrambled at her throat. Din’s attention shifted from her, mind recalling the similar way that you had done something similar with Xi’an, to the child. He jumped up, closer to him than you were. He lifted him up from within his makeshift pod, words quick.

“No! No, no! Stop!” Concentration broken, the child gladly accepted Din’s hold and fastened his claws around the man’s arms. “We’re friends, we’re friends. Cara is my friend!”

“That is not okay!”

“I’m so sorry, cyar’ika! He must’ve been trying to imitate me, I didn’t know he was able to concentrate in order to do that!” You were crouched beside her, hands gently caressing her arms as she sucked in deep breaths and tried to fight off the dizziness that had taken over.

“Very curious.” The Ugnaught approached the child with a stoic face, taking in the events with reverence.

“Curious? It almost killed me!” Cara shouted out, understandably upset and worked up.

“He doesn’t realize how strong he is, he’s still learning how to wield it.” You tried to placate her, knowing it wasn’t much.

“The story you told me of the mudhorn now makes more sense. Though what it is, I don’t know. But what it does, what you both do. This…this I’ve heard rumors of.”

“What? When you worked for the Empire?” The accusation was harsh as it flew through the air.

“When I was sold to the Empire, in indentured servitude.”

“Yet somehow you walk free.”

“Hey! We all need to calm down. Yes, he walks free and so do I. Working with the Empire doesn’t make us horrible people.” Items in the cabin began to float, the panels on the walls shaking with the emotions you were feeling, crates jostling in their secure holds against the walls. The agitation of immediate judgement from someone who had been wronged just as much as you had by the very people you had been forced to submit to. She had only been so lucky they didn’t have anything to hold over her and force her to turn to them. Loss was loss, but manipulation was easy for those who had obvious weaknesses to exploit. All of it cruel, no comparison worse than the other, only more heartbreaking.

Silence fell at your loud words; voice elevated to try and take control over the situation. Both Cara and Kuiil turned to you with shock playing across their features, your words revealing more about yourself than you cared to admit. But in order to corral the situation, you had decided to defend the Ugnaught by voicing your own similar experience. Letting him know that he wasn’t alone in the suffering he had endured.

Cara tore her arm out of your light hold, though you had stood up when she had in the heat of the moment. It stung, her rejection in wake of your words, but you understood and moved to give her some space.

“I bought my freedom through the skill of my hands and the labor of three of your human lifetimes.” As he spoke, voice strict and leaving no room for argument, IG-!! Approached from where the droid had been standing guard by the creatures secured in the back of the space. “Do not cast doubt upon that of what I am nor whom I shall serve.”

Breathe held, you worried for another round of accusations to fly, but Din took control of the situation, not wanting the conflict on his ship among people he recruited for a job that required working smoothly alongside each other.

“Tell you what. I could really use your craft work right now.” Din settled ad’ika back into his makeshift pod, admitting that he had thrown it together quickly, that it wasn’t the best work but what he could manage with what supplies and parts were available. The child cooed and gurgled, seemingly unaware of the tension he had caused with his protective move against Cara. “Can you pad this container so the child can sleep better?”

“I shall fabricate a better one.” Kuiil turned to point an accusing finger toward a still seething Cara across the space. “Then perhaps this Dropper can see how one can win their freedom with the skill of one’s hands.”

The moment passed, tension easing a bit as the Ugnaught began to move about the space to collect things for a new pod. You opted to stay down in the hold with him and ad’ika, giving Cara some space after everything.

“I didn’t know they had taken you prisoner.” Cara’s voice was soft, almost hesitant as she approached where you were seated at the makeshift table with one hand wrapped around a steaming mug, the other reaching into the new pod where the child gripped it tight with his tiny claw. “You only mentioned your mother holding you.”

“It’s not something I generally broadcast.”

“I didn’t mean to yell so loudly, it’s just that- that power really unnerves me.” She sighed as she settled into the same chair she had been in earlier, before everything had become complicated and personalities had clashed.

“It unnerves me too, the only surviving rumors and stories are all steeped in the shadow of the Empire. I know the truth of those powers, the origin stories and the people who used to wield them for the good of the galaxy. I’m one of the very few alive, even now after so long. But none of that matters when they’ve been wiped out and their stories erased in favor of those to instill fear. It doesn’t matter that the Empire has been eliminated down to sparse bases of operations and high ranks clinging to the echoes of power they once had themselves. They destroyed so much, they still do.

I was given an ultimatum, much like Kuiil. And I don’t regret taking the easier road, even it if did land me in the midst of the very people who took everything from me before they fell.” You wiggled your hand from ad’ik’a, his grip loose in his sleeping state.

She whispered your name, unsure of what else to say in wake of such an admission.

“But it’s okay, because it got to me where I am now. Aboard this ship as a free woman. With this little guy to look after so the same things don’t befall him. With…with ner kar’ta.”

You both sat in a comfortable silence, the conflict of earlier not forgotten but mended over. Sharing stories of what had happened during your time apart over a simple meal. IG-11 helping you to prepare enough for everyone and ensuring you they would clean up afterwords while everyone indulged. She had offered to take Kuill a plate while you took one up to Din. Both of you reaching out to bring everyone back together in the effortless way that food was capable of.

Hours later, you retired for the night. The day having been a long one. Another of travel ahead. You had offered Cara your own quarters, should she wish for a bit of privacy to rest. She had taken up your offer with a smug look tossed over to Din as he made his way to his own, though she didn’t make a comment other than to thank you for your kindness.

“Thank you.” You mumbled into the crook of his neck, nose pressing into the warmth of his skin. He was fully dressed but he had removed the cowl about his neck to rest easier atop the bed. Hesitant to undress further with two other passengers aboard the ship, despite his trust in them. Similarly, you had stayed in your outfit, only removing your boots and gloves in order to lay down for the last bit of travel toward Nevarro. “I was…afraid earlier. There are some things that- trigger me in a way and I would rather not face those things if I can help it.”

“Triggering.” One of his arms rested over you, bringing you flush against him. The armor wasn’t the most comfortable to rest against, but the feeling of him breathing beneath it helped to ease your mind all the same.

“Din, my sabers, they’re white.” You whispered into the shared darkness.

“Mesh’la, I’m trying to follow you, but I don’t – I don’t know much about your culture whereas you know so much about mine.”

“I’ve only heard of one other person who carries white sabers.” You took a deep breath, your heart thudding as you tried to calm yourself. He needed to know, you needed to share with him something to help him understand what exactly was at stake with this conflict. “White sabers have been purified. It means that the person who wielded them went to great lengths to find balance within themselves.”

“Because they were not always so.”

“Exactly…”

He didn’t ask you what color they used to be.

And you didn’t tell him that they used to glow as red as the ones in your nightmares.

Gearing up and getting the blurrgs ready for when the ship landed took a collected effort. Between you, Kuiil, Cara, and the IG unit, it was easier but still took some time. The four blurrgs aboard the ship were ready to stretch their legs, restless after having been cramped up for nearly three days of travel through hyperspace. You had calibrated your vambrace to connect with Kuiil’s handheld comm link. The pod he constructed for ad’ika complete and able to be controlled with either yours or Din’s cuffs.

The blurrgs steps clanged as the creatures made their way down the ramp, lining up in a loose formation in front of the man who had reached out to ask for aid.

Greef Karga was a tall man, his clothing neat and put together. Save for the damage done by Din’s blaster over the left breast of his leather coat. You held a hand to your lowest rib on the left side of your own body, feeling the phantom pain of a since healed injury at the man’s hand. There were three Guild members collected behind him, all sporting their own preparations.

“Sorry for the remote rendezvous, Mando. But things have gotten complicated since you were last here.”

“It appears that introductions are in order.” The man looked over the line the blurrgs created in front of them. Cara and Din flanking the closed and secured pod. Kuill beside the armored man and you on to the right of him. “It seems we’ve both provided a security detail.”

The man’s eyes roved over you all, taking in the way you were simply listening and letting him ramble on in his greeting.

“I recommend the shock trooper guards the ship. These lava fields are lousy with Jawas.”

“She’s coming with me.”

“But the town is now run by ex-Empire.” Karga made an imposing figure with his hands rested on his hips. “If a Rebel Dropper is with us, they’ll all get their hackles up.”

“She’s coming.” Din insisted simply.

“At least cover your tattoo. No need to flaunt it.” He acquiesced. His attention turned to you, the gazes of those behind him following as well. “I see you’ve brought this lovely lady back here, you are looking wonderful in your healed state. That was a nasty business the last time we met, I can only offer my apologies for firing upon you.”

“Apologies not accepted.” You frowned, not liking how he was talking with such disregard for the seriousness of the situation. As if it was all some game or show he was fronting for, not truly concerned with. He balked at your dismissal, his own frown marring his features.

“Surely you must understand that I was merely doing my job as leader of the Guild, Mando here was running off with a quarry he had already handed over. Possibly two, because we both know he had no true intentions of handing you over either. You were simply in the vicinity of such a misguided act.”

“Surely you must understand that not everyone buys into your overly straightforward and charismatic act. It’s simply something that people have the right to be cautious of.” You head crooked to one side, words falling and hitting the man right in his chest. Your eyes locked with his. Behind him, the other bounty hunters reached for their weapons, hands hovering over them as they looked you over. Not outwardly threatening but your words hinting at more than a pretty face or simple quarry sought after by her mother. You had no doubts that Karga had either told them of your involvement with the Empire so they were to keep an eye on you or he hadn’t and kept it simple to avoid any complications with the plan.

“Ooh, Mando, I do like her. Not afraid to speak her mind now that she’s got you to protect her, huh?”

“I’d be more wary of what she’s capable of, I’ll shoot but she’ll make sure you aren’t breathing.” Din spoke up, wanting to hurry this along. But he knew the man standing before him, how he liked to draw things out. Read what he could from long interactions with people. Choosing to ignore the rather heated comments from you both, the man opened his arms in exasperation.

“Now, where is the little one?”

Everyone watched as Din controlled the pod to move out of the line, up toward Karga. As it opened, revealing ad’ika inside and wide awake, your hands twitched around the reigns in your grip just as Din moved a hand to hover over the blaster holstered to his thigh.

“So this little bogwing is what all the fuss was about.” You watched with untethered focus for any signs of discomfort or ill intent as Karga lifted ad’ika with gentle hands from within the pod. “What a precious little creature. I can see why you didn’t want to harm a hair on its wrinkled little head.”

He gently placed the child back into the pod, but your grip remained tight on the reigns, tension taut in your body. You didn’t trust him, you didn’t trust the men behind him, you didn’t trust this entire situation. But it was Din’s call and you would follow his lead.

“Well, I’m glad this matter will be put to rest once and for all.”

With the pod safely between Din and Cara once again, you exhaled a heavy breath.

“The sun drops fast on Nevarro. We can walk for a spell, camp out at the riverbank, then make our way into town at first light.”

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dividers by the lovely @saradika-graphics

#the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din djarin series #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x you

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