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frannyzooey · 5 months

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Short Days, Long Nights: 16

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Series Masterlist

Rating: Mature (some explicit mentions, tense situations, mentions of child starvation)

A/N: this chapter wouldn’t exist without @the-scandalorian and @bageldaddy , period. Literally walking me through it line by line, I could say a lot of really gushy things about them but I’ll refrain…just know, you two, that I could kiss you directly on the mouth. And will, when we meet someday. ❤️

—

A blanket hung to keep her in the shade, the sound of June’s babbling lifts into the air to join the soft give of roots snapping beneath the soil as you pull carrots from the garden. The distant splintering of dried out boards giving way occasionally cracks through the background, Joel grabbing another piece of rotted wood at the base of the shed and tearing it clean off, tossing it over with the rest he’s collected.

Brushing a drip of sweat away from your temple with your dirt-dried hand, you make a face at the gritty path you’ve left behind.

“You wanna go for a swim?” you coo over at June, her cheeks plumping into a corresponding wet grin when you smile at her.

Her bottom teeth coming in, drool pools around the carrot she’s gumming and slides down over her chubby grip, the edge of it glistening in her mouth.

You make faces at her, her dark eyes fixed on your face in bright delight until her attention catches something behind you, and you turn when she starts to crawl towards it.

“How are my girls doing?”

His shirt ringed with sweat and molded to his body, Joel blocks out the sun when you look up at him. His hand rakes through his dark curls, pushing the wet strands away from his forehead as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, the pulse in his throat thrumming fast under his flushed skin. Grabbing the hem of his shirt, he lifts it to swipe it over his face and your eyes flash down, where even his torso looks wet: the dark hair that collects in a swirl around his belly button to lead down matted and damp.

He watches with amusement as June crawls over to his boot with unsteady movements, her face set with determination.

“Hey, baby girl.” His tiredness transforms into something softer when he greets her, his eyes crinkling deeply around the edges. A dimple catching under his beard, he bends to scoop her up from the ground, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I think I got enough over there to do somethin’ with. Definitely enough to board up that broken window in her room this afternoon.”

The glass broke while you were cleaning it: old age and the elements and a warped frame all contributing, and with the mosquitos being thick at night, she’d been sleeping in your room for the time being.

“I can fix that shelf in the pantry with one of ‘em,” he continues, “and if anything else, save the rest for burnin’ in the winter.”

A rotted shelf in the pantry breaking in half, the chair in the living room finally losing a leg, an area of the deck now off limits: exposed to the elements and after withstanding years of neglect, the cabin was having trouble standing up to the constant wear of its new inhabitants. Joel had been fixing things as they happened, but with a limited supply of resources, the plan to stay infinitely that you both made months ago was starting to fray.

The garden was going better than you could have expected, but the rest…the rest worried you. Running out of material to cut up and make do with, June’s clothing situation was beyond scarce. With the repetitive washing that everything had to stand up against, it was always fast to fall apart. Lucky that it was summer and so hot that she didn’t really need much, you had started to piece together things for the winter but there was only so much thread you could pull out of things, only so much you could fix and repurpose.

Joel felt the pinch too, in his own way. Voicing his frustration, he’d tell you how he would repair things if only he had the right materials, recounting to you the actual issue and the thought process behind fixing it. Even reminiscing about the hardware store days of past, he’d mentioned more than once the one right by his house that he liked to visit, the one with free popcorn for Sarah while he browsed.

With every item that broke and with every growth milestone that June reached, you could feel the encroaching pressure to make a choice: leave this place for the dangerous unknown, or stay and attempt to survive the dangers of isolation.

Either was a gamble, and so undecided, you kept fixing what you could, with what you had.

You eye the shed, your eyebrow lifting as you study the now sizable hole in the side.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about how we don’t really need the shed for anything, so if we need more wood, we can just chop the whole thing down. Right?”

You stand and he nods, using his forearm to swipe at more sweat that’s gathered along his hairline. Streaks of dirt and dust are smeared along the bare skin, and when June reaches out to grab at his face, he catches her hand and gives it a kiss.

You admire them for a moment: the taut muscle in his forearm underneath her bottom, the collection of gray hairs gathered at the edge of his jaw that she grabs at, his wayward curls that match her own. They smile at each other, her face diving into his chest just above the collar of his shirt, and he laughs, gently tickling her back.

When he catches you watching him, you think you’d see a faint blush creep over his cheeks if they weren’t flushed from the heat already.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you smile, turning to lead them down to the water.

You’re still smiling as he lays her out on the bank to get her undressed, watching his thick fingers brush against her cheeks just to chuckle at the way she chases them with an open mouth. Standing up with a soft groan, he strips down to his underwear.

Bare chested and tanned in front of you, his body is formidable without his clothing. Marred with the scars of survival and so familiar to you by now, he appears even bigger in comparison when he lifts June up. His large hand completely covers her dimpled bottom as they prepare to wade in, and his back facing you, your eyes run appreciatively down the broad slope.

Feeling your gaze, he smirks, and a glimmer of the confident, teasing Joel that’s been coaxed out of hiding peeks from beneath the surface. “See somethin’ you like?”

“There is something about when you hold her,” you admit. “You look so…big and strong.”

Rising on your tiptoes, you tuck your face into his neck to hide from the slight embarrassment you feel. Finding his sweat salt skin with your mouth, you give him a kiss and he hums in appreciation, the vibration of it felt against your lips when you give him another one.

“You really like it, huh.” More a smug statement than a question, his expression matches his tone when you pull back to look at him.

“I do,” you murmur, nosing along the edge of his jaw. “It makes me wanna have all your babies.”

Drunk on the heat of the afternoon sun and on your affection for him, you smile lazily up at him and he grins right back, winding his arm around your waist to keep you close.

“S’that right,” he murmurs, low and gravely. His voice slips through you and your pulse picks up, his humid breath ghosting across your lips. “All of ‘em, huh?”

You nod, and with hooded eyes, he grins.

“Don’t jinx us now, honey. Can’t be sayin’ that kinda stuff.”

His dark eyes make a slow, heated circuit down to your collarbones and back up, and arousal hooks behind your belly button fast and sharp.

Dragging his gaze from you, he turns his attention to June. “Besides, I think this squirrely girl is all we can handle right now, anyway.”

His shoulders swathed in sunlight, Joel wades in as you strip to join them. The water is crisp and cool against your skin when you slip in, and you submerge yourself for a moment before resurfacing closer to them.

Joel holds June around her back as he lets her float on the surface, water from her kicking legs flying up to cover his bare chest.

“You gonna be a swimmer? You gonna be a fish, baby?”

It’s easy to forget that the outside world exists when there is nothing but bird song and cicadas and the rippling water around you. No infection, no death, no fight for survival. Just Joel carefully scooping water to pour over June’s head, his soothing voice telling her to hold her breath as he ducks them under the surface, his practiced movements carefully transferring her into a one armed hold when you swim closer.

Tilting your chin up, you offer your wet mouth to him for a kiss.

His body is firm and warm against yours, your hand reaching to cup the curve of his jaw to deepen the press of your mouths together and the kiss pulls you in just like the current that wraps and molds your body close to his. Slipping your arms around his neck, you savor his taste until June lets out a soft cry.

Her wet fist rubbing at her eye, you reach to take her in for her afternoon nap. Emerging from the water, you feel the awakened heat in his gaze trained on your body all the way up to the cabin.

June is fast asleep in your room when he lays you out on the bed in the room next door, squeezing your bodies together on the twin-sized narrowness. His broad shoulders flex and shift under your knees, his river damp curls sliding through your hold as he licks you open, and when you arch into the wet heat of his mouth with a silent cry, he swallows everything you give him with a rumbled groan.

His skin is dry and smooth against yours when he fits his solid body between your legs, reaching down to guide himself into a place reserved just for him with slick, filling stretch and he murmurs his secret wants directly into your skin, a push inside you for each one.

“Wish you could have all my babies. Make you the prettiest momma.”

He breathes against the valley of your breasts, into the hollow under your ear, and against your mouth, just before he captures it with a kiss. His words dripping with reverence, you keen underneath him, arching your back to force him deeper.

“I wish I could too,” you softly moan. “I want it.”

Blatant hunger slips into his movements, harsh, filling punches of his hips bringing you up and over the edge, and your mouths stay together in a humid press until you feel him come, his need spilling thick along the inside of your thigh.

Afterwards, his sated body relaxes on top of yours.

Your fingers collect his curls in a rhythmic, soothing motion, following the timing of your chest rising and falling beneath his cheek. His breath puffs across your skin, and your eyes flutter shut, the heat of the afternoon lulling you to sleep.

Twitching lightly in his sleep, his hold on you tightens and the corner of your mouth lifts. His weighted body covering yours like a shield, a gentle breeze stirs the stagnant air around you, and a tendril of a thought slips through your sleepy mind.

Heaven.

–

Your fingers dance along the produce in the pantry, your lips moving silently as you keep count in your head. More food than you could have ever dreamed of when you first broached the plan, the produce now crowds out the canned goods, and shifting in your crouch, you let the sun into the small space, narrowing your eyes in focus.

The back door to the cabin bangs open, startling you, and June launches into a responding cry seconds later, just as Joel rounds the doorway. Before you can stand, he hooks his hand around your elbow, tugging you up.

“Go to the bedroom. Now.”

“What –”

“Someone’s comin’. I heard 'em’ in the woods. A couple of ‘em at least.”

Stomach bottoming out in immediate panic, you scramble up and head to your bedroom, scooping up June along the way. Bouncing her lightly in your arms to quell her cries, a cold sweat breaks out along your back, and crossing the hallway, you head for the predetermined snug spot in the corner next to the dresser, grabbing your gun from the top drawer.

“You stay until I tell you it’s safe, okay? Don’t move from this spot. You got your gun? It loaded?”

The serious, frantic edge to his words has you answering him immediately, your back pressing against the wall as you slide down into place. Giving you both one last look to ensure you’re where you need to be, he rounds the corner and disappears from sight, and you have to fight the lurch your body involuntarily makes in an effort to follow him.

You’ve practiced for this exact scenario multiple times, but it still doesn’t make it any easier. During practice, there is no cold terror at what could happen. During practice, it was easy to go through every movement with calm motions.

Now, you try to inhale deep, steady breaths in an attempt to slow down the pounding of your heart, knowing June will sense your unease.

“Shhh, baby. It’s okay. I know, I know. It’s okay.” Your voice comes out low and smooth, your shaking hand betraying your nerves as it rubs circles over her back.

Straining to hear over her hiccuping whimpers, you try to listen outside the bedroom.

Nothing, for what seems like ages, and then:

“STOP.”

Flinching when Joel’s voice breaks through, you shut your eyes tight, reflexively tightening your hold on June’s small body.

–

“Put your hands up.”

A lone woman emerging from the tree line halts mid step, reluctantly pulling her hand away from the pistol at her hip.

Weathered and weary looking, she looks almost frail in her slight build and Joel scans her for any more visible weapons. His own gun gripped tight with the butt of it against his shoulder, he slowly advances, his finger resting alongside the trigger.

“What do you want?”

“I was just passing by and I saw your cabin,” she calls out. “Thought I might see if anyone was home.”

“Bullshit. You can’t see this place from the road.”

A beat of weighted silence fills the grassy space between them, and the woman changes her story.

“Fine. We –”

“We? How many?”

Her eyebrow lifts, along with the corner of her mouth. Avoiding the question, she continues. “We saw your garden. Thought maybe we would help ourselves. Especially now, since it’s just you out here.” Direct and laced with the barest taunt, her tone implies the easy confidence of someone who has the upperhand.

Reluctantly shifting his gaze from her, he scans the trees, searching. A branch cracks somewhere within the woods, something shifting in the distance, and when he steps in the direction of it, she brings his attention back to her.

“It looked like you have enough to share.”

“We don’t.”

An instinctual reaction tied to his days as a raider, Joel’s mind digs deep for the old lines he used to say. Lie about your numbers. Lie.

“Don’t think about tryin’ anything’ either,” he asserts. “Heard you the second you walked onto this land. We got eyes on you from all sides.”

She lets her head fall to the side, frowning in skepticism. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

She takes a step forward, and Joel’s heart pounds in his chest, his face outwardly calm as his finger shifts to rest over the trigger.

“You got enough ammo to kill us all?” She tests the waters, taking another small step forward, but when Joel trains the barrel of his gun on her and presses forward, she stops.

“Listen.” Her face steels, hardening. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You can let us take what we need and we’ll leave after that, or we can kill you and then take what we need. Your choice.”

His jaw ticks, anger rising in his chest. “You’re not takin’ a goddamn thing. Get the fuck out of here before –”

A faint cry pierces the air, and he freezes, the woman doing the same. Joel’s body goes rigid at the sound of June’s cry, the woman’s eyes widening, and she peers over his shoulder at the cabin.

June’s cries stutter for a moment before picking up in volume, and he pictures the exact face he knows she’s making. He knows that cry: an upset one that won’t settle any time soon. His heart lurches, an instinctual pull flooding through him to leave and soothe her.

He pulls up straight instead, adjusting his aim square at the woman’s face.

Her hands quickly raise higher, this time facing outwards in supplication. “Look, I didn’t know.” Gesturing towards the woods, her tone softens. “We have kids too. The food is for them.”

Before Joel can move, a horse emerges from between the trees. And then another, then another. Trying to keep them all in his sight, the group collects in the area in front of him; June’s cries growing louder in their pitch from inside the cabin.

“Please,” one of the riders says. A woman, with a small child seated in front of her in the saddle. “If you have anything –”

“I already said we don’t.”

The coldness in his statement dies as his eyes focus on the kid’s face. While the rest of the group has their eyes on Joel, the child isn’t paying attention to him and his gun. Their eyes are solely fixed around the back of the cabin and have been since they emerged from the woods. On the garden, just beyond.

“Please,” the rider begs one more time, quieter this time. “Please. We’ll take anything.”

Joel’s eyes linger on the kid’s slight frame, on the sunken rings underneath their eyes. Their face looks haunted, as if resigned to their hunger, and scolding himself for even wavering this long, he’s still thinking when the group's collective gaze shifts to something behind him.

A door opening, then closing.

Hearing the crunch of footsteps behind him, he sighs deeply, frustration evident in his disappointed tone.

“Go back inside.”

–

June quieted and left in the cabin, he burns next to you when you come to join him.

“I heard everything through the window,” you explain. “I figured if you haven’t shot by now, it would be safe to come out.”

A tension thrumming between your bodies in the air, you ignore the heat of his scolding stare.

“Kids, Joel.” The word is spoken to him like a plea, and his jaw ticks before you take a look at the group for yourself.

The first people you’ve seen in over a year.

Worse for the wear with the sallow features of the starved, they look less…intimidating than you expected them to be. None of them have that shifty, hardened edge that you’d come to recognize in the QZ, nor the menacing, cruel stare of the people you’d met on the road before. They don’t look like how you imagine the other intruder looked either, the one you still see in your nightmares sometimes.

Instead, they just look…tired. Hungry. The children seem dirty, but cared for. The mothers protect them in their slouched hold, the men remaining frozen under Joel’s command to stay still, his gun trained on the woman closest to him.

You picture the garden you heard them ask for: the basket of carrots still sitting in the sun, the squash vines spilling over the fence. You know they could kill you right here on the spot - but they don’t. They could have come in with guns drawn because you know they have them, but Instead they wait, trying to protect their kids.

“I’m not gonna say it again, honey,” Joel seethes, measured and low. “Go back inside.”

“We’ll trade you.”

A voice comes from a woman, clearly the leader of the group with the way they all keep glancing her way in silent deference, waiting. For someone staring down the barrel of a gun, she appears calm, her expression a practiced blank slate. Her age hard to determine due to the dust covering her skin, her voice is clear and measured, like she’s used to negotiating.

“You don’t look like you have anythin’ to trade,” Joel replies coolly.

Thinking of your dwindling supplies outside of food, you rest your hand on his arm. “What’ve you got?”

“What do you need?” she replies.

Joel’s head tilts in warning, his feet shifting to further solidify his stance. “Answer her question.”

Her eyes run down the length of you, taking in your measure for a moment. “Got some liquor if you want it.” She gestures towards a saddle bag with a tilt of her chin, but Joel is already shaking his head.

“Already got some.”

She quirks her eyebrow up. “Fine. Some medicine?”

“What kind?” you ask.

“Painkillers. Ibuprofen. Tylenol. Might help with –”

“Already got some of that too,” he cuts her off.

Sighing, the woman appears to think. Glancing at a man to the left of her, they have a silent conversation for a moment before she looks over at the garden. Staring at it for a moment, she brings her eyes back to you.

“What about a horse?”

Joel’s jaw tightens in distrust. “Like you’re just gonna give us a horse. How much food do you think you’re gonna get from us?”

She shrugs, ignoring his anger to focus directly on you. “It’s yours, if you give us enough food for all of us. Not just the kids. Respectfully, it looks like you have plenty. Certainly enough for two people and a baby.”

The assumption in her tone and the challenge in mentioning your true numbers makes Joel bristle, but the woman doesn’t back down. If anything, she straightens taller, rising to his unspoken challenge.

Tough and firm, she waits.

Leaning towards him, you lower your voice so only he can hear it. “I can give them some of the –”

He cuts you off with an immediate glare. “We need that food. You know it.”

“Yea, but we don’t need all of it. We have some to spare.”

He stares at you in stern, silent disagreement, and you continue. “I was just in the pantry. We can’t eat it all, Joel. I know what’s in there. Trust me. Those kids need to eat. They can have those carrots that I just picked, and –”

His eyes flit quickly back and forth between the group and your face, not wanting to keep his attention from them for too long.

“It’s a horse, Joel. A horse.”

He narrows his eyes at you, a war within them. You know he knows the value of what they are offering. Eventually, he relents.

“We ain’t givin’ up our fresh stuff. If we have anything – anything - it’s gonna be the old stuff.”

Thinking of the sallow child in the saddle, you silently challenge him, but he stays resolute in his expression.

“Fine,” you back down. “The old stuff.”

“Some of the old stuff. Not all of it.”

In agreement, you face the group again.

“Don’t move,” Joel instructs. Flicking his head in the direction of the cabin, he motions to you. “She can get you some things, and then you need to be on your way.”

“What about the horse?” the woman asks. “One of us has to move if you want it. Where should we tie it up?”

He thinks for a moment, keeping his gun trained on her. Picking a spot a ways away from the cabin, he jerks his chin towards it.

“Leave ‘em over there.”

–

Two faded floral pillowcases in your grip filled with what you could spare, you approach the group with careful and cautious steps, Joel taking a couple of slow strides to the left to keep you in his sights.

“Are you okay?” the woman murmurs quietly when you reach her, glancing at Joel.

Looking at her up close, there is a softness to her that you couldn’t see from far away. Her skin is weathered but still youthful, her long brown hair tied in a loose knot at the nape of her neck and you recognize concern held in her gaze.

You frown, not understanding.

“That man there,” she tilts her chin at Joel. “He seems like a hard one. Is he keeping you here?”

Right when you’re about to defend him, June cries again, making her displeasure at being left alone again known.

Leveling you with a look, the woman repeats herself, this time more direct. “I mean it. Are you okay? Do you need us to help you?”

The implication is all over her face: a hard, threatening man all alone in the woods with a young woman. Holding her captive, forcing himself on her. A grim reality you’d seen plenty of times before, you understand her concern. Still, your response is a cool one, protective in your own right. “I’m fine. He’s just protecting us, like you’re doing with your own people.”

She studies your face for the truth. “He hasn’t hurt you or the baby, has he?”

“Of course not.” You understand her questioning, you do. Softening the edge to your response, you add, “He’s - he’s mine. We’re together. That’s our daughter crying.”

Her body language seems to relax along with her frown and she nods. Taking the sacks from you, she turns to pack them into the saddle bag of the horse next to her.

“Must have been scary, giving birth out here all alone.”

You huff, a small smile at the edge of your lips to disguise the way the memory makes you swallow hard. “Yea, it wasn’t ideal. We were lucky.”

“I helped her do the same a couple months ago.” The woman tilts her chin at another woman in the back of the group, and for the first time, you notice a small bundle wrapped tight to her chest. Hidden, protected from the elements. “You heal okay?”

“It was…rough, but I’m good now.”

Seeming satisfied in her questioning, she digs around in the pouch for a moment. Fishing out a jar, she hands it to you.

“I’m not sure how old your daughter is, but…here. Just in case you need it.”

A bottle of infant Tylenol being pressed into your hand, you look up to ask if she’s sure, but she cuts you off.

“Listen. We’re headed West. Towards Ja –”

“Jackson?” you interrupt, and her eyebrows raise. Joel’s impatience radiating from his position behind you, you ignore it. “Someone came by a couple of months ago and tried to take what we had. Joel took care of it. We found the map in his pocket.”

She smirks. “So he’s real protective of you then.”

“Is it real? Jackson?”

Unsure if you should be prolonging this conversation or even informing them you know the way they’re going, you can’t help the question spilling from your mouth. Curiosity pulled at you for months after you found that map, the destination now even more intriguing after seeing children in the saddle.

“Far as we know,” she replies, stuffing the bags away. “We heard from someone that it's safe. Safer than a QZ, though that doesn’t say much. They’re trying to keep it quiet, so they aren’t overrun with people, but…” her eyes flick towards the cabin. “It’s supposed to be off the grid. A place for families.”

Joel grits out your name behind you, and keeping the children in the forefront of your mind, you rush to say goodbye, giving her a warning.

“You can’t stay in the area or he will shoot you. I promise you, he will.” Clear and direct with your words, you think you see something of understanding laced with respect cross her features. Before you can stop yourself, you add in haste, “There is another cabin about two miles from here though. We’ve been in it, and it’s clean and safe for you all to stay the night. You can eat, get some rest.”

Her shrewd gaze takes you in for a moment, and you squeeze the medicine held in your grip, praying you won’t come to regret what you just said.

The edge of her mouth lifts in a small smile, and you let out a breath just as Joel says your name again, this time in a stern clip.

“Tess,” she says. Acknowledging the way Joel just told her your name, she offers her own. “My name is Tess. And thank you.”

The two of you coming to a silent understanding, you take a step back as she swings up onto the horse next to her, joining a rider already in the saddle. Motioning to the group with her hand, they all start to move.

“Thanks,” she says to Joel as she passes, but he stays silent.

Leveling her with a frown, he keeps his gun trained on her until they disappear into the trees.

–

Backing into the cabin to ensure it stays clear, Joel only lowers his weapon after the door is closed. You follow him cautiously into the bedroom, waiting for him to erupt.

You can tell he wants to, a tight bundle of anger set between his shoulder blades. His body is stiff as he picks June up to make sure she’s okay, and all the while, he keeps his back to you, as if trying to stay calm in her presence.

Her safety confirmed, he hands her to you before stalking back out to head straight for the traps and even after checking those, he stays on the front porch with his rifle, waiting.

Busying yourself with calming June down and eventually feeding her dinner, his anger with you weighs heavily in the space. Peeking every so often at his stern profile through the window, you put June to bed for the night, avoiding him as long as possible.

Afraid of the disappointment you’ll see on his face, you linger by June’s cradle long after she falls asleep, questioning your decisions over and over again in your mind.

In the end, you keep coming back to her milk cheeked profile as she sleeps.

The clothes you piece together for her. The lack of medicine should she get sick. The even worse situation she’d be in if either of you did. The people that came by today, the conflict that was avoided because they were reasonable.

You were right to give those children food. You know you were. If that had been June in the saddle, you would have done anything to get her food — including making a promise not to come back, especially knowing another child was depending on that source for their survival.

It required belief in people instead of immediate distrust, and though you couldn’t explain how you knew, you just knew they could be trusted.

Leaving her to join him on the porch, you’re expecting a calmer discussion with the hours that have passed, but he is still angry. Angrier than you’ve seen him in a long time.

Part nervous, part sorry, and part wanting to defend yourself, you tuck your arms around your torso and step outside to where his profile greets you.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t just let them go, Joel. I couldn’t not give them anything. They were starving.”

He says nothing, keeping his eyes resolutely on the woods in front of him.

“Please come inside. They aren’t coming back.”

He faces you, his voice cutting. “And how do you know that, huh?”

You swallow hard, bracing yourself. “I told them about the other cabins. I told them they could stay the night there and get some rest if they needed – “

“What the hell is wrong with you?” His eyes flash in the darkness, his expression twisted with frustration. “We don’ want them to stay close. They need to move on, so we know they aren’t comin’ back for what we have.”

“They aren’t.”

“You think just because they said so, they won’t? You can’t just trust what people tell you. I know it’s been awhile, but I thought you woulda remembered that.”

Hurt cuts through you at his dismissive tone. This version of Joel is one you haven’t seen in a long time, a shadow of the man he was before he met you and it hurts, to be back where you were. To have him look at you the way he is. Blinking back tears, regret starts to seep into your mind, but you fight against it.

You know he’s just protecting his own, and you are one of those people. His.

“The woman said they are headed to Jackson.”

At the mention of the town, he looks back at you.

“Did you see the kids with them? One of the riders had a baby, around the same size as June. That woman – Tess? She helped deliver it.”

Chastened, he looks down at the ground at your mention of that time.

“They wouldn’t start trouble with that many kids around. I know it.”

“They gotta feed them kids, don’t they?” He delivers his statement bluntly, looking up to hold eye contact with you. Weariness rings his eyes, his tone no less scolding for it. “You know just as much as I do that you would do anything for June. Anything. Including lyin’ to someone just to turn around and steal what they have.”

The truth in his words hangs heavy in the air between the two of you, and you press on.

“I gave them ample food. They have no reason to come back. I even put some meat in there –”

At this, he stands, outraged. His jaw ticks as he glares at you for a long moment, eventually letting out a huff of disbelief.

“Hell, why not some ammo too?”

Shaking his head, he glances away.

Disappointment pours off his body, his back to you and a tear slips down over your cheek. All the words you practiced saying to him die on your tongue, every good point turning to ash under the heat of his anger. You understand his worry because it’s also your own worry, but…the way the woman looked at you, the way those women held their children, the hope held in the woman’s eyes as she talked about Jackson?

They weren’t coming back. You knew they weren’t.

You’d thought he’d at least be happy about the horse, but the thought of another mouth to feed keeps your own closed.

Sitting back down, he flexes his hold on his rifle, resting it across his lap. His eyes won’t meet yours.

“I’m gonna stay up and keep watch. Just in case they do decide to come back. You should just…go to bed.”

All of the fight sucked out of you, you nod at his dismissal and turn, going back inside.

–

His disappointment in you eats at him.

Flares bright as he sits up all night, waiting for their shadowy figures to reappear. Simmers as he hears you soothe June back to sleep after feeding her. Lingers with a fade in his chest as the sun lightens the horizon, inky black turning into pinkish dawn.

He knows you saw those children and gave without hesitation, thinking of June. He knows that. But he’s also thinking of June. Always. Equal parts impressed and frustrated by the hope that still exists inside you even after you’ve seen what the outside world is still capable of, he doesn’t know how you can still trust. You still give; you’re still kind.

He appreciates those qualities in you, but to give away your rations and to take a gamble on them not coming back is more than letting your hope win. It’s dangerous, and he wishes you could see that.

He knows now that this will happen again. Clearly a route marked on that map, it’ll be used in the coming months by other people. The fact that they could see your garden was bad enough, but the fact that it was a group of people was even worse.

He can defend you against one man, but a group? There are limits to his skills; he knows more than anyone.

You can’t stay here anymore.

He fights against the knowledge, the memory of Sarah now woven in with the surroundings. So much more than a place for the three of you to stay hidden from the world, he sees it as a place where the four of you thrived: the ghost of Sarah visiting him freely here, as a welcomed presence. Finally not something he pushed to the darkest, safest corners of his mind as a means to keep her memory away from what the world turned into.

Even in death, he protected her.

He knows she’ll follow him wherever he goes, but that doesn’t solve the problem of wanting to be the father he’s got the chance to be with June as he is here — not as who he’d have to be, if you left.

His palm running along the smooth barrel of the gun, he stares into the dark woods and keeps watch, his weary eyes ringed with the need for sleep.

Jackson.

Responsible for your safety and well being, does he take the gamble and bring you there? Does he find another spot hidden deeper in the woods, hoping that one won’t be discovered? One requires faith in the words of other people, the other requires faith only in his own skills. After everything he’s seen and done, he knows which way he wants to lean…but still, he thinks.

Acknowledging the strength in numbers that you’ve been missing this whole time, a group encountering this place was a liability, but to be part of a group - that was a strength. Resources to help if June should get sick, other people around to take care of her if either of you should. Clothes, shoes, a shelter that isn’t slowing falling apart.

Those were just the basics of human necessity, but other things worm their way into his mind. The things not needed to live, but needed to thrive. Socialization, a community. An image of Sarah on the soccer field projects against the dark field in front of him; all grin and bright eyes at sleepovers, running around the park he used to bring her to when she wanted to play with her friends.

Any QZ that he’s been in was never the suburb full of children that he raised Sarah in, but at least there were other kids. Other people. A means to provide more than what you could, here. And with Jackson being a place being off the grid…there was a possibility it was better than a QZ. The world-worn cynic in him knew it was a long shot, but still.

He pictures your shadowed face in the darkness, as you argued with him. The earnestness in your eyes, the words you used to try to make him understand your reasoning behind trusting them. He was too mad then to listen, but now…he understands why.

Not only your belief in those people, but your belief in general. Understands that you’ve always needed to believe in something, in order for any of this to work.

“No matter what, you keep finding something to fight for.”

He said that to you in bed one night, speaking of you and June, and he thinks about how you’ve always believed it in the same thing your own way: your something to fight for was a future still possible.

One that you’ve shown him to be true.

Rising stiff limbed from his position on the porch, it’s almost light when he wanders back into the silent cabin.

He tries to be quiet in the kitchen as he digs through the drawer for the map, and finding it, places it on the counter.

Making his way to the bedroom, he crawls into the space behind your curved spine and tucks himself around it, holding you close.

In your sleep, you reach for him and grasping your hand in his, he fits the bridge of his nose into the soft nape of your neck and closes his eyes.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 6 months

Note

look Hal, as much as I fucking DESPISE soap’s death.. i am in need of a fic where price delivers his wife his tags. pls, i need to be hurt again by you 🥲🥲🥲 (ik reqs are closed honestly im just hoping to put an idea in your head fjfhsjfh sorry)

A short drabble to make your pain worse, dear anon:

You stare blankly at the finely dressed man on the doorstep, a black leather box in his hands.

It isn’t a stare that can be defined on any level of emotion—nothing shown on a face in a time such as this can be. Some instances transcend any known sense and logic; all perceived ability to understand leaks out of a brain like water in a blown dam.

There wasn’t an explanation for this.

John looked on, and he started to speak as if you’d never known each other. As if your Johnny hadn't had him and the rest over for your engagement party—as if he hadn’t watched you pour him tea and smile softly in thanks as Johnny’s arm snaked around your shoulders.

“On behalf of the 23rd Regiment of the Special Air Service,” you don’t even blink. “I, Captain John Price of the 22nd, offer my—”

“Stop.” Your voice is shaky, and your hands are clammy on the door knob. The man can’t look at you. He clears his throat, blue eyes blinking at you; so similar to Johnny’s and yet never the same at all.

“...My deepest condolences—”

“John!” Your voice moves in a sharp yell, taking a single step forward. “Stop it!”

A heavy silence falls like a hammer.

Your lips open and close, stuttering. Where were the words? What could you say? The tightness of your chest crashes down on you; a cinder block of ruthless realization.

Your husband was never coming home.

Hand snapping up to your mouth, you stifle a loud sob that rips through your lungs, shoulders hunching in.

“Where is he?” You gasp, tears flying down your face. “John, dammit, where is he?!”

For once in your life, of all the times you’d spoken to him, the Captain had no answer. Blue eyes stay stuck on you, box outstretched on hands that you see quiver for a moment—a clench of his bearded jaw and a movement of his head to the side.

Like some cruel joke, you laugh through the bouts of sobs, unbelieving.

“John,” you plead, barely able to see or get the words out. “Please tell me where he is. He has to come back home to me. John,” you move forward, grasping his shoulder, digging your nails in as if to wrench soil out of a burial plot. It’s frantic how you speak—all gasps and desperate whines to a God who isn’t listening to you. “I need him. H-he promised me he would come back. I-I…” You struggle to breathe.

“Love,” John grits out, forcing his tongue to move. His eyes are pained, but never, never as much as yours are. It’s said on a low and defeated breath. “I couldn’t save him.”

You collapse as his arm, which snaps to circle you and tries to keep you up as you wail in agony. Tears stain John’s uniform and the neighbors come outside at the ruckus of a woman who just had her heart ripped out with a rusted knife.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your hair, throat tight. “It’s all my fault, I’m sorry.”

But you can’t answer, because the only thing you have left of Johnny are pieces of blood-splattered metal and memories.

And one day, you’d forget the sound of his voice—the way he touched you; how it felt to be kissed and held and loved so fiercely as if on fire. A blaze of devotion, yourself covered in gasoline; eager to be burned by a man you’d skin yourself for only three more minutes with, if that was all that could be spared.

You plead for it in John’s arms—scream for it. Three more minutes. Three more seconds.

If not that, then just three last kisses.

Johnny was dead, and everyone, especially the man trying to keep you from hitting the ground; taking the hits you lay on his arm numbly, knew that you had died with him.

The tags of a man long past glint in the setting sun.

#cod mwiii spoilers #mwiii spoilers #halcyone answers #cod x reader #cod #cod x you #x female reader #call of duty x you #soap call of duty #soap mactavish #soap cod #john soap mactavish #soap x you #soap x reader #cod x female reader #tw death #tw blood

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rebeccathenaturalist · 7 months

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Existence Value: Why All of Nature is Important Whether We Can Use it or Not

I spend a lot of time around other nature nerds. We’re a bunch of people from varying backgrounds, places, and generations who all find a deep well of inspiration within the natural world. We’re the sort of people who will happily spend all day outside enjoying seeing wildlife and their habitats without any sort of secondary goal like fishing, foraging, etc. (though some of us engage in those activities, too.) We don’t just fall in love with the places we’ve been, either, but wild locales that we’ve only ever seen in pictures, or heard of from others. We are curators of existence value.

Existence value is exactly what it sounds like–something is considered important and worthwhile simply because it is. It’s at odds with how a lot of folks here in the United States view our “natural resources.” It’s also telling that that is the term most often used to refer collectively to anything that is not a human being, something we have created, or a species we have domesticated, and I have run into many people in my lifetime for whom the only value nature has is what money can be extracted from it. Timber, minerals, water, meat (wild and domestic), mushrooms, and more–for some, these are the sole reasons nature exists, especially if they can be sold for profit. When questioning how deeply imbalanced and harmful our extractive processes have become, I’ve often been told “Well, that’s just the way it is,” as if we shall be forever frozen in the mid-20th century with no opportunity to reimagine industry, technology, or uses thereof.

Moreover, we often assign positive or negative value to a being or place based on whether it directly benefits us or not. Look at how many people want to see deer and elk numbers skyrocket so that they have more to hunt, while advocating for going back to the days when people shot every gray wolf they came across. Barry Holstun Lopez’ classic Of Wolves and Men is just one of several in-depth looks at how deeply ingrained that hatred of the “big bad wolf” is in western mindsets, simply because wolves inconveniently prey on livestock and compete with us for dwindling areas of wild land and the wild game that sustained both species’ ancestors for many millennia. “Good” species are those that give us things; “bad” species are those that refuse to be so complacent.

Even the modern conservation movement often has to appeal to people’s selfishness in order to get us to care about nature. Look at how often we have to argue that a species of rare plant is worth saving because it might have a compound in it we could use for medicine. Think about how we’ve had to explain that we need biodiverse ecosystems, healthy soil, and clean water and air because of the ecosystem services they provide us. We measure the value of trees in dollars based on how they can mitigate air pollution and anthropogenic climate change. It’s frankly depressing how many people won’t understand a problem until we put things in terms of their own self-interest and make it personal. (I see that less as an individual failing, and more our society’s failure to teach empathy and emotional skills in general, but that’s a post for another time.)

Existence value flies in the face of all of those presumptions. It says that a wild animal, or a fungus, or a landscape, is worth preserving simply because it is there, and that is good enough. It argues that the white-tailed deer and the gray wolf are equally valuable regardless of what we think of them or get from them, in part because both are keystone species that have massive positive impacts on the ecosystems they are a part of, and their loss is ecologically devastating.

But even those species whose ecological impact isn’t quite so wide-ranging are still considered to have existence value. And we don’t have to have personally interacted with a place or its natural inhabitants in order to understand their existence value, either. I may never get to visit the Maasai Mara in Kenya, but I wish to see it as protected and cared for as places I visit regularly, like Willapa National Wildlife Refuge. And there are countless other places, whose names I may never know and which may be no larger than a fraction of an acre, that are important in their own right.

I would like more people (in western societies in particular) to be considering this concept of existence value. What happens when we detangle non-human nature from the automatic value judgements we place on it according to our own biases? When we question why we hold certain values, where those values came from, and the motivations of those who handed them to us in the first place, it makes it easier to see the complicated messes beneath the simple, shiny veneer of “Well, that’s just the way it is.”

And then we get to that most dangerous of realizations: it doesn’t have to be this way. It can be different, and better, taking the best of what we’ve accomplished over the years and creating better solutions for the worst of what we’ve done. In the words of Rebecca Buck–aka Tank Girl–“We can be wonderful. We can be magnificent. We can turn this shit around.”

Let’s be clear: rethinking is just the first step. We can’t just uproot ourselves from our current, deeply entrenched technological, social, and environmental situation and instantly create a new way of doing things. Societal change takes time; it takes generations. This is how we got into that situation, and it’s how we’re going to climb out of it and hopefully into something better. Sometimes the best we can do is celebrate small, incremental victories–but that’s better than nothing at all.

Nor can we just ignore the immensely disproportionate impact that has been made on indigenous and other disadvantaged communities by our society (even in some cases where we’ve actually been trying to fix the problems we’ve created.) It does no good to accept nature’s inherent value on its own terms if we do not also extend that acceptance throughout our own society, and to our entire species as a whole.

But I think ruminating on this concept of existence value is a good first step toward breaking ourselves out first and foremost. And then we go from there.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

#nature #natural history #ecology #wildlife #animals #environment #environmentalism #conservation #existence value #deep ecology #science #scicomm #environmental philosophy #climate change

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celtic-crossbow · 8 months

Text

Help Me Hold Onto You

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (Ended relationship)

Setting: Alexandria after 6 year jump

Warnings: Angst, More angst, No happy here, mentions of pregnancy

Summary: Daryl comes back after his 6 year absence to talk to you. He receives quite the shock.

A/N: Feeling blah. Needed to channel negative energy. Sorry!

*Click here to be added to taglists.

Moodboard by @dannyo000

Daryl gnawed on the skin of his thumb while staring at the edge of the crop rows. Michonne had told him you would be there and that he should really go see you. She was, in fact, rather insistent. He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. Would you even want to see him? Things hadn’t exactly ended amicably when you had stumbled upon him with Leah. Even allowing the other woman’s name to occupy his thoughts for a mere second brought an onslaught of guilt and self-loathing. He had been caught in a moment of weakness, not putting a stop to Leah’s advances when it was your lips he craved.

‘Idiot.’ With a heavy sigh, he trudged forward, scanning over the individuals hard at work maintaining the surplus of crops in the community. It was your hair he noticed first, no longer flowing wildly down your back but cropped off just below your shoulders. His eyes studied the visible skin below the spaghetti straps of the sundress you were wearing. He had always envisioned you in a dress. It was not the right color and looked to be a little longer than the one his imagination supplied, but it was hard to tell while you were kneeling in front of the tomato plants.

The familiar spread of freckles were shining with a sheen of sweat from work in the midday sun. With narrowing eyes, he took in the way your shoulder blades seemed more pronounced and your arms were much slimmer than the last time he saw you. He could see the muscles flex beneath your skin as you dug in the soil. Even from his limited vantage point, you appeared…frail.

Forced to steel his nerves, he stepped closer, only coming to a stop when a few feet separated you. “Hey, Y/N.” The archer eyed you carefully, even took a step back when your movements froze and a visible tension seized across your body.

“What are you doing here, Dixon?”

Your cold tone forced his heart to freeze and drop into his stomach, twisting a knot that made him nauseous. What the hell had Michonne been thinking? Daryl closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose. Words were failing him, any and all logical responses lost in the tension. “How, uh…how are ya?”

“Fine. You done?”

You had yet to move, to even look at him. He had definitively fucked this up royally. One kiss—a kiss he neither wanted nor reciprocated—had destroyed this precious relationship that had taken years to build. The archer sighed. “No. M’not.”

You stood then—with quite a bit of difficulty, he noted—but kept your back to him. “Just save it. I’m not interested.” Your gardening gloves were peeled from your hands and tossed roughly to the dirt. “Unless you’ve got other business here, you can go.” He watched you pivot away from him, but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.

“Damnit, woman, m’trying t’ fix this!” Daryl was careful not to raise his voice, to not be so quick to anger; something he was still learning to control after all these years.

Your steps halted, eyes hesitantly peering back at him from over your shoulder. Pale skin gave way to dark circles around dull orbs. You really didn’t look well. He opened his mouth to inquire and was quick to close it when those same eyes narrowed angrily.

“There’s nothing to fix, Dixon.”

It was more than clear that you didn’t want him there. He could feel the anger permiating the air in waves, the knot in his gut twisting tighter. He was treading dangerous ground. He could push you, say what he needed to say and hope for the best. Or he could obey your wishes and go, maybe try again in the future. Maybe not.

You were still watching him as the breeze picked up, cool but not chilling the early autumn air. He was still weighing his options when your shorter hair blew to the side and revealed the back of your neck. Light reflected off a silver chain there and hope rekindled in his chest. You were still wearing the necklace he had gifted you during one of your nights on the riverbank.

“Y/N, I—”

You rounded on him so quickly that he stumbled back a step, hands out in a placating manner as you reached for him and shoved him back further. “You stupid, selfish, cowardly pig! How dare you! I can't believe you came here now with this shit!” Your shoves continued but Daryl had stopped blocking, taking each hit with an unreadable expression. You stopped, breathing heavily, and stepped back to throw up your arms in exasperation.

“Y/N.” It was almost a whisper, so quiet and full of emotion that if you hadn’t been so angry with him, you would have gathered him into your arms and never let go.

But you were angry. “What?” You bellowed. “What do you want?”

Daryl couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. His heart was slamming a tattoo into his ribs. The world around him was blurry, voices fuzzy like being underwater. Except yours. Except you. The archer finally managed to bring you into focus, just as realization of what you had revealed became evident on your pale face.

Yes, you did indeed look thin and sickly but that wasn’t why Daryl couldn’t seem to look away. He couldn’t even seem to blink. Your dress, loose as it was, still managed to hug your swollen stomach. The bump was not large but still evident, your small hands now twisting into the fabric of the dress nervously.

His mouth moved but he couldn’t force his voice to work, so he clamped his lips shut. The anger was still evident in your expression, and he somehow noticed that you were trembling but he couldn’t look away from the area beneath your fisted hands.

“How?” Daryl heard the words but didn’t remember speaking. “Ya said ya couldn’t—”

“Does it matter?”

“S’it—” he shifted uncomfortably, pointing and withdrawing only to point again. “S’it mine?” Daryl finally forced his gaze away from your belly to lock eyes with you. It wasn’t long before your anger dissipated and morphed into something else, tears springing to your lashes. “Y/N.”

You flinched but he needed an answer and he needed it now.

The people had heard the commotion and hushed whispers were hissing all around the two of you. Daryl could see Michonne from the corner of his eye. She had kept her distance but had apparently wanted to stay in the vicinity in case things got heated. The archer couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t still end that way.

“It is.” You finally acknowledged, inciting a collective gasp from the onlookers. Your hands had dropped to your sides to take up twisting the fabric there.

Michonne stepped forward after a few more unnerving moments of silence, motioning toward the small crowd that had gathered. “Okay, everyone! Nothing more to see! Let’s get back to work!”

The two of you remained stoic as the people dispersed back to their activities, neither moving a muscle even as Alexandria’s leader stepped up to plant herself between you. “I think this should continue somewhere a little more private.” When neither indicated you had even heard her, Michonne leaned into Daryl’s line of sight to catch his eye. He seemed to snap out of his trance and gave a jerky nod.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” You replied quietly when the same was done to you. You swayed a little when you took the first step. Only through sheer force of will did Daryl not reach out to steady you. It didn’t matter. Michonne had already taken hold of your upper arm.

“Can you make it there?” The sword-wielder asked with obvious concern. “I can end this right now.”

A rush of panic surged through the archer’s chest, nearly suffocating him where he stood. What was wrong with you? Was something wrong with the baby? His baby? “I’ll make sure she’s alrigh’.” With a deep breath, he stepped forward and reached for you, careful not to touch. Neither of you needed that right now. His hand hovered as Michonne held fast.

“Y/N?” The other woman questioned. You only spared Daryl a glance before facing your friend and nodding. Michonne returned the motion and let go to step back out of the way. Just as you started to leave, Daryl staying close by, Michonne called out his name. It was a clear warning.

Take it easy on her.

He nodded without looking back and continued to follow. The community looked so different compared to his last visit. The rebuilt homes were less alluring, most having been constructed on top of anything that had been left of the previous structure. The place still had its appeal but it gave off more of a farmland vibe now than a prestigious community.

The tension had seemed to fizzle out along with your energy. You walked slowly at his side, shoulders slumped and head down. Your face was hidden by a curtain of hair when he risked a sidelong glance. Daryl half wondered if you were even paying attention to where you were leading him. Just as he opened his mouth to ask, you pivoted to the left and crossed in front of him to ascend the few steps of a porch. He followed close behind but chose not to hover. You pulled open the screen door and pushed the main door inward, letting the first slam closed behind you. You had left the other open, for him, he assumed, but it felt wrong to just walk in.

Daryl pulled a cigarette from his vest pocket, along with a book of matches. When the tip had sizzled down and the first draw of smoke entered his lungs, he shook out the match and laid it on the small table next to a chair. Forgoing the obvious seating, the archer hopped up onto the railing and stared into the house. He couldn’t see you but could hear you moving around. You hadn’t come to investigate yet so you had to know he was still there.

Daryl finished his cigarette and stamped it out on the porch, crossing the two steps to the door. The uneasy feeling was still there. It weighed heavily on him that he couldn’t just walk in like he would have before Rick.… Clearing his throat to swallow down the new flood of emotion, he raised a fist to tap on the screen door with his knuckles. You appeared from around a corner at the end of a short hall, briefly locking eyes with him. Averting your gaze, you jerked your head to invite him in.

The home was simple inside, all mismatched furniture and mostly bare walls save for your handheld crossbow hanging next to the door. Looking for too long felt intrusive, so he lowered his eyes to the floor and proceeded down the hall and into what turned out to be the kitchen.

You were standing there, on the opposite side of a small island with one hand wrapped around a glass of water. The other hand was sitting atop your rounded belly, mostly hidden from where he now stood.

A few awkward moments passed with Daryl staring at the part of your hand he could see and you watching him uneasily. “Where’s Dog?”

The archer’s eyes slowly raised to your face, where he found he couldn’t seem to keep them. Leaning against the side of the refrigerator, he began to pick at his palm. “Jude’s got ‘im.” You nodded and took a sip from the glass. More silence followed before Daryl couldn’t wait any longer for the answers he felt so strongly he was owed. “How long?”

“What?”

He didn’t really feel like repeating himself but if he wanted you to answer, he’d have to be willing to communicate past the unsettledness. “How long ya known?”

Your lips formed a small “o” and you nodded. “About three months, I guess.” Your fingertips busied themselves tracing shapes on the countertop.

“An’ ya ne’er thought t’ come tell me?” There was an edge of agitation to his voice. Hell, he was agitated.

“Oh, I thought about it plenty of times.” You snapped, expression hardening when he looked up to meet your eyes. Your hand was wrapped so tightly around the water glass that it was a wonder it hadn’t yet shattered. “But then I always seem to remember that you have plenty of things to occupy your time.”

Daryl wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what you meant. “Ya don’ even know whatcha saw that day.” It was taking some serious control to keep his tone level now. Everything inside him screamed that this would not end well but he pressed on anyway. “Ran away an’ didn’ even gimme a chance t’ ‘splain.”

“I saw plenty, Dixon!” You wisely pushed the glass away from yourself. “That woman’s tongue down your throat! You wanna explain though? Go ahead! Explain!” You hissed, rounding the island. You stopped yourself a few feet from him. “Who is she?”

Daryl was listening as he worked hard to keep himself in check. His temper was itching to flare. “‘er name was Leah. She’s not ‘round anymore, Y/N.”

“So sad for you, I’m sure.” You mocked, crossing your arms. “So what is this? She left you so you thought you could just come back here and we’d pick up where we left off?”

“S’not like tha’.” Daryl sighed. He straightened his stance and dared a step forward, his heart nearly sinking when you stepped back. “There weren’ ne’er nothin’ with ‘er.”

You seemed to consider that, your eyes almost seeming to shake back and forth to hold his gaze. “It doesn’t matter.” You shook your head and started to turn away but the archer quickly crossed the distance between you to lay a hand on your shoulder. Your skin was so cold. You both stared at his hand before he quickly removed it.

“Y/N, I…I stayed away cause I didn’ think ya’d want t’ see me.”

“You were right.” You answered quietly after a few moments. His heart sank. “I didn’t. And I don’t.” You did walk away then but stopped in another doorway, keeping your back to him. “I won’t keep you from your kid, Dixon. They’ll need their father.”

Daryl swallowed hard, feeling a familiar sting in his eyes.

You reached out to place your hand on the doorframe. You looked tired. “I’m due in the winter. You can be a part of this, as much or a little as you want.” You took a step into the room and paused again. “That day in the woods, when I saw you with her… I was coming to tell you about the baby.”

And then you were gone.

The archer sniffed, forcing back the fierce assault of emotion that threatened to take him to his knees. He wiped furiously at his eyes with each arm and paced to one side of the kitchen and then back. He couldn’t leave it like this. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This isn’t what he saw when he would envision your future. It was all wrong. Daryl looked to the door where you had been and took a step, his body freezing afterward when he remembered Michonne had made it clear he shouldn’t upset you.

Clenching his fists, he spun toward the hall and all but ran out the door, slamming it closed behind him.

#murda writes #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon angst #no happy ending #daryl dixon x female reader #Spotify

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gubsbuubs · 3 months

Text

Pacify Her

Pairing: Chip Taylor x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~ 3.5K

Warnings: Drinking, kissing, mention of Chips toxic relationship with Liza, just pure fluff.

Summary: Based on the song Pacify Her by Melanie Martinez. Y/n can’t shake the feeling that she should save her neighbor from his unhappy relationship.

A/N: I hope you all enjoy it, and any and all comments are appreciated - request are open 🍒

With dinner plans bubbling in my mind, I sauntered into my garden, hopping down the porch steps. The herbs at the front were calling my name, so I leaned in close, running my fingers over their leaves.

The earthy aroma of soil and blooms enveloped me in a familiar embrace. The setting sun cast long shadows across the street, illuminating the scene with a golden hue.

From the corner of my eye, I glanced between the boards of the fence that separated my house from the neighboring one.

A flicker of movement caught my attention, and I observed as a figure emerged from the house, shoulders slumped and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn-out denim jeans.

It's Chip Taylor, a familiar face, a man worn down by a relationship that seems to drain him of life.

Chip and his girlfriend Liza had moved in a couple of months ago, but it didn't take long for me to realize that she was not the right fit for him. From the start, their relationship seemed marred by toxic behaviors. Most often, it was Liza's voice that echoed through the thin walls of our homes, sharp and cutting as she berated Chip with insults and name-calling. He remained mostly silent, his voice a rare presence in their heated arguments, as he seemed to absorb her words with a quiet resignation. It was clear that she had a mean streak, and it pained me to see Chip subjected to such mistreatment.

Chip was a great guy in every sense of the word. Despite the storm brewing within his relationship, his true nature shone through like a beacon of warmth in our otherwise quiet neighborhood. He had a heart of gold, always going out of his way to make others feel comfortable and valued. His caring nature was evident in the small gestures he made, whether it was offering a friendly smile or lending a helping hand to a neighbor in need.

Beyond his kindness, Chip possessed a sweetness that was infectious. His laughter was like music, filling the air with joy whenever he allowed himself a moment of genuine mirth.

When Liza's sharp tongue is nowhere to be heard, Chip and I relish in each other's company, sharing stories that bring smiles to our faces. It all began with casual chats over the fence, and then, when my faucet started leaking, he offered his handiwork skills without hesitation.

But it didn't stop there. When my washer broke down or when my garage gate refused to close, Chip was there once again, ready to lend a helping hand.

His willingness to assist never failed to impress me. With each random problem that cropped up around my house, Chip was there, offering his support without expecting anything in return.

Now, I could proudly call Chip my friend.

We often share stories over a cup of coffee on my porch swing. Chip appreciated having someone who listened to him, and there I was, gladly fulfilling that role. It was clear that he valued our time together, and I was more than happy to provide a listening ear.

There's a sense of ease and comfort in our conversations, as if we've known each other for years. Chip's laughter fills the air as we exchange stories and bond over special occasions. He seems to be genuinely happy to be around me.

However, there's a noticeable shift in his demeanor when Liza is around.

As soon as he senses her impending arrival, he quickly makes his way back to his own house, eager to avoid any potential confrontation. It's as if he's a different person when he crosses the fence, leaving behind the warmth and openness.

Having shared my opinions on Liza's actions several times before, Chip knew where I stood—that she was often unkind to him and didn't deserve his unwavering loyalty. Despite my concerns, he seemed trapped in a cycle of toxic behavior, unable to break free from the grip of their troubled relationship.

It was hard to understand why he stayed with Liza despite her hurtful behavior. Perhaps he saw something in her that others couldn't, or maybe he held onto the hope that she would change. Regardless, it was evident to those around them that Chip deserved better.

As I observed Chip's weary demeanor, Liza appeared, her sharp features etched in a perpetual scowl.

I observed her as she made her way towards the street where her parked car stood, with Chip trailing closely behind her. "No! You stay here!" she yelled at him, and he obediently remained, abiding by her command, like a dog.

Liza's departure from the house is met with a palpable sense of relief from Chip, evident in the way his shoulders sag and his expression filled with exhaustion. Oblivious to his mood, Liza prattles on about her plans for the evening as she climbs into her car, blasting music as she drives away with an air of self-importance.

Chip walked toward his house with a heavy heart and a heavy sigh, his steps slow and deliberate. Leaning against the column of his porch, he stared off into the distance, admiring the sunset as it painted the sky with hues of orange and pink. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't even notice me standing just on the other side of the fence, silently watching over him with a mixture of sympathy and concern.

"Hi, stranger," I said softly as I rose from the ground, a handful of fresh herbs cradled in my palm. Peering over the fence, I met Chip's gaze, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Y/N! I didn't see you there," he replied warmly, his eyes meeting mine with a glimmer of appreciation.

I leaned casually against the fence, the scent of basil and rosemary lingering in the air between us. "How's your day been?" I asked, genuinely curious about his well-being.

Chip sighed, his smile fading slightly. "It's been... rough," he admitted, his gaze dropping to the ground briefly before returning to meet mine. "Liza and I had another argument. She stormed. Said she'd be back by Sunday. Doesn't want to deal with me today." His face scrunched up, as if the discomfort from the situation effected his body too.

I nodded sympathetically, understanding the strain in Chip's voice. "I'm sorry to hear that," I said softly, reaching out to gently touch his arm. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Chip looked up at me, "Thanks," he said, his voice filled with hesitation. "But I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it just yet, but it means a lot that you're here for me." I nodded understandingly, giving him a reassuring smile.

"Hey, how about joining me for dinner tonight? I was just about to cook up a batch of spaghetti and meatballs. It's nothing fancy, but I'd love the company."

Chip's face brightened up at the invitation, a small smile forming on his lips. "That sounds really nice," he replied, his voice carrying a hint of excitement. "I could use some distraction and good food right now." He admitted.

"It smells amazing in here, Y/N" Chip remarked with genuine appreciation as we stepped into my kitchen.

I chuckled and gestured towards the pot on the stove. "Well, I can't take all the credit. My secret ingredient is my grandma's homemade marinara sauce. It's always been a hit" Chip's eyes lit up with curiosity as he leaned in to take a whiff of the delicious aroma.

"I can't wait to try it," he said eagerly, his stomach growling in anticipation. I handed Chip a spoon and watched as he took a small taste of the sauce. His face instantly lit up with delight, confirming that my grandma's recipe was as good as ever.

"This is incredible," he exclaimed, his eyes widening in surprise as he took a bite of a meatball. "Oh I love homemade meals; this is not something I usually get to eat."

His words struck a chord within me, a reminder of the neglect that Chip seemed to endure with Liza. I could only imagine the lack of care he received when it came to something as basic as food.

"I'm glad you like it, Chip," I replied softly, a pang of sadness tugging at my heart. "It's unfortunate that you don't get to enjoy homemade meals more often."

Chip's expression softened, his gaze meeting mine with a hint of vulnerability. "Yeah, well, Liza and I usually just eat junk or order takeout. It's... not exactly the healthiest or most satisfying option."

"Everyone deserves to enjoy good food, especially when it's made with care and love," I said softly.

It pained me to know that someone so deserving was out there being treated so badly, especially when I knew I could treat him so well.

We decided to eat on the sofa, Chip offered to set the coffee table with plates and cups as I finished preparing the food in the kitchen.

"Wine?" I inquired without glancing away from the stove.

"Most definitely, please," came Chip's prompt reply from the living room.

I smiled to myself, pleased by his enthusiasm. "It's in the fridge, your pick!" I called back, knowing he appreciated the gesture of choice.

With the tray of food in hand, I made my way to the living room and set it down on the table. Chip was there, seated, carefully unscrewing the bottle of wine and pouring each of us a glass.

"Nice pick, Taylor," I remarked, nodding appreciatively at the bottle he had selected.

As the dinner progressed and we chatted and laughed, I couldn't help but notice how Chip really changed when he was around me.

His eyes lit up with each mouthful, and it warmed my heart to see him enjoying it so much.

At one point, he even got a bit messy with the sauce, and I had to gently wipe it off his chin with a napkin. It was a small, intimate moment that made me feel closer to him. As I leaned in, our eyes briefly locked, and there was a fleeting sense of connection that sent a shiver down my spine. I couldn't help but smile as I watched him savor every last bite, knowing that I had succeeded in bringing him joy.

His demeanor was totally different from earlier, the tension seemed to melt away from his shoulders, as he leaned back into the sofa, a look of satisfaction gracing his features. With a contented sigh, he raised his glass to his lips, savoring the remaining traces of wine.

When Chip's gaze met mine, I felt a rush of anticipation. His eyes traced the curves of my face with a tenderness that spoke volumes, and then they drifted down to my lips, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

I couldn't shake the feeling that Chip deserved so much more than what he had been getting from Liza. It tugged at my heartstrings—this overwhelming urge to show him that he deserved to be loved and cherished.

"Stay away from things that aren't yours." Liza's voice echoed in my head, a haunting reminder of a previous argument we had. Chip had helped me with something around the house, so I offered him some cookies to take home.

Later that night, I was disturbed by banging on my door and screaming. It was Liza, yelling and screaming uncontrollably. The reason behind her fury? The innocent act of offering cookies earlier in the day.

But in right now I couldn't help but wonder if breaking those rules was worth it, if it meant bringing joy to someone who had been overlooked for far too long.

She had accused me of trying to steal her man, but was he really hers if he wanted me so bad?

After dinner, Chip and I tackled the dishes together, falling into an effortless rhythm. He washed while I dried and stored, our movements synchronized. It felt as if he belonged here, by my side in my house, his presence seamlessly blending with the familiar surroundings.

As we worked, stealing glances and chuckling together, there were these little touches, accidental but electrifying. Each brush of our hands or shared smile sent a jolt of excitement through me, leaving me yearning for more.

As I finished putting away the last dish, a sense of awareness tingled at the back of my mind, prompting me to turn around. There he stood, leaning casually against my sink, his arms crossed and his gaze fixed on me with unwavering attention.

"What's on your mind, mister?" I teased, a smile playing on my lips as I faced him.

He chuckled lightly, tilting his head to the side with a soft smile. I could see a hint of nervousness in his eyes, as if he was debating whether or not to share his thoughts.

"I just don't know how to thank you," he admitted, his voice coated with sincerity.

I replied, my smile widening. "It was my pleasure. Just seeing you happy is enough.

“You're always so good to me. You listen to me... You've fed me... You're a good person in my life, and I don't know what I would do without you." Chip's voice cracked, wavering as tears welled up in his eyes “You've shown me kindness when no one else would, and I am forever grateful for that." My heart swelled with warmth as I reached out to him, pulling him into a warm embrace before his emotions could overwhelm him.

"Hey, hey, none of that, no crying" I murmured softly into his chest, my arms wrapped securely around him. "You don't need to thank me for being there for you."

As Chip relaxed into my embrace, his chin nestled against the top of my head, I felt a sense of tranquility wash over us. His warmth enveloped me, comforting and reassuring, as he let out a deep sigh of relief.

With my cheek pressed against his chest, I could feel the racing rhythm of his heartbeat, a frantic drumming that gradually began to steady.

"You know, Y/N" Chip began softly, his voice breaking the silence that had settled between us. "I don't think I've ever felt as happy and appreciated as I do when I'm with you."

His words took me by surprise, and I lifted my head from his chest to meet his gaze.

"You just... you have this way of making me feel seen and heard, you know? Like, I matter." I felt a swell of emotion in my chest at his words, and I reached out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

"You do matter, Chip," I said softly, my voice tinged with sincerity. "Even if she doesn't show you the appreciation you deserve,"

Chip's expression softened at my words, "I know," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But sometimes it's hard to see things clearly when you're in the thick of it."

I reached out to gently squeeze his cheek, offering him a reassuring smile. "I understand," I said, my tone gentle yet firm. "But you don't have to keep lying to yourself, Chip. You deserve to be with someone who truly loves and appreciates you, someone who sees you for who you are."

Chip's eyes flickered slowly acknowledging the truth in my words.

Chip's reluctance was palpable, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to come to terms with the truth. A shadow of doubt lingered in his eyes. "I... I do love her," he said quietly, his voice hesitant as if trying to convince himself of the truth of his words. "At least, I think I do. I mean, we've been together for so long... It's what's expected, isn't it? But lately, I've been questioning everything."

"Stop lying with those words," I urged, my voice soft but firm. "You know you don't love her."

I sighed, frustration bubbling up within me as I watched him wrestle with his feelings. "She's not good for you, Chip," I confessed, my voice tinged with exasperation. "I can't stand her whining. She's always putting you down, calling you names, and ordering you around. She doesn't deserve you." My voice trailed off into a whisper as I admitted, "Loving her seems tiring."

Chip's hands reached out to cup my face, as my eyes started to water, his touch gentle as he wiped a tear off of my cheek. I felt a sense of comfort wash over me in his embrace. The idea of him being stuck with someone so vile made me sad, and I couldn't help but yearn for him to break free from the toxic cycle he was trapped in.

"I... I don't know what to do," Chip murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching mine for guidance.

"You don't have to figure it out right now, Chip," I reassured him, gently cupping his cheek. "But you know deep down that she's not good for you. You deserve to be with someone who truly sees you and appreciates you for who you are."

" I think I've known that for a while now. Y/N when I'm with you, everything just feels different. It's like I can finally breathe, like I'm truly myself. I've been trying to persuade myself that I love Liza because that's what I'm supposed to do," he paused before continuing, "but deep inside, I've always known that it's you who makes me feel alive."

As Chip's confession lingered in the air, a mix of emotions swirled between us. With a gentle lowering of his head, our noses brushed against each other, and he reached out, pulling me closer to him. One hand found its place on my waist, drawing me in as our lips met in a soft, gentle kiss. The kiss was slow and tender, as if time had momentarily stood still.

But just as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Chip pulled away, his eyes wide with surprise and uncertainty, as if he had been taken aback by his own actions.

With a shaky exhale, Chip spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... I'm sorry," he murmured, his words filled with regret. "I shouldn't have done that. You're being a good friend, and I took advantage."

"No, Chip," I pleaded softly. "Don't apologize. I wanted that kiss. I've wanted it for so long." And with that, I leaned in once more, closing the distance between us.

Our lips collided in a fierce, urgent kiss, fueled by pent-up desire. It was a messy tangle of tongues and lips, each movement desperate and hungry. His hands found their way to my waist, pulling me closer, while mine grasped at his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as if trying to anchor myself to him.

With each passing second, the intensity of our kiss grew, and the heat between us rose to a fever pitch.

As we pulled away, Chip's eyes searched mine, "I... I don't want to go back to my place," he admitted, as he pressed his forehead on mine.

His words sent a surge of warmth through me, and I swallowed hard, trying to steady my racing heart. "You don't have to," I replied softly, reaching out to take his hand. "You can stay here if you want."

A faint smile played at the corners of Chip's lips, his gaze softening as he squeezed my hand. "I'd like that," he said, his voice filled with sincerity.

"What about Liza?" I asked softly, unable to shake off the lingering worry about potential complications.

Chip met my gaze, his eyes steady and determined. "She won't be back until Sunday," he replied, his voice carrying a note of finality. "But even if she was, it wouldn't matter. I don't care. You're the one I want to be with."

As our lips met once again, our passion intensified, and we found ourselves slowly making our way to my bedroom.

Chip gently lowered me down onto the bed, his touch firm yet tender. I could feel the heat of his body pressing against mine as he settled on top of me, our bodies fitting together perfectly as if they were made for each other.

Chip's tender caresses traced delicate paths across my skin, igniting a trail of sensation that sent shivers down my spine. His hands moved with purpose, exploring every inch of my body with a skillful touch that left me breathless. In that moment, worries and inhibitions melted away, replaced by an overwhelming desire. Our bodies moved in harmony, fueled by the raw passion that consumed us.

As clothing fell away, discarded slowly and tenderly, we clung to each other with an unyielding grip. There was no room for hesitation or doubt. Each whispered word and soft sigh added to the symphony of our passion, echoing through the room.

In the embrace of our love, we surrendered to sleep. Bodies entwined, hearts beating as one, we found solace in each other's arms. In that moment, the past and future faded, leaving only the tranquility of the present as we drifted into slumber.

#Spotify #chip taylor #chip taylor smut #chip taylor x reader #chip taylor fluff #mgg #spencer reid #criminal minds #mgg x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #mgg x y/n #mgg fanfiction #mgg smut #spencer reid x reader #68 kill #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler smut

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saritaguptasblog · 2 years

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Indian grains, wholesome, nutritious, easily available and affordable.

#connecting with nature #conscious planet #natural farming #save soil movement #savesoil #food #grains #indian grocery store #health #healthy #healthy food

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delightindarkness · 2 months

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Fallout AU || Closed Starter

The heavy air itself was suffocating as James' lungs took their first unaided breath in a little over two hundred years. It burned at first.

Something was wrong.

Alarms blared as the cryochamber he was in popped open, mechanical whirring loud in the otherwise silent vault. Stumbling out of the chamber, blue eyes squinted even against the low light. What the hell was happening?

Other than the alarms, there was no other commotion. At least not in this this sector. He was panting as he moved from chamber to chamber in the cold, damp room. Each one said the same as he pressed the emergency release.

System Failure. Life Support Off.

Dead. All of them were dead. Why wasn't he dead? What the hell happened? Last thing he remembered he was being ushered into the vault. His handlers had told him that it was time for the bombs to fall, it was time for their most important, most dangerous mission yet. Purging out the enemies on our own American soil.

Where was everyone?

"Hello?" He called out twice. Once in English, once in Russian. It was a preferred language by many of the handlers and scientists that he'd been working with. Something he'd learned and picked up on quickly. His voice was strained and he hated how it echoed in the almost empty room. It made him think of a tomb. Each chamber was now its own coffin.

His head was still reeling as he moved from room to room. It was all the same. More of the tragic death that he'd so narrowly escaped. A few rooms had their security measures tripped and it made him wonder if it was an attack.

Making his way toward the exit, it became clearer and clearer, especially after seeing several skeletons, that quite some time had passed, and something horrible had happened. It took the Sargent awhile to figure his way out, but after a bit, the vault door was rolling back and he thought he might go blind.

The light that met him was so bright he felt like he was heading out onto the surface of the sun. His eyes began to adjust though...slowly. Things on the surface didn't seem much better, based on what he could see thus far. More bodies. Most of them in military garb. Once again, the tale of time had taken its toll, and they were nothing but bone.

One of the skeletons was still clinging tightly to a 10mm Pistol, and he quickly took it, checking to see how much ammo was left. It wasn't much, and he figured he wouldn't need it as he himself was a weapon, but he wanted it just in case.

The first place he came to was a neighborhood that had obviously seen better days. Other than some bugs and a robot that didn't speak to him, he found nothing save for a bit more ammo and some food that seemed a little suspicious, but it was better than nothing he supposed.

Headed up the road, and over what was once a bridge, he heard movement, slowing his steps, though it did him little good. The dog on premises alerted his presence to whomever was around the moment he let out a long howl.

@little-blog-of-horrors

#Muse: Bucky Barnes #Fallout AU

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ausetkmt · 8 months

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On this day in 1838, Frederick Douglass escaped to freedom and found his calling as a leading voice in the abolitionist movement. Douglass escaped slavery by boarding a train to Havre de Grace, Maryland.

He was dressed in a sailor's uniform, provided to him by Anna Murray, (he married her 12 days later, she was a free Black woman in Baltimore) she also gave him part of her savings to cover his travel costs, and carried identification papers which he had obtained from a free black seaman. He crossed the Susquehanna River by ferry at Havre de Grace, then continued by train to Wilmington, Delaware.

From there he went by steamboat to "Quaker City" (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) and continued to the safe house of abolitionist David Ruggles in New York; the whole journey took less than 24 hours. Frederick Douglass later wrote of his arrival in New York: "I have often been asked, how I felt when first I found myself on free soil. And my readers may share the same curiosity. There is scarcely anything in my experience about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer.

A new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath, and the 'quick round of blood,' I lived more in one day than in a year of my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement which words can but tamely describe.

In a letter written to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said: 'I felt as one might feel upon escape from a den of hungry lions.' Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or pencil."

Frederick Douglass first tried to escape from Freeland, who had hired him out from his owner Colonel Lloyd, but was unsuccessful. In 1836, he tried to escape from his new owner Covey, but failed again. In 1837, Douglass met and fell in love with Anna Murray, her freedom strengthened his belief in the possibility of his own.

Once he had arrived, he sent for Murray to follow him to New York; she arrived with the necessary basics for them to set up home. They were married on September 15, 1838, by a black Presbyterian minister eleven days after his arrival in New York.

#fredrick douglass #frederick douglass #Black Lives Matter

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dindjiarin · 1 year

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The Savior - Din Djarin x f!Reader

The Mandalorian, side-quest extraordinaire, accidentally frees a slave, kills a Senator's son, ends a criminal conspiracy, and falls in love. Just a month in the life of the galaxy's favorite chaotic space cowboy and his son.

The Savior / The Concession / The Choice (END)

A/N: i fucking love this man. here's the spotify playlist i made while hallucinating being wrecked by him. I accidentally based this fic on Euphoria by Angels & Airwaves.

AO3 Link🤠

TAGS: Fluff, m!falls first, plot with porn, helmet stays on for now, P in V, outdoor activities, protective!Din, soft-ish!Din.

WARNINGS: reader is/was a slave; references to abuse; no curses or slang outside of Star Wars canon (that's a warning if you hate that hahaha)

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"I thought vagrants were barred at the door. How did a Mandalorian get in here?”

The Mandalorian in question does not react to the insult. At the table before him, the taunting Trandoshan guffaws, but his laughter dies when he gets no reaction from the bounty hunter.

"What do you want?" He snaps, his green jaws clicking shut.

Instead of replying, certain the answer is obvious, the beskar-covered man leisurely surveys the colorful, boisterous room, his hands folded in front of him. Having already scouted the upscale casino, he does this for sarcastic effect. He’s also certain that fact is lost on his Trandoshan quarry.

Upon returning his direct attention to the lizard, a small movement in the booth catches his heat sensor. A young woman, likely his quarry’s slave by her frayed appearance, sits with her head bowed behind her master.

“Hey, tin man, you in there?” Your master’s voice sounds more like rocks scraping together than fluid language.

The Mandalorian chucks a bounty puck onto the table, the name and alien visage of Rathos Craaf glowing in a blue cone of projected light.

“Go quietly or don’t - it makes no difference to me.”

“Ahh,” Rathos Craaf hums in his throat and leans back in his seat, making your demure form more visible to the bounty hunter. “What’s the price?”

The Mandalorian again does not dignify a response.

“Can’t be greater than what I’m willing to pay,” Rathos insinuates.

The tense silence eats through your body as the ruthless men stare at each other - the probability of oncoming violence ratcheting up.

“Go prepare my ship,” your master barks suddenly at you, raising his hand.

Flinching, you scoot around the U-shaped booth to obey.

You weren’t always a slave. As a child on Kenari, you had been born into a world of vivid green, rippling blue, and rich, brown soil. Trained in both hunting and fighting from birth, you had been too young to save your village from the brutal relocation program of the Empire.

Dispersed onto harsher worlds, you’d been sold from one slaver to another until finally coming into the collection of one Rathos Craaf. He has been your master for several years by this point, and while not the worst, he was close.

“What will you do about the girl?” A modulated voice asks.

Pausing on the edge of the hard bench, you look between the two antagonists. Me?

“Who cares about the mudscuffing girl? Tell you what, I’ll sell her to you.” The crafty Trandoshan gets an even better idea: “Or - take her in exchange for the bounty. She’s considered top-tier sentient property.”

“Not what I was asking,” a gloved hand thumbs his blaster. “Once you’re in carbonite, wh-”

The Trandoshan lunges up from his seat with a booming yell, launching at the cloaked, beskar-free neck of the Mandalorian. Rathos’ claws reach around the smaller man’s throat, but the Mandalorian is lighter of foot, ducking out of the hold.

Off-balance, Rathos tumbles but rolls back on his feet, his scaly tail acting as a counterweight. Gasps and mutters spill from the crowd as people scramble out of harm’s way.

You remain seated in the booth, frozen and unsure. But then, as the silver bounty hunter aims his blaster, Rathos whips his tail into the Mandalorian’s legs, knocking him with a clang onto his back.

The blaster goes skittering through the crowd, and you’re shocked to find your legs racing after it.

The thunder of a powerful flame roars in the cavernous room as you weave through aliens and humans alike, searching. The blackness of the blaster appears on the gray floor and you dive for it.

Cold steel excites your skin. It’s heavier than you thought it would be, and though you’ve never fired one, your ancient muscle memory remembers the feeling of a bow in your hands; the trajectory, strength, and steadiness necessary.

Sprinting back through the crowd, you find Rathos pinning the Mandalorian’s chest. The solid armor prevents any of Rathos’ blows from truly hurting the bounty hunter, but the weight of the lizard is too awkward and great for him to shove away from this angle.

The fire-throwing vambrace comes up again and, as it billows into the Trandoshan’s face, you fire a blast at the substantial tail that had once been used against you.

Rathos bellows in pain, tumbling to the side, and the Mandalorian takes full advantage. He jumps to his feet, then connects his fist to his quarry's skull, rendering the creature unconscious. Binders clasp around the arms of your master and the successful bounty hunter staggers backward a single step to catch his breath.

You freeze at what you’ve just done, the blaster still pointed at Rathos. People murmur, and the words, “Killed by his slave” can be heard, though he is only unconscious. Your chest heaves, far more out of breath than the Mandalorian walking toward you.

“Thank you,” he says drily, taking his blaster out of your hands.

Unsure what else you should do, you follow your master as he is dragged without dignity along the smooth fogstone floor.

Exiting the casino, snaking down an alley, and traipsing to the outskirts of the city limits, the silhouette of a ship against the orange horizon becomes visible.

Neither you nor the Mandalorian have spoken a single word since he took the blaster from your hands, but as he presses a button on his vambrace to lower the loading ramp, he turns to you now.

“Grab his tail."

An order. That you could do. You immediately grab Rathos’ tail and lift. The Mandalorian half-drags and half-lifts the Trandoshan by his cuffed hands and the lizard is loaded into the ship’s hold.

Standing at the far end of the Mandalorian’s rather busted ship, you’re surprised to see a small, green being. Dressed in what must be a sack, its long ears perk up and its eyes glimmer at the sight of the bounty hunter. A happy coo reverberates in the quiet, metal space.

The child looks at you and makes another, similar noise. It waddles toward you, but before you can react, the Mandalorian scoops the child into his arms and sequesters it behind a thin blast door.

“You are free to go.”

It’s an odd statement. He must be familiar with the underworld. He knows how slaving works.

You’re not sure when you last spoke; you weren’t allowed to speak. But the bounty hunter seems to expect a reply.

“I am not. The law says I am to be returned to the slavers’ coalition for repurchase.” Your voice is scratchy from disuse and the helmeted man tilts his head in curiosity.

“You won't run?”

It seems too monumental a task. Hopes and fears trip over each other in their efforts to be heard. Freedom. Finding a place to call home. Your family was long dead. But… maybe there was hope of a family somewhere.

Where would I even go? No way I could stay ahead of the slavers. They’d send hunters like this Mandalorian after me. I’d be worse off than I am now.

“I do not know if I can,” you whisper honestly.

The Mandalorian looks at you - at least, you think he does - for so long that you begin to squirm under his gaze.

Without warning, the wind is knocked from you. Rathos’ tail slams into the back of your knees, crumpling you to the floor. His claws wrap around your neck, and you yell, plunging two fingers into his lidless eye.

“Traitorous shutta!” Spittle from your master flies onto your cheeks.

As he recoils from your jab, you squirm underneath him, trying to flee, when the weight on your chest vanishes in a rush of air. Coughing and wiping your face, you lie there momentarily until your throbbing pulse abates inside your head. You sit up and widen your eyes to hasten their focus.

The Mandalorian has the Trandoshan by the throat with both hands. Rathos sputters and gags, but you watch as gloved fingers dig harder into the scaly throat. The anonymous man shoves his quarry into the carbon freezing chamber and smashes the button with more force than necessary.

It's over.

When you woke in the dark that morning, never would you have expected to watch your master be frozen in carbonite aboard a bounty hunter's ship.

That bounty hunter turns to you now.

“I have something I need to do. I’ll give you passage if you provide assistance.”

________________________________

Crossing your arms, tucking your legs under your body, and leaning against the hull in your seat, you try to make yourself as small as possible. You wouldn’t have even climbed up here if the Mandalorian hadn’t indicated that you should.

He wanted to keep an eye on you. He did not trust you around the kid - despite (or perhaps because of) its interest in you.

Moments after leaving the planet’s atmosphere, a new emotion bubbles in your chest: elation. The stars flow by in a technicolor kaleidoscope; hues and shapes you have never seen race past your eyes. It’s beyond anything you could have imagined.

“Has it always looked like this?” You wonder to yourself.

You jump when a deep, electronic voice answers, “Yes.”

“Oh,” you murmur, realizing he had been watching you. “I’ve never seen hyperspace. I was kept in the hold,” you state without self-pity.

The Mandalorian lets that terrible fact hang in the air before eventually saying,“I recommend you get some sleep. It will be several hours before we reach Mid Rim.”

He turns away from you and folds his arms. The muffled clang of his helmet tipping back against the headrest tells you that he will be taking his own advice.

Interestingly, you feel safe enough to get some rest. Being constantly attuned to the temperamental wills and whims of others, you've become a great judge of character.

This Mandalorian, though quiet, is clearly capable of kindness to those who deserve it. A rarity for someone in his profession.

___________________________________

The blue cone glows in his hand, projecting the face of one ugly slug. The name at the bottom, written in a language you had been forced to learn, reads: Salaa the Hutt.

Fearful eyes flick up to the veiled Mandalorian, “A Hutt?”

The helmet nods, “You will be my way in.” You make a whimpering noise, but the bounty hunter continues. “You’re a slave on the run. I will be returning you for a small reward.”

Crushing disappointment deflates your body. Believing yourself to have been wavering between freedom and the life you had known, you realize, now that the decision was being made for you, that you’d chosen freedom. Further adding to your pain is your misjudgement of the Mandalorian.

I’d have never made it to freedom - far too naive. Thought a karking bounty hunter was doing something out of the kindness of his heart. Unbelievable.

Still, to your credit, you take several steps back, almost as though you might try to outrun the nimble, strong bounty hunter with a kriffing jetpack, of all things. You’re proud of yourself for even thinking about doing it.

The Mandalorian doesn’t react. He pockets the puck and opens his weapons cache on the hull wall. He lifts a small item from the assortment and shuts the doors. You can’t see what it is, and he doesn’t return to you.

He opens the blast door to the child’s tiny room. The baby snores in his bungalow, and the ever-fascinating Mandalorian rubs the green, fuzzy head before closing the door. He turns and strides toward you.

You take one more step backward, just because you can. Because you should.

He still says nothing. Closer, and closer, the armored man advances on you until you can see your nervous eyes in his breastplate.

“Give me your wrists.”

Is his voice naturally that persuasive or is it the vocoder?

Overriding your fledgling autonomy, you obey him with a preprogrammed respectful nod. He clasps binders around your wrists.

The Mandalorian steps away to retrieve another weapon, then he lifts his chin toward the boarding ramp.

Shouldn't you at least try to gain freedom? Beg him to let you go?

“Please, I can try to pay you,” this is a lie and he knows it. “Or I could work off the debt of transport. Something!”

It’s the loudest your voice has been in living memory, and it both surprises and emboldens you. But the Mandalorian does not seem swayed.

“Walk,” he orders.

You minutely shake your head twice. It means nothing to him, but everything to you.

An electronic sigh, then he takes a single step toward you. Fear switches you back into the subservient girl of the last twenty years. You flinch, your manacled hands blocking your face.

The Mandalorian falters, slightly abashed. “I am not going to hurt you. But you need to start walking.”

Slowly, you lower your hands. His gloved fingers curl around your bicep, and he leads you out into the sunny air.

It’s a hot day on Niamos. The beachside resort that serves as the capital city is teeming with families of all species bathing in the muggy air. The sandstone path that Mando - that’s what everyone calls them, right? - parades you down is packed with beachgoers. Embarrassed by your plight, you try to hide the binders, but it’s impossible with the angle he holds your arm.

Finding another gust of will, you reason, “Surely you could find a way inside without turning me in? You’re good at your job. You could've killed my m-”

“Salaa angered powerful people. There is a bounty on him and it’s higher if he’s dead.

“What does that mean?”

“He's careful. Employs expensive security. Easiest way in is through the front door,” Mando finishes.

Mando’s leathery hold on your arm is soft. Unyielding, of course, but he doesn’t hurt you. It saddens you to realize how different that is from your usual treatment. He had still binded you and planned on turning you in, but hey! At least he wasn’t going to leave a bruise.

Directing you down a narrow alley, the Mandalorian stops in front of a tan-colored, generic shield door. He raps twice on it, standing casually still. If he feels you shaking, he says nothing about it.

A Yaka man is standing behind the door when it opens with a whoosh. His metal implants reflect the sun and you squint. Behind him are another two Yaka and a particularly menacing-looking Zabrak, all armed with pulse rifles.

“We ain't buyin'," he slurs.

“I'm here to claim the slave reward.”

The Yaka stares at the impenetrable, T-shaped slit in the silver helmet, scrutinizing, before stepping aside. Mando guides you ahead of him, then you hear the spur-like sound of his step over the threshold. The close quarters are sweltering, and sweat beads on your temple.

“This way,” the Yaka servant veers to the right and up a steeply inclined hallway. The other members of the security team follow behind you.

The Mandalorian’s thumb slides over your skin. You would give it more thought if a wide, dingy room wasn’t quickly coming into view.

On the second floor, a muted, sparsely furnished area overlooks the residence across the street, and the beach beyond. However, you can’t see the view because the balcony is being taken up by a massive, blob-like shape, and a tall, spiky silhouette.

“Ahh,” the huge shape speaks, and for the first time in your life, you’re thankful you speak Huttese. “What is this?”

Bowing, the Yaka guard explains, “This Mandalorian has returned a loose slave.”

He grabs for your arm, but you lurch when Mando pulls you out of reach, warning, “Careful. She killed her master before fleeing."

The bodyguard recoils as though you personally threatened him. He steps away, waiting for actual instruction from his boss. The green Rodian next to Salaa tuts in his sour voice.

Deciding it was best not to speak, you raise your chin with dignity as Mando drops his hand from your arm.

“Why do you return her here?” Salaa the Hutt inquires. “Surely you know that I have been removed from my associations. Including the slavers.”

“I am here for information,” Mando drops the ruse completely, his voice calm.

“Information,” the Hutt laughs horribly. “I have much of that, pateesa. What do you wish to know?”

“You should ask what I have to trade first.”

“Hmm. You do not wish to trade the girl, I hope. Must be better than that,” the slimy giant slug laughs derisively.

You don’t even bristle. Worse things had been said to you daily.

The green, mohawked Rodian chuckles. Though you do not understand his language, the human bounty hunter does: “She is too sad-looking to be any fun. Pity.” The reptilian-looking male then makes a vile comment about what he can see through your ratty, loose clothing.

The Mandalorian's eyes narrow, and his right hand drifts toward his hip of its own accord.

“Make your offer, Mandalorian.”

“If you provide the information I need, I won’t claim the ten-thousand-credit bounty on your head.”

That horrible, bulging laugh bursts from the ex-crime boss once more, hurting your ears in its pitch and volume.

“Far too aggressive, Mandalorian. I decline.”

Salaa’s stubby arm motions at the armed security who raise their rifles at the two of you.

While you freeze in terror, the Mandalorian stills in focus. Faster than a hyperdrive, he clenches his fist. Miniature rockets whistle through the tense air, eliminating all three bodyguards; the angry Zabrak, the mouthy Rodian, and the blubbery Salaa remain.

The Mandalorian draws his blaster, pushing you behind him, and fires from his hip as the Zabrak guard begins to raise his modified arm. What type of weapon it held, you’ll never know because he falls to the ground, dead, before he can use it.

The Rodian darts away from Salaa, circling the room. To you, it seems as though he is intending to flee, not fight, but the Mandalorian fires a laserblast at his bug-eyed head, dropping him.

Mando calmly swivels his blaster to Salaa.

Resigned, the Hutt slimily states, “Ask what you wish to know, pateesa.”

“I have been told that you have seen another Mandalorian. Where?”

“Ahh, that is all? I have seen one here.”

“On Niamos?” So surprised, Mando forgets to keep the tone from his voice.

“A beskar-covered man does not go unnoticed on a planet filled with water-bathers,” Salaa laughs again. You visibly wince.

“Where?”

“Where else? Water’s Edge.”

Mando twists his head toward the opposite window as if he could see his fellow Mandalorian from here. He holsters his weapon and turns to leave.

“Those Yaka were expensive guards, pateesa,” the Hutt grumbles ominously.

“You paid too much.”

He returns his hold on your arm, pushing you forward. Marching awkwardly down the sloping halfway, you try to make sense of his actions.

Your face screws up in confusion, “You didn’t turn me in or claim the Hutt’s bounty. You're earning no credits.”

That’s the defining feature of a bounty hunter.

The silence lengthens as you reach the ground floor, and hurriedly exit the sandstone building. As you soak in the blistering sunshine, the hand on your arm turns you to face him. The Mandalorian’s quick fingers remove your binders.

“That’s it?” You rub your wrists even though he had left them on the loosest setting.

“Passage for assistance,” he reminds you.

He then nods once and takes his leave. For an interminable length of time, you watch as he calmly walks away, breaking only when he turns down an alley and is lost from sight.

What the hell do I do now?

__________________________________

The new day is growing late. Din Djarin basks in the heat of the single sun. For being one of those odd planets without plural light sources, the strength of the lone sun is incredible. Din much preferred the scorching, arid planets to the ice-covered ones, and Niamos is perfect. The breeze gently carries through his light flight suit, while the sun warms whatever dark material is visible around the beskar.

While Din feels more comfortable in this climate, heat signatures can be a little bit more difficult to read. He had managed to track a faint heat signature around Water’s Edge. The day before, immediately after speaking with Salaa, Din had come to check the place out, but his quarry had left some hours previously and he had lost the trail.

Din enters the establishment for the second time in as many days. Inside is a large, open floor with dining tables set out across the expanse. High society clinks glasses as they wait for the next act to grace the small stage. Din surveys the room, switching between heat sensors and normal vision, before concluding that the Mandalorian he searches for is beyond the far wall.

Heads turn and stare as Din, strutting as if he belongs, makes his way to the unobtrusive doorway next to the stage. A Mandalorian stands out here. This was a place for people who employed bounty hunters, not those whom they hunt. Din slides the door open, and he is greeted by a dark hallway.

Light spills from a room to his right. Din flips on his heat sensor again, and presses his lips together in satisfaction when the heat signature picks up.

Rounding into the room with confidence, Din observes everything at once.

A large mirror, complete with lights, sits above a desk. A rack of clothing stands lonely in the far corner. And on a stool in front of the mirror sits a Mandalorian, their flaky, blue-painted armor having seen better days.

“My name is Din Djarin,” he announces. “I have been tasked with finding other Mandalorians in order t-”

“Oh, my stars!” The Mandalorian squeals. The helmet is removed by purple hands, and a humanoid species stares in awe. “I’ve always wanted to meet a Mandalorian. I- I do this character because I just love your culture so much.”

Blinking behind his helm, Din confirms what he's already becoming sure of, “That armor you wear - it is not real beskar.”

“What? This stuff?” The actor scoffs. “This is expensive paint and cheap wetboard.” He stands up, advancing unwisely on the real Mandalorian. “Can I ask you some questions? I’ve got a real opportunity here to elevate my perfor-”

Din backs out of the room in a single, fluid motion, punching the button for the door.

He sighs.

***

A blaster shot turns the corner of the building Din had just walked past into dust and debris. He spins, drawing his own blaster, expecting to see the Empire itself. Instead, a young human bounty hunter stands there, nervously fumbling with her jammed blaster. The Mandalorian rushes her, pinning her by the collarbone against the alley wall.

"Bounty?”

Terrified, she nods and whispers, “Yes.”

"Who contracted it?"

She wheezes from under Din’s forearm, “Don't know. It's open Rim-wide for now. Just told to kill you and the girl.”

Under his helm, Din’s brow pinches. “The girl?”

The wide-eyed woman shrugs, again in the dark. If this inexperienced bounty hunter managed to track him down already, it's likely another has found you. Din releases the woman roughly and rockets up into the sky.

_______________________________

The sights and sounds of the beach are incredible. The late-daylight is deliciously warm as it touches your skin through the holes in your clothing. You sit on the top step of the tiered beach area, staring out at the water as you try to come up with a plan of action. Having slept on a lounge chair last night, you’re nearly grateful for the decades of poor lodging training your body.

The sky is hazy, but the flash of sunlight glinting off of something tiny flying far above has you twisting your head and squinting. Unable to make out the object, you return your attention to the ocean and ignore it.

From behind you, a voice calls your name and you automatically turn.

As you stare down the barrel of the blaster pointed at you, you remember no one should know your name here.

"Let's go," the bounty hunter tells you.

It's a woman with red skin and long, blue, braided hair. Etches in her cheeks make her bone structure look even sharper.

You frown. What you’d told the Mandalorian had already been proven correct. You weren't able to run.

Resignedly standing to your feet, you take a step, but go stumbling forward as the woman kicks your back.

Your second foreign emotion of the last twenty-four hours sparks in your chest, glowing as hot as the sun above.

"Hey! I was going," you glare.

"Move faster, scum," she orders.

You continue walking, your eyes scanning for something, anything, to get you out of this.

Ahead on the right is a large crowd of vendors and their customers. If you can duck through them, maybe you can lose the blue-haired madwoman behind you.

A cold, circular shape presses between your shoulder blades as you march, and your bravery starts to fail. If you make a single wrong move, you'll be shot before you even get to the crowd.

Just do it - better to die now than live as a slave.

The crowd swells as a school trip pours out from a nearby museum. Your confidence rises at the sight of the increasingly busy, confusing horde.

Closer. So kriffing close.

The female bounty hunter cries out suddenly as a blaster shot scalds her arm. She defensively spins, kicking out powerfully behind her.

A large species you're unfamiliar with, tall and teal, is thrown sideways with the force of the kick. The competing bounty hunter recovers into a crouch and shoots at your captor, hitting her in the chest.

With a violent exhale, she falls. Too busy sprinting into the crowd, you do not hear her final, pathetic breath.

Weaving, keeping ducked and hidden, you whisper a constant stream of 'excuse me.' You don't want to push anyone, knowing a reaction from an offended beach-goer could give away your position.

The unblinking bounty hunter, your newest enemy, stands tall above much of the crowd, and it doesn't take him long to spot your trail.

Thundering forward, happily shoving people you had so politely passed, he roars. Fear ices your stomach.

The sound of a sputtering jetpack drowns out the noise of the people. Never breaking stride, you search for the source of another bounty hunter.

I know I’m a runaway slave who assaulted her master before turning him into a carbonsicle but, banthashit, is the price on my head really that high?

The massive hunter gains on you, and just as you clear the other side of the crowd, you gasp, pained, when he snatches your hair. You whirl, packing all of your strength into your right fist. Your blow lands on the creature’s lower jaw, which seems to be two pink tubes, and it wails grotesquely.

The grip on your hair loosens and you rip away, but the much larger creature lunges for you again. It pulls you upward by your shirt this time, and you scream. Kicking out, your foot knocks a breath from the ugly bounty hunter, but it does not release you.

Staring at you with shallow black eyes, it speaks in a language you don’t understand, but the intonation is clearly a question.

Gasping, you boldly say, “Let go of me and I’ll tell you.”

The creature seems to understand Basic because his three-fingered hand leaves your shirt.

Before you get a chance to make up a lie, the hulking bounty hunter vanishes in a flash of silver. Your head snaps in the direction of travel, and a trail of exhaust follows.

A hundred yards away, the jetpack flares out and the two fall to the ground in a tumble of fighting. A strangled laugh exits your mouth.

From bigger fish to bigger fish. Eventually the biggest fish would win and come after you.

The sound of the ugly creature roaring ends abruptly with a choked grunt. You push your legs hard as you run. The doorway to a cantina catches your eye as an intoxicated human stumbles out, and you rush past him.

Inside the dark, clamorous, smoky business, you slide into the booth furthest from the door, hoping that neither hunter saw you duck in. Panting heavily, you tell the droid waitress you’d like a bit of spotchka. You’ve never had it, but you’ve seen how relaxed and brave it makes people and that sounds wonderful right about now.

The circular cantina door slides open and the silhouette of a tall, broad Mandalorian is outlined by the glaring sun. You can’t tell what color or condition his armor is in, but your stomach clenches all the same. It had been an entire revolution of the planet since your Mandalorian had left, so it can't be him.

Wonder if he found his friend, you think about his ten-thousand-credit question for the Hutt. Must’ve been quite a reunion if it was worth that much.

Shrinking back against the wall of your booth, you shift completely out of sight and pray to whatever Ancient is listening that the stories about their helmets’ capabilities are exaggerations.

The droid waitress sets your pretty blue drink on the table without comment, for which you’re grateful. You don’t think your voice works.

Clinking metal is audible despite the volume of the rowdy bar. The sound gradually grows louder as he approaches your booth.

“What are you doing?” The Mandalorian has his hands on his hips, and though you cannot see his face, you’re certain he looks like a disapproving parent.

“I- what?” You squeak, completely confused by his question. And why he's here.

He moves to sit down across from you, and your nerves flare.

“Why are you still here?” He asks the same question you want to ask him.

“Where was I supposed to go? I have no credits.”

“There is work available on this planet.”

You pause, unhappy to give away just how out of your depth you are, “You mean paid employment? I’m not familiar with the process."

The Mandalorian doesn’t speak, he simply stares at you until you break your stare first.

Looking down at the grimy table, you trace a piece of graffiti with your finger and whisper, “Thank you.”

Mando shifts his head in askance.

“For saving me from the slave hunter.”

“He wasn’t a slave hunter.” Mando’s helmet tips down to where the bright blue liquid sits on the table. “You going to drink that?”

You shake your head, too self-conscious now.

________________________________

“Good.”

He slides out from the booth and motions for you to walk ahead of him.

Standing in the bay of the Mandalorian’s ship once more, you engage in a staring contest with the little green baby as it sits on the floor. Its ears move like he’s listening to Mando speak on his holocall above in the cockpit, but its eyes remain on you.

You’ve always liked children. While they could be blunt, they were kind to you and other slaves because they hadn’t yet learned any differently.

“How old are you?” You ask softly.

In your experience, children prefer to be spoken to as one would an adult, so you refrain from the baby-voice that springs to the surface when you look at the adorable infant.

He tilts his ears toward you.

“You’re pretty cute." The baby coos, then babbles once.

“You really are cute. And you seem highly intelligent. Have you been with the Mandalorian long? He seems to pick up strays easily,” you smile warmly.

The child awkwardly gets to its feet, toddling toward you. Remembering how quickly Mando had taken the child away when it last interacted with you, you slowly move backward toward the ladder. You don’t know if it's dangerous. Maybe the cuteness is a front.

A gurgling noise, as if it’s trying to tell you something, breaks from its little mouth. He raises his hand, pointing, and you whirl.

The Mandalorian is but a few feet away, watching.

How the kark did he get down the ladder so quietly?

“I’m sorry,” you don’t know what you’re apologizing for.

Mando strides around you and crouches to pick up the baby, “We're leaving this planet. I won't have enough fuel to get across the galaxy, but there is a job a few systems over."

He cradles the child so gently that it makes your heart ache.

Who is this guy?

The child in his arms makes grabby hands at his helmet, so he tenderly sets it back down. Mando heads back toward the cockpit, indicating you should follow.

Up the ladder, sitting once again in the same seat, you keep your eyes on the Mandalorian as he begins the lengthy takeoff procedures.

“The bounty hunter you encountered was not after the slave reward.”

“But she knew my name?”

“I am referring to the Aqualish you punched.”

“Oh.”

The Mandalorian does not immediately continue, focusing on his tasks for several minutes.

“There is a reward out for you,” he flips another switch. “And a bounty.”

“Both? Why both?”

“The bounty is secondary. Dependant on you giving them m-”

A panicked, childish cry echoes from below, and you’re only a moment behind the Mandalorian as he leaps down the hatch to the hold.

You gasp in horror as you see the long-eared, big-eyed baby squished in the crook of another kriffing bounty hunter’s arm. The loading ramp closes slowly behind him. He must’ve jumped in at the last moment.

Mando raises his hands, indicating his desire to negotiate.

“Do not hurt him,” he says. Instead of coming out as a plea, his vocoded words come out as a warning that makes your hair stand on end.

“Din Djarin, you are wanted for the murder of Senator Nesota’s son. I know your reputation, and therefore do not wish to fight. I’ll release your… this," he nods at the green baby, "when you’re in carbonite. There,” the human bounty hunter nods his head at Din’s own carbon freezer.

He killed a Senator’s kid?

The child frowns, his ears drooping, and he focuses hard on the bounty hunter. His little hand curls, and the man’s ruddy face turns purple. His eyes grow red and glassy.

Din reacts quickly, drawing his blaster and firing at the hunter’s face. The man falls with a clattering thunk, and the child rolls away, unmoving.

“No," you cry. "Is he alright?” You start toward the kid, fear in your voice.

“He’s fine,” the Mandalorian replies, holding his palm up for you to stay back. He reverently lifts the unconscious kid. “He’s just asleep.”

The Mandalorian - Din Djarin - murdered an important person’s child. And his own kid just choked someone without using its hands? I didn’t inhale spice, did I?

“You killed a kid?”

Din believes you’re still thinking of the baby in his arms. “I said he’s sleeping.”

“A Senator’s son?”

“Oh. Yes, the Rodian with Salaa.” Din hadn’t known he was the son of a powerful person, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

Relief floods you once again as your evaluation of the Mandalorian’s character remains intact. After seeing the way he cared for the little green one, how could you have believed he would harm any child?

“Okay." You return to the wildest topic, "What just happened with your kid?”

Din sighs. This was getting more dangerous than negotiating with a Tusken. He places the kid in his hammock and shuts the door.

Turning on you, he threatens, “Never speak of him outside this ship.”

“I- I wouldn’t,” you promise, surprised by the fierceness in his voice.

Din is satisfied. He’d watched you speak to his ward earlier, and the kid seems to like you immensely. But he doesn't solely rely on the kid's opinion.

The experienced, Mandalorian bounty hunter's own character assessment is top-notch, and he finds that he feels strongly about you. He doesn't categorize or identify the specifics, however.

The Mandalorian does not ask for your help in removing the dead bounty hunter from his ship, so you look on in silence as he does it alone. He lowers the landing ramp, drags the body to the edge, and watches it roll down unceremoniously. He turns and stalks past you.

“So, where's that job?”

“The Outer Rim.”

You sigh. “Of course it is.”

__________________________________

The planet blinds you when the Razor Crest launches out of hyperdrive. Brilliantly green, the single sun reflects the vibrant landscape right into your eyes.

Shielding your face, you venture a question. The Mandalorian had not finished explaining.

"Why is there a bounty on me?"

Even through the modulator, you can hear his dry tone: "You aided a bounty hunter in entering the Hutt's hideout through false pretenses which ended in the blasting of a Senator's son."

"Right," you frown, slumping in your seat.

"Don't worry. The bounty on my head is far larger than yours."

You scoff under your breath. So reassuring.

A deep breath, then you postulate, "Is that what the bounty hunter was asking me? About you?"

Din doesn't respond. He didn't hear the Aqualish's question. He was too busy aiming at its body with his own, but his best guess is yes.

"That's the reason you saved me," you mutter, oddly dejected.

A loose end. That's what you are.

Din often - almost constantly, actually - appreciated his helmet for the freedom it gave him to show any emotion at any time. No need to worry about a convincing poker face when no one could see it.

"You could have told them where my ship was."

"Except I thought you'd flown away the day before," you argue, saddened that he thought you would’ve talked.

Of course, he didn't know you, and he had a child to protect, but it still stings.

"Why not just kill me?" You wonder seriously.

You're a liability. Two separate prices on your head? The Mandalorian's easiest solution is obvious. A slave of no importance, no one would put a bounty on his head for your death.

Din Djarin's armor clanks as he spins the chair a quarter-turn toward you and he cocks his head.

"I don't want to die," you read his body language correctly. "But I don't understand you."

The Mandalorian silently returns to his piloting duties as he nears the lush planet. He does his best to shut his thoughts away, but he stumbles over you again and again.

Din had rescued you because he didn’t want to see you harmed for his actions with the Hutt. The idea of protecting himself from prying questions had been an afterthought.

He had flown above the city, looking for your trail. Since you hadn’t moved much, there wasn’t much of a trail to find. Then he spotted the crowd roiling and parting for the violent Aqualish.

When he watched it yank your hair, he felt angry. An emotion he experienced less frequently than many of his friends would believe. Frustration, irritation, sure. But true fury was rare for him.

Not wanting you dead was basic decency, but the anger had been interesting.

On some level, Din knows his emotional responses to you deserve greater scrutiny. But he doesn't have the time nor the energy.

When the Razor Crest lands in a grassy clearing between forest walls, Din rises from his chair and commands, “Stay here. Watch the child.”

“O-okay,” you agree hesitantly. “What do I do when he wakes up?”

The Mandalorian stares, uncomprehending.

“You… you don’t do anything for his… condition?”

“I told you he’s fine.” Din thinks for a moment, and remembers there is actually something you should know: “When he wakes up, he might be hungry. Do not let him eat the metal ball on the thruster.”

With that, he climbs down the ladder, and out of sight.

_________________________________

As the fist flies at you, you subconsciously register that your assailant must be right-handed, because this left hook is much sloppier than the other. Or maybe it's because his left arm is still human.

Ducking, you escape the jab and slam your palm-sized stick into the quarry's metal shins. He doesn’t react except to kick your thigh. You cry out, knowing it will bruise if you survive this.

The blaster you had taken from the Mandalorian’s cache lies just out of reach. The silver gleam is stark against the rich soil of the forest floor.

Enraged, the cyborg quarry leaps at your hunched form, knocking you flat. Surprised by his speed, you forget to keep hold of the heavy branch you use as a weapon.

The growling man rips the stick from your hands and slams it against your throat like a vise, choking you, “Die, wretch.”

You turn your head to the side, providing yourself with a precious moment of air before the quarry shifts to cut that escape route off, too.

Swinging your leg up, you kick him in the back of the head, pushing him forward. You take the opportunity to headbutt him - thankful that his head is still completely human - and he falls sideways. Right next to your blaster.

You snatch up your wooden weapon, but it's too late.

He laughs mechanically as he grabs the blaster, swinging it at you. “Too late, sweetheart.”

Panting, you don't raise your hands. If he's going to kill you, he'll do it when you charge him.

You take a step and the sound of a laserblast ricochets through the trees.

The creature cries out, dropping the weapon, his arm useless at his side. Wires spark from the elbow joint that had been blown away.

"Found you," the Mandalorian says flatly, his blaster pointed at the machine.

The metal man lunges but Din fires again - hitting the quarry in what should be its gut. It doubles over, groaning, then topples, fighting for labored breath.

He must still have lungs underneath, you shudder.

Still trying to catch your own breath, you gasp, "How-"

"Heard the fight. You were supposed to stay on the ship," his voice turns scolding.

Clenching your jaw, you finally find a steady breath. You had stayed on the ship. This piece of space junk had broken inside through the cockpit window.

As you sat in the hold, dutifully watching the kid, the sound of glass shattering alerted you that it was not Din who was back so soon. You had snatched up the baby, touching him for the first time with no concern about his potential dangers, locked him in the little room, and ripped a small blaster from the Razor Crest’s weapons cache.

You crouched at the far end of the hold, against the closed boarding ramp, waiting, uncomfortably far from the child.

A cyborg, more spidery-droid than man, with a human head and fleshy left arm had come skittering down, bypassing the ladder completely. Unwilling to chance a blaster shot going through the baby’s door, you hit the button on the landing ramp and scrambled out.

The forest. It was your home. Your element. If there was any chance you could kill it, to prove to yourself that you could survive this life - it was then and there.

Of course, you hadn't expected the quarry to get your blaster.

"I tried," you breathe as Din binds the still-groaning quarry.

The helmet turns to face you, understanding. "He entered the ship?”

You nod, and Din stands bolt-upright, his head whipping in the direction of the Razor Crest.

“It’s fine,” you assure him pointedly, walking with your hand outstretched toward the worried Mandalorian. You remember your promise not to speak of the child, “Your ship is fine. Knew you'd hate it if he trashed the thing, so I ran out here.”

The Mandalorian visibly relaxes his broad shoulders, and your heart tugs once again.

"Thank you," Din says with hidden feeling.

His sincerity wedges a lump in your throat.

He really loves that little guy.

Din turns and snatches the connector between the binders, pulling the quarry. Its metal feet dig trenches as it tries to stall, but the Mandalorian is far too strong.

Somehow, it's the first time you've truly noticed. Din is extremely strong. Is it the suit?

Can't be. It's just metal and fabric.

The realization might as well be a thunderbolt to your brain. Your assailant must weigh as much as a land speeder, and here your bounty hunter was carting him along like a sack of starfruit.

An unfamiliar feeling, something like hot, sharp sparks shoot through your stomach. Your eyes follow the Mandalorian as he makes his way back to the Razor Crest.

Is this attraction? You’ve never experienced it. Far too busy surviving, wanting someone in that way is a foreign concept to you. You roll your eyes at yourself. Din Djarin, a kriffing Mandalorian bounty hunter is not going to look twice at a slave, and it's best to kill those feelings before they take root.

***

Across the large clearing, at the ship, the bounty hunter waits patiently while the boarding ramp lowers.

“She yours?” The quarry asks curiously, his voice wheezing. "You orbited me like a karking moon, but as soon as I go after her, you come runnin’.” It laughs.

The cyborg doesn't expect a verbal answer; he wants a reaction.

Din turns his head slowly with a cold warning, “I would advise you to stop speaking.”

“I damaged her pretty good for you. Might wanna che-” his taunting words end in a pained grunt when Din slams his fist into the man’s cruel mouth.

Surprised by the sudden violence, you inhale sharply. Din hadn’t knocked the thing unconscious, so what was the point of that?

The Mandalorian hauls the creature up the ramp and shoves him into the carbon freezer.

“Should’ve killed me,” the cyborg threatens with a laugh as he freezes into a solid mass.

Din turns to face you and asks in a low voice, “Are you injured?”

The rush of adrenaline you had been riding on slowly fades, and you remember the only blow you’d received had been the one to the side of your thigh. Your hand falls to it, feeling the area through your tattered pants.

A small amount of blood comes away on your fingers.

“Oh,” you murmur.

You pull up the ripped, baggy material, exposing your entire leg. The skin had split with the force of the blow, but there’s no serious damage and it would heal on its own.

The cyborg must’ve been trying to unnerve us. Or distract the Mandalorian? Maybe he thought Din would check right away, you almost laugh aloud at the ridiculous idea.

Din, for his part, really wishes you would let your pant leg fall. It’s insane, it makes no sense to him. Millions of people walked around in far, far less clothing than you, and Din never reacted like this.

But here you stand before him, slowly checking out the inch-long cut on your mid-thigh, and the Mandalorian can’t tear his eyes away.

When you look up at the helmet of Din Djarin, he fixes his face as though you could actually see the way his lips had parted. You fleetingly, timidly, smile at him and, miraculously, let go of the flowy pant leg.

Released from the spell, Din exhales and makes his way to the child’s room.

“You can use the refresher to clean that, if you’d like.” He does not look at you as he speaks.

“Is the baby okay?”

Din need not answer as the child himself murmurs in happiness at the sight of the two of you. To Din’s abject shock, the kid lifts his hands toward you.

You laugh once, flattered. “Can I?”

Din simply turns sideways so that you can fit between him and the hull wall. You reach for the child and it snuggles into your arms, touching your chin.

A brilliant smile lights your face.

“Are we friends now?” You whisper to him.

The baby babbles a response you’ll take as an affirmative.

“I’ve not asked. What’s his name?” You turn your still-smiling face up to Din.

Again thanking the Mythosaur for his helmet, he stares, stuck on your glowing expression as you cradle his ward. His brown eyes swim with an emotion he’s never felt.

“I don't know.”

Taken aback, you realize that there is a far deeper story here.

Did he steal this baby?

You move on quickly, “What do you call him?”

Din shrugs. “Kid.”

The child makes a cooing sound, then reaches for the Mandalorian. You hand the baby to his stoic guardian, and your smile changes to a satisfied one.

“He looks like he belongs there,” you laugh. Then your eyebrows pull together as you regret the too-comfortable comment.

He’s a bounty hunter, a killer, and he may or may not have stolen this fuzzy, long-eared infant.

And you’re just a runaway slave.

You back up a step, feeling awkward now. “You said I could use the ‘fresher?”

Din simply nods his head in the direction of the tiny facility.

When you've shut the door, Din's body relaxes.

***

But not for long. He didn't account for the sound of your clothes hitting the floor and the sound of the sonics. You are steps away, unclothed, and some wild instinct inside him awakens. Ashamed, he sets the child back in the hammock and climbs up to the cockpit to relieve himself.

_________________________________

The planet is purple. Dark and cloudy, the yellow, green, and blue street lights cast strange shadows. Neon signs of every shade flash from every corner. You've been to thousands of cities like this one. An underworld.

The Mandalorian landed the Razor Crest on the outskirts despite there being a busy spaceport made for that purpose. He transported the carbonite body of the cyborg to the edge of the city where he was met by some anonymous creature in a cloak. He asked no questions.

Din had entrusted you with the care of the child. He directed you and the kid to go on ahead to one of the less-reputable inns. The worse-looking, the better. People were more likely to mind their business.

You've found the perfect one. Din wanted seedy, he was getting the seediest. After all, most of your tasks as a slave had been spent in this environment since your masters hated to be seen in them.

But seedy didn't always mean crumbling and derelict.

Din, having tracked the child's chain code, returns later that night. His eyebrows rise at the size of the room.

"I said find an inconspicuous place to hide. You got the emperor's suite," he places his hands on his hips.

There are technically three rooms: the main living space, complete with couch, table, and a space to prepare food; and two small bedrooms both on the same side of the building.

"It was their only available room. Trust me, this place is as disreputable as they come. And he didn't upcharge," you rise from the couch. "If that was what you were worried about. I… made a deal with the clerk."

Din advances on you, "A deal?" His voice is tight.

"I didn’t involve you. I promise."

The Mandalorian clenches his teeth. Anything involving you, involves him.

"The kid?"

You tilt your chin across the apartment and laugh, "He wanted the room with all the toys.”

Din disappears into the room, and you chuckle at how long the child had been fascinated by the weird sculptures inside.

A low, rasping voice travels from the open door, "Hey, kid. Missed you, too."

Your smile deepens and your heart swells with emotion toward the two of them. Though they are not your family, it's comforting to watch them be one.

The modulated voice sounds again with a short laugh, "She can't hear you. Do you want her?"

You shake your head fondly, the kid had been babbling and reaching for you every time you set him down.

After a significant pause, Din softly admits, "I agree. I like her, too."

Flushing with shame for eavesdropping, you move to the far side of the apartment, to another large window.

Several minutes later, quiet footsteps get louder as Din leaves the child's room and closes the door.

"He tried to lift one of the sculptures," Din scoffs.

You laugh, picturing the child peacefully sleeping after tiring himself with the effort. It wasn't the first time today. Growing serious, you turn to face the Mandalorian.

"He helped me today. Someone grabbed at me and he… did what he does."

Din takes two huge strides toward you. "Did anyone see? What happened?"

"No one saw. It was in a closed alley. I-" you pause in momentary reluctance, then remember who you're talking to. "I took care of it."

You glance at the blaster on the table that Din had given you earlier that morning.

For the first time in a long time, Din's sigh is one of relief instead of irritation.

"Thank you," he says. "Again."

You wave him off, "It was between a scumsucker and the kid. Wasn't exactly hard," you try to make light of it.

Din shakes his head slightly. "I've seen you use a blaster. I'm glad the kid was there," he deadpans.

You exhale in feigned irritation, pleased by his playfulness.

He comes to stand next to you at the open window, and the peaceful silence is companionable.

As the breeze flutters, you shiver noticeably and his torn, rough cape curls into your ankle. The Mandalorian turns his head to you and reads how low your heat signature is.

Din stalks back to the entryway where he had set down a cloth bag. He snatches it up and brings it over to you.

"I hope they are acceptable."

Hands outstretched, you freeze as you realize you're being given a gift. You blink and look up, desperately trying to read a face you know you can't.

"Um, I've never -" you whisper, needing to tell him why you look like you've been struck. "Never had someone give me something."

Inside his beskar armor, Din grimaces. Had he overstepped? It might get even worse when you see how personal the items are.

He releases his hold on the bag and you open it, pulling out a pair of clothes. They're dark blue, and, while somewhat flowy like your current clothes, these do not have holes, stains, nor bad memories associated.

And they are a gift from Din Djarin.

How do you thank him for these? They certainly weren't cheap. The clothing is sturdy but light, beautiful but practical.

Embarrassingly, tears collect in your eyes.

"Oh, wow," you look up at him, panicking. "I can't take these." It was too much.

Din has an excuse in his arsenal.

"Take it as payment for your help with the kid."

You look back down at the material in your hands, rubbing the soft fabric.

"Thank you, Din. Really. I- I don't know how to thank you. You have been so kind to me."

His cheek pulls upward when you say his name for the first time. How sweet it sounds in your mouth.

"You needed them. These," he waves at the shredded scraps on your frame, "are no longer clothes."

You smile timidly, unused to being treated so well. "I'm going to go take them off and burn them."

The Mandalorian taps his vambrace. "I have the means when you're ready."

"Thank you again," you murmur, escaping to the refresher.

Din steps to the center of the room and places a hologram disk on the low table.

While you're busy, he's going to figure out how to get out of this.

***

After an actual shower, real water loosening the knots in your muscles, you exhale in pleasure at the feeling of the clean, well-made clothing on your skin. You feel like a person.

It's similar to seeing hyperspace for the first time. It scares you with how good it feels, knowing you’ve missed out on so much.

You slide open the refresher door to see Din seated on the couch, facing away from you. He sits reclined, his legs spread wide. The Mandalorian hears the door open, but he does not turn.

Stomach growling, you head to the cold storage near the front door. The box of food you'd bought from a vendor sits on the countertop. You unpack it carefully, still in disbelief you can eat whatever you want.

"Are you hungry?" You call to the Mandalorian as you continue to pull items from the box.

"You are no longer a slave. You do not have to serve me." The deep, rough voice sounds from right behind you, and you jump in surprise.

"Dank farrik, you move quietly."

Din reaches around you for one of the fruits you had purchased with his credits. His nearness has your body tensing, but he backs away almost immediately.

"How do you eat with that on?" You wonder, clearly meaning his helmet.

"I don't," he answers, walking into the other bedroom.

***

A week passes in that calm hotel apartment. The child provided more than enough entertainment for you, attempting to lift different objects of his desire at random.

For Din, so used to the child's antics, you are the object of his attention. You brush it off when he stands near you at the window, when he ensures that you have something to eat, and when he silently takes the couch over the comfortable bed.

But you're unable to ignore his touch.

Just after you wake, the dual suns begin to peek around the tall city buildings. Trying not to wake Din on the couch, you tiptoe to the window in the main room, still enthralled with the city view. You’ve seen cities thousands of times throughout your enslavement, often imagining running away to explore. Now that you have the opportunity, you find that you don’t want to go.

Seated on the bare floor, your arms wrapped around your knees as you watch the suns rise, you're wandering down halls of your own thoughts when a voice drifts into your consciousness.

"I will get your bounty lifted."

Turning your head, Din leans forward on the couch, his forearms on his knees.

"If that's what you are concerned about."

You shake your head, "I'm not concerned. I think I'm happy."

You had just come to that conclusion a moment earlier. It's an emotion you don't remember feeling. It's like your lungs are expanding after twenty years of suffocation.

You look back at the city and smile contentedly, "This is the best my life has been."

The admission is extremely personal, but you can’t keep it to yourself. It’s liberating. You weren't ready to fight for your freedom when the Mandalorian came for your master, but you are now.

Din’s footsteps advance on you until he’s standing off to your right. He says nothing.

After an interminable length of time, wondering what he’s doing, you twist and look up at him. His helmet turns toward the window just as you face him.

His hands are folded behind him, but a sliver of something flesh-toned is visible.

Is that his wrist?

Your stomach drops. His bare skin. It looks warm-toned and soft. You close your eyes and turn away, back toward the window.

“I am glad,” Din says.

“About what?” Since it has been several minutes since either of you have spoken, you’re unsure if he’s responding or making a statement.

He simply looks back down at you as if that answers your question.

“We’ll be leaving today,” Din continues to study you, appreciating the way the orange dawn lights your face. “You’ve almost drained me of credits with this palace of a hotel.”

You deny the accusation with a laugh, “I did not. I told you I made a deal.”

“And you have not told me what that deal was,” he says, a hint of a threat in his tone.

Din is on edge about your ‘deal.’ The night before, he had gone down to the reception desk to intimidate the clerk about it, but the employee you’d dealt with hadn’t been there.

“I promised you already - it has nothing to do with you or him,” you motion toward the child’s room. “It is not worth your attention.”

Din scowls. “You are also under my charge, and if you’ve placed yourself in danger, I need to be aware of it.”

Your face snaps up, uselessly trying to make eye contact with him. His charge? Why does your face feel hot at those words?

Finally taking pity on him, you answer, “He was a gambler. I bet him I could win more rounds of sabacc. And I did.”

The Mandalorian is stock-still. That was all? Din had gotten incredibly worked up over what you could possibly owe this mysterious desk clerk, and all you’d done was a bit of hustling?

“Why would you not tell me that right away?”

“I didn’t want to seem like I was bragging,” you frown. Din had tasked you with something and you had wanted to complete it with as little fanfare as possible.

“What other skills have you been hiding?” Din’s tone is half-mocking, half-serious. He knows next to nothing about you despite the monopoly you’ve had on his thoughts.

You side-eye him, unsure of his intention. “I can do basic ship repairs. I can speak four languages. I know how to fight.”

“I am not convinced of that last one.”

“The cyborg caught me on a bad day,” you protest.

"It was fortunate you were not seriously injured. I wouldn't have the credits for this," he nods his head up at the high ceiling.

For the second time, your head turns to scrutinize him, but he’s as impenetrable as ever.

"Why not?"

Din's silver face snaps down to you. "The quarry would not have made it into the carbon freezer."

And as you open your mouth - to say what, you have no idea - a quiet knock raps on the front door.

Spooked, you whirl so that you face the door, still seated.

“It’s alright,” Din’s deep, rough voice soothes.

When he holds out his hand to help you stand, you take it without second thought.

But it wasn’t just a hint of his wrist that you saw - his gloves are completely off. His rough palm slides into your grasp, and his thick fingers close around your hand.

Eyes widening, you audibly gasp.

Din raises you to your feet with no effort, and you wind up far too close to him. Your breath fogs on his chestplate, and your pulse thrums in your ears.

Too-quickly, his thumb rubs your skin, and then he releases your hand. Do you imagine the sigh he makes as he steps away?

Your eyes are glued to his broad form as he retrieves his gloves from the couch, then heads to answer the door.

“Should I -?” You whisper.

“Stay,” he says simply.

It’s unbelievable how one word could affect you. You swallow hard and clasp your hands together in front of you.

***

“As you are well aware, Mandalorian, my esteemed patron was unhappy to hear about her son’s death. However, you are of concern to us for a different reason. If we are able to reward you for your silence regarding where her son was at the time of his unfortunate, accidental death, this business might be put behind us.”

The slimeball flashes her biggest smile at the bounty hunter.

“What am I being paid to be silent about? The Hutt was banished by the Republic due to his slavery connections. Is the Senator afraid of her choice in friends being known?”

The emissary smiles nastily. “Let us say that the Hutt is also on my list of individuals to speak with.”

“I require explicit terms regarding this agreement. I am a Mandalorian, I can assure you of my discretion.”

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slavery you overheard between the Senator’s son and Salaa the Hutt, and we shall reward you with twenty-thousand credits to be paid over the course of three months.”

To your horror, Din rises from the couch and nods his head, saying, “I accept your terms.”

“And what about her?” The emissary wrinkles her nose as she indicates you.

“She is a slave,” the Mandalorian says with harsh finality.

You physically shrink next to him. He had insisted you remain while they spoke, but now you’re regretting agreeing to it.

The distaste with which he had uttered the word ‘slave’ makes you feel unclean, unwanted. Tears threaten to spill over, and you keep your head down in a familiar, submissive posture in case they do.

The bounty hunter escorts the Twi’lek emissary to the door while you sit, head bowed, on the couch.

“Senator Nesota will be most appreciative. If you are ever in Coruscant, she would be delighted to have you visit her apartments. They are most grand.” She disapprovingly glances around the hotel room. “I assume you had your slave pick this one.” The emissary briefly places her hand on the Mandalorian’s forearm, “Remember, we are friends now, Din Djarin.”

The helmet saves his entire operation, for Din cannot stop the disgusted scowl that mars his face. This piece of scum uses his name to both threaten and flirt; the difference in his feelings between her saying it and you saying it are blindingly stark.

“I do not have friends. My name is not for your use,” he says evenly as he punches the button for the front door.

The emissary walks away without another word.

When Din closes the door, he turns back to you with a sense of relief for more than one reason.

But something is wrong.

“Do you not feel well?”

You shake your head, “I misunderstood something. That’s all.” Your head remains bowed.

“You will not look at me.”

“I am… embarrassed,” you mutter honestly.

An emotion Din has never experienced or understood, he is at a loss. Instead, he sits across from you and tosses you the recorder.

The small, comm-looking device lands on your lap, and you pick it up, curiously rolling it in your hands. You press the button.

“Very well. You will not divulge the conversation regarding slav-”

You stop the device and look up at Din with renewed hope, “You were lying.”

Din leans forward in his seat, “I was not lying. I gave her my word as a Mandalorian. But you didn’t.”

“That’s a stretch and you know it,” you laugh.

Din shrugs. The moral reasoning works for him.

“I am to send this recording to the Republic, correct? Get the senator removed from office?”

“She will no longer have the funds to pay our bounties. They will be considered void.”

Your smile falters. He had done what he promised.

Din tilts his head, “You’re unhappy about that?”

“It’s not your problem, of course. But I have to deal with the slaver’s reward. And… and I am not sure what I should do, where I should go.”

Really, you’re saddened because there is no longer any reason for you to stay. You wish there was.

The Mandalorian is silent, weighing his choice of words carefully.

"There is room on the Razor Crest. The kid is fond of you. I can pay you for your services to him. And, occasionally, the ship needs repairs - you can assist me with those.”

“Is this that ‘legal employment’ you told me I needed?” You grin. “I would like that very much.”

“You will need to learn how to fight, though,” he shakes his head, his tone teasing. “The kid can’t save you every time.”

____________________________________

You sit on the hold floor, the child in your arms. Having left the inn rather early, the child is still asleep.

Jostling as Din lands the Razor Crest on a new planet, you slowly stand and place the little lump in his hammock and shut the door.

The Mandalorian drops down into the hold, passing you and hitting the button for the boarding ramp. Deciding to trust him, you don't ask where you're being taken.

The answer isn't far. Din stops right at the treeline and hands you the same silver blaster from the previous week's fight with the cyborg.

"You need to learn to use it."

"I've done well with a blaster before," you protest. "I shot Rathos."

"But you didn't shoot the cyborg," you can hear the frown in his deep voice. "Pick a tree."

Nervous to be evaluated by a master of the craft, you hesitate briefly before aiming at a massive trunk a few speeders lengths away.

The plate of his armor brushes against your back as the Mandalorian gingerly sets his heavy hands on your shoulders, straightening them. With his boot, he taps the inside of your foot, indicating you should widen your stance.

You blink rapidly. Your face flushes with warmth. Why is your heart thundering? Can he hear it?

He can.

His own heart rate increases when his helmet's display shows your heat signature rising. Din pushes it further: his leather-covered hands slide down to your waist where he turns you a fraction - completely unnecessarily.

Close enough that, were he unveiled, you could feel his breath, he murmurs, "Fire."

Utterly distracted, you squeeze the trigger as a matter of following his command. The blaster shot continues on through the treetops, singeing leaves.

Din straightens, his hands leaving your body, and he huffs.

"You distracted me," you explain. "I can hit it."

You realign the weapon and inhale deeply, releasing on the exhale just as you would with an arrow.

The tree sizzles as you hit it dead-center.

Spinning to face him triumphantly, the smile freezes on your lips.

One of the suns on this planet has begun to drop behind him, and his large frame casts you in shadow. He still hasn't moved away from you. The way his mask is angled toward you makes you believe he's lost in thought.

"What is it?" You whisper in the tense silence.

Din feels dizzy. You're a natural with a weapon you'd fired all of three times. Your words cudgel his mind. He had distracted you enough to miss a huge karking tree.

"Do it again."

You nod and return to the target. Throwing your mind back to your childhood, you once again hit the tree dead-on.

Weighing the blaster in your hand, you turn back to him and say, "I still prefer wooden weapons. Or at least something resembling a spear."

"Why is that?" His voice is rough, and his hands find a home on his hips.

"That's how I grew up," you answer.

"Okay. Grab one."

Your mouth drops open in confusion, but he finally leaves your personal space and picks up a slender, twigless branch.

"You can't be serious," you sputter a laugh, certain he had just found a sense of humor. "I'm not fighting you."

"Why not?"

"Um. Because I can't."

"You can." He holds the stick out toward you.

You stare at him, watchful, as you curl your fingers around it. Din removes a small, cylindrical object from his utility belt. He pumps it once and it unfolds into a thin cane-like weapon.

"It's been twenty years," you frown. "You're going to win."

But, when that makeshift spear is in your hand, it all rushes back. The key to winning is in gaining ground. Whatever you do, push your opponent back. So, you launch at him first.

Only partially surprised by the speed of the typically-timid girl now coming for his throat, Din manages to duck out of the way just in time. But you whirl to the opposite side he expects, and swing your weapon into his helmet. It clangs, and you stand upright.

"I'm sorry!" You react, fearful both from years of mistreatment and not wanting to hurt Din.

He ignores you, swishing his weapon toward your middle, and you jump backward. Hating that you conceded even that little ground, you quickly drop to a crouch and sweep at his knees like Rathos did to you.

Din rockets upward a few feet, then drops back down on your other side. He swings at you and you parry.

Dancing for several steps, you eventually land a blow to his ribs where the beskar does not cover. Din's modulated groan makes you feel a rush of two separate emotions.

You don't want to hurt him, but that sound ignites a heat between your legs.

Din retaliates, kicking his tipless spear into your chest and shoving you backward. He knows your move, now. You don't like giving up ground, so you'll throw yourself at him, arms raised to strike.

When you do exactly as he predicts, he drops his weapon completely, grabbing you around the waist and spinning. He throws you to the ground, coming down on top of you.

You laugh, exhilarated, "Almost."

Something is jabbing your hip, and when you shift to identify it, Din grunts again. Your eyes shoot to his hidden face.

Under the helmet, Din's brown eyes are blown, pained at how aroused he is. He can't handle much more of this. Your wide eyes and galloping heart match his, but underneath him you look so vulnerable that he feels downright predatory. His stiff length twitches.

Din’s voice is raw, barely contained, "Tell me to stop and I will." His gloved thumbs push your bottoms down.

Speechless, your core pulsing, you nod.

Din unfastens the material around his middle, pulls his desperate cock from the flight suit, and hastily positions himself against you. Your slick coats him as he drags himself through your folds. He groans through the modulator.

“Oh,” you gasp when he eases the tip past your entrance.

Unable to wait a moment longer, Din sheaths himself inside you with a determined grunt, his patch of dark curls mingling with yours.

Your hands try to fist in his flight suit, eyes wide at the incredible feeling of him filling you. His right hand cradles your jaw as he starts to rock his hips, cursing as he does so.

For the first time in his life, Din resents his helmet; both for the separation from your soft skin, and the heightened senses it gives him. How is he supposed to last when he can see your heart racing, hear your quiet cries as though they’re inside his own head?

In an insufficient compromise, he rips off his gloves. His tan skin is calloused and scarred.

“Yes,” you plead.

Din intertwines his fingers on both hands with yours, hypnotized for a precious second by the intimacy. Reverently, you press a kiss to his knuckles. He makes a wild sound deep in his chest, then plunges your hands above your head.

Pushing your chest to his, you signal that he can do anything he wants to you. He collects both your wrists in one hand.

Din rhythmically arcs into you, the sound of his body - soaked from your arousal - striking yours nearly driving you insane. When you’d imagined it before, you wondered if looking into the blank face of his helmet might be off-putting, but you find that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because it’s him. If anything, it’s erotic to trust him so blindly.

Din is resolved to know your body better than you do. With his free hand, his fingers nimbly massage your clit until you jerk.

“There?” He confirms.

You nod, unable to speak. His heavy, straining cock dragging through you, and his rough fingers replace the output from all other senses.

When he finds the perfect combination, he doesn’t let up until your eyes screw shut and you shake, incoherent underneath him in ecstasy.

“You can say it,” he hoarsely encourages through the modulator.

It was already on your lips, “Din.”

The hand that acted as a manacle releases you as he places his palm on the ground, giving himself as much leverage to bury himself as deep as possible. The toes of Din’s boots dig up clumps of grass as he thrusts into you, the sound of skin slapping skin lost in the breeze. Your legs curl around his waist, pulling him deeper.

He feels the spark at the base of his spine and knows he doesn’t have much strength left. Your fingers twist into the fabric of his flight suit again, clinging to him for all you’re worth.

Din makes the mistake of looking into your lust-filled eyes as you speak.

“Let go,” you whisper tenderly, feeling his tense body begin to fracture.

Din has no choice but to obey you, pumping himself into you with a long, harsh sigh. He works his release inside you, gradually slowing until his arms shake.

He finally drops to the ground beside you, breathing rapidly.

Suddenly shy, you want nothing more than to reach over and take one of his hands, but you lack the confidence. You also don’t know what to say.

Din doesn’t believe there’s anything to say. He had never been so tempted in all his life, and he had not passed the test. A shred less self-control and his helmet might’ve followed the gloves.

In fact, the temptation is still so strong that he begins to plan for its eventuality.

____________________________________

#din djarin #my fics #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfic #din djarin fanfic #din djarin fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #Spotify #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #grogu #baby yoda #my writing

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probablyasocialecologist · 8 months

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If Ugandans have a social safety net, it is woven from banana fibers, and if there is a clear path to socialism, it will be lined with banana leaves. The lusuku model, premised on intercropping and smallholder farming, could be the basis for national agrarian reform that improves the lives of Uganda’s agricultural workers without accelerating the destruction of the natural environment. Uganda faces increasing difficulty feeding itself because of climate extremes and land degradation, and this affects farmers more significantly than anyone else. Moreover, since the 1990s, the ruling National Resistance Movement regime sold off and dismantled most of the coffee, tea, and cotton growers cooperatives, leaving smallholder farmers in the hands of the predatory middlemen which cooperatives had been established to protect them against. Unable to collectively bargain and exposed to dramatic fluctuations in the market prices for cash crops, many people left rural areas to search for employment in cities. This has been a driving force behind the massive inequality between rural and urban workers. Ugandans now produce more food than they consume, even exporting to other countries in the region, yet 41% of people are undernourished, and agricultural production has decreased over the last 20 years. For the most part, the strategy pursued by Uganda’s government has been to encourage the development of ecologically disastrous intensive agriculture for export, privileging foreign investors rather than developing the infrastructure that would benefit peasants. Indeed, while more than 70% of Ugandans are employed in agriculture, the sector only receives around 4% of public investment, and projects aimed at helping smallholder farmers have had very little success, even by their own standards. Many of the government’s investments in agriculture very clearly advantage larger landowners, to the detriment of the poorest farmers. For example, most of the government’s investment in labor-saving technologies has been spent on tractors, which are great for large plots but largely unaffordable or unsuitable for the average farmer, whose plot is usually between 1-3 acres large. However, a socialist transition premised on agroecological reforms could make use of the existing lusuku model to create the kind of growth that actually improves poor farmers’ lives without destroying their environment. This could begin with reestablishing cooperatives and engineering agricultural prices around social needs and goals, like guaranteeing access to food. Research from around the world has shown that while large, monocrop plantations are good at producing huge volumes of one crop, smallholder farms are more productive when evaluated on a per-unit area and are capable of securing national food sovereignty. Why, for example, should Ugandans buy rice imported from Pakistan or Vietnam when banana intercropping yields more calories per hectare than rice? Lusukus could feed the nation without relying on foreign experts, development aid, or the capital-intensive inputs now being imported to grow for export. Because lusukus are far better for the soil, they also improve the nation’s capacity to resist severe floods and drought, effects of climate change that hit poor farmers hardest. In these ways, the lusuku model could provide a sustainable path to socialist development.

#uganda #agroecology #socialism #agriculture #for a banana (socialist) republic #banana discourse

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persimminos · 24 days

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not to be horny on main but……….thinking about virgin!james again and the way after many dates and many soiled boxer briefs regulus would slowly work his way up from frotting without clothes to finally letting his cock breach but only just the tip and making james cum from that little stimulation on his cockhead only to sink down completely once he’s done coming and riding him until he’s hard again (it doesn’t even take a minute). increasingly going more breathy as he tells james how good he feels inside how big and full and how it’s hitting all the right spots and james comes embarrassingly fast again and also many times which ends with reg pressing james’ face between his legs demanding he licks it all up and where he uses james to get off :))))))

AWOO james making some choked-off garbled sound when regulus sinks down fully causing his hips to stutter while painting regulus' insides white pretty much. he's such a mess, hissing and moaning simultaneously, jack-rabbity thrusts because he's oversensitive but will be damned if it ends there. his short refractory period is truly what saves him even when he doesn't last long. filling out in regulus and tugging him down to his chest because he's overcome with this insatiable desire to pretty much absorb him and although his movements are uncoordinated, he succeeds in drawing out these tiny little moans from regulus while fucking into him. abso-fucking-lutely prides himself in the fact when he discovers regulus gets even louder when being dirty talked to (specifically praise).

im going insane thinking about regulus joking 'you better clean this up' when james' cum literally oozes out of him and literally feeling dizzy from horniness ultimatum when james lets out a pathetic whimper and goes 'please' . he's so fucking out of it he can't even formulate a sexy flirty response before james is grabbing him by the hips and hoisting him up onto his fucking face to eat him out, blabbering how he's wanted to do this for ages

#inbx #regulus comes so hard his vision whites out after riding james' face #he's twitching across the sheets hearing colors #need james sheepish as hell hard again while watching regulus' soul return to his body

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j0eyj0rdis0n · 7 months

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heyyy i know this is weird but i need some creeps angst in my life so could you write the general creeps finding you dead?

thank youuuu i love your writing sm!!

You know honestly me too. I live for creeps angst/angst in general so I’m happy to give it to you! Angst writing is actually strangely comforting to me too.

THE CREEPS FINDING YOU DEAD

JEFF THE KILLER

Finding you dead wasn’t on Jeff’s bucket list at all. It hadn’t crossed his mind that he could come home one day to find you slaughtered just like he did today. Your blood ran through the grooves in the tiled kitchen floor as he stood above you.

Jeff had felt rage before, but nothing like this. Nothing so burning, nothing so strong. He knew he was hated, but that had nothing to do with you. Nothing.

He stormed out of the house, going house by house, neighborhood by neighborhood. Murdering, killing, slaughtering, torturing. One by one. Person by person. Each time leaving at least one alive to witness, to feel the immense pain that he did. The agony of losing the one you loved.

All of this was for you. A final way to show his love.

“TICCI” TOBY

Coming home late from missions was a common occurrence. He often found you curled up in your blankets sound asleep. And honestly he couldn’t tell the difference until he took his place next to you in bed. He felt something wet against his neck, feeling around further to find a majority of the bed to be just as wet. Toby quickly turned on the light, turning to find your blood staining the sheets.

“N-no! Y/N fuck!-“ He tried doing CPR like EJ had taught him. But his mind was running a million miles an hour and the cracking of your ribs as he tried the compressions quickly deterred him.

Toby felt his heart shatter as he realized this was it… You were gone and there was no way to save you…

He turned from your lifeless body, clutching his head and breathing heavy. He felt like he was dying too. His chest tightening and his hands shaking. He felt tears running down his face as he fell to his knees, rocking back and forth while trying to calm down.

“No- n-n-no- no-“ was all he could repeat to himself as he tried his hardest to self soothe.

TIM/MASKY

“Honey I’m home!” He called as he shut the front door. Tim had just come home from getting the groceries you asked for. You had told the creeps that you’d make dinner tonight if they felt like coming over.

When no response came he felt a wave of worry rush over him. He swiftly dropped the plastic bags of groceries and began looking through the first floor of your shared house. He climbed the carpeted stairs with heavy anxious steps from his hefty work boots, pushing open your bedroom door he found you. You lay out on your large bed, your dress soiled in crimson blood. He didn’t even dare enter the room, he couldn’t.

His body was frozen in place as he stared… He felt his hands tremble as he looked you over from afar. Your skin had gone pale, your chest unmoving… Every part of him wanted to lose it. He wanted to scream, yell, break down and cry, smash everything in sight. But his body remained frozen. Even through the whirlwind of emotions going through his head he stood still. All he could do was stand and stare.

It felt like seconds but hours had long passed and he felt a hand on his shoulder. Only then did he slowly turn his head to see Jeff. He had never seen him look so somber.

“Let’s go man… They’re gone…”

BRIAN/HOODIE

You’d been on a mission together, get equipment from the hospital nearby and get out. It had seemed like an easy job, you both walked into it with full confidence. But running out in your partners arms, you didn’t feel confident at all.

Your side burned from the bullet lodged deep in you. Holding back tears was a battle you couldn’t win as you writhed in pain in Hoodie’s arms. Only when he deemed you two were far enough away did he let you down, laying you gently on the grass. The bleeding was worse than he had first thought. He watched as your movements slowed, your eyes fluttering. The masked man worked quickly to try to stop the vicious bleeding. Applying heavy pressure against your wound, barely whispering words of assurances as he tried his best to keep you alive.

He was glad his mask was on because underneath it all he was freaking out. His gaze was crazed, his eyebrows upturned in worry as his gloves soaked up your warm blood. It wasn’t long before your chest fell one final time and your heart stopped beating.

His hands shook as he pulled them away, rising from the ground and running as fast as his legs would carry him.

EYELESS JACK

As soon as he heard your heart stop beating from the other room he went running. Scrambling to get to you, to save you. He started compressions immediately, hands precise as he worked to bring you back. He knew you were seriously ill, he had been doing everything he could to heal you, to make you better. He didn’t realize all he had done was prolong your pain.

If he knew it was this bad he would’ve made you as comfortable as he could. He would’ve let you go…

Right..?

He was selfless enough to let you go wasn’t he? He wouldn’t keep you around selfishly…?

He worked for close to fifteen minutes, working up a sweat. Hoping, praying that you’d open your pretty eyes to him. His chest sunk when he realized there was no hope for bringing you back. Taking off his mask, Jack climbed into bed and curled into you. The demon stayed next to you, inhaling your sent until your warmth had disappeared. Even after you’d gone cold he stayed. He growled when anyone dared take a step into the room, snapping when anyone even got close.

Only on his terms would he prepare you for a funeral.

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infernalodie · 9 months

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𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈 𝐊𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐏𝐭.𝟐 || 𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

"𝘐𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘒𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘥"

Inspo: Jacob Banks - Devil That I Know Sabrina Claudio - Frozen

Pairing: Abby Anderson x Black!Fem!reader

Summary: Trouble in paradise...

Warning: Fluff with angst at the end.

Part One - Finale

Words: 4829

The love you had felt a day ago had been deeply invested in the soil of your mind. Roots interweaved and twisted until they met one solid structure that stood strong and tall. Supplied with nutrients that were needed; love and care.

That was what love stood for and represented. Something strong, unmoving, and beautiful. Yet, in less than 24 hours, Ellie’s actions had been able to break that tree down to a rotting, hollow trunk. The roots able to retract and give supply to another tree had done so. Leaving the remaining ones to stand still as a flame burnt them to a crisp.

She’d done that. She’d managed to bring a firestorm to what was fine and unique and destroy it. A burnt forest left to take what was once beautiful.

You were broken. Sadly, that was a truth you had admitted when Issac had you locked up once more. Left to craft a makeshift bandage from the wound in your leg and just wait. Wishing there was some way you could alleviate the weight in your chest.

Abby hadn’t said anything to you after you gave her the info she needed. Truthfully, you were too exhausted and hurt to care either. All you cared about was sleep and hopefully being allowed to leave this cell soon.

“We shouldn’t have left her as we did.” Dina’s words shook the auburn-haired girl from her empty stare. Turning her head to the other to find her sitting up from the couch, still feeling the sickness from her pregnancy. “Maybe it was a mistake for me to ever tell you how I felt. If it saved me from feeling the weight I do, I would’ve kept everything to myself.”

Ellie chewed on her bottom lip, shaking her head as she replayed those few moments. A large vent pinning your foot and restricting your movements. And when the foul screech of a Clicker sounded, silencing the trio, raising the anxiety in their bodies. It all just happened so fast. You were trapped. If they tried to do anything, they would’ve been dead as well. Then this would’ve all been for nothing, and Ellie couldn’t have that.

But maybe she was just saying that to herself to justify the purpose of her selfish decision. An argument could be made that she felt something for Dina and everything between you two had been fizzling out like water to sugar. But that would also mean her having to admit she led you on because she had. And maybe this was the easiest way for her to non-verbally tell you that things were different now.

“She’s dead, Dina,” Ellie finally spoke, turning her head half-heartedly toward the ill girl. But ever meeting her guilty eyes. “She knew what she was signing up for when she came along.”

Dina pursed her lips, wiping away the tears that slid down her cheeks. “But you aren’t acknowledging the obvious, Ellie,” she pointed out. “She was your girlfriend and you chose me over her. Do you not feel any guilt over that?”

Licking her lips, Ellie reached over and took Dina’s hand. “All I know is that I chose the girl that I love.”

The city streets were quiet. Way too quiet for Abby. There was the occasional conversation with Manny and Mel, but not enough to ease her cautious awareness that they were out in the open and a perfect target for the Seraphites.

Hearing a quiet grumble behind her, she peeked over her shoulder to see you holding your stomach. “Do you want me to carry your pack?” She inquired, surprising herself with how soft the question was.

But you raised your hand, exhaling heavily. “If we get in a firefight, I need you to shoot. The pack helps keep me planted when I’m firing,” you pointed out, able to spare a faint smile toward the girl. “But a shot of Vodka might be good right now.”

Abby smiled, placing a large hand on your lower back as the both of you moved up the steps of the old warehouse that stored a boat. “When we get to the F.O.B., I’ll be sure to get you that shot.”

It’d been some time since you were locked in that cage. Since you had to piss in a bucket or eat food off the dirty floor. But since then, your intelligence of Ellie and Dina had convinced Issac to task you with Abby for patrols or any deployments. And it wasn’t like you saw any choice in the matter. You couldn’t be banking on some sort of hope that someone would storm the stadium, kill everyone and save you. It was unrealistic. So, you did the thing you were good at. You helped people. You helped Nora and Mel where you could and stayed in that cell with the addition of a dirty mattress until Issac trusted you enough to go out on patrols.

And now, with everyone being called to the front, you were deemed needed for whatever came next. Abby reassured you, seeing this as a way to earn your keep and be considered a part of the WLF. But you knew full well where Manny stood with your presence now added to the group.

In fact, many people were indifferent about your contributions to the force. You were a doctor and started aiding the wounded from attacks then you were going on small skirmishes with fellow WLF soldiers. But they were simply waiting for the moment they could put a bullet in your back.

You held no particular fond spot in anyone’s mind. You were an anomaly. Walking a lonely highway hoping to find a new place to call home.

That’s why you stuck to yourself when moving with the trio. Mel tried to strike up some sort of conversation, but you kept your mouth shut. And you kept your eyes averted whenever Manny wished to show you his distaste for you accompanying them. Abby was really the only person you were willing to spend time with and talk to. She was the only person not looking to tear your head off. She taught you how to properly handle their rifles and taught you what you needed just in case something were to happen out in the field.

She was your only friend.

Moving through the warehouse and moving down a slope leading to a few box carts where you took notice of voices further down the tracks. With the density of bushes and tall grass, the approach was made easy, but the execution of taking the Serphaites down wasn’t. You are stuck near Abby, not trusting yourself on your own. And once she killed the first and Manny killed the second, the Seraphites took notice. Then all hell broke loose.

Gunfire sounded throughout the overgrown enclosure with you seeking refuge inside of a box cart. Taking pot shots and beginning to feel the ache in your shoulder from the recoil of the rifle. Mel, Manny and Abby handled the situation like pros. Taking one down after another until the only sound to be heard was your panting. Adrenaline coursing through your system.

“All clear!” Abby announced, shouldering her rifle. “You good?” Abby inquired, appearing from behind cover and walking toward you.

With a sheepish nod, you hopped out of the box cart and followed behind the group. Climbing up a mound of dirt and onto a broken landing that held a gate ahead of them.

Walking over, Abby pushed against one of the sides and created big enough of a gap the chain would allow. “Through here.” Abby moved out of the way, allowing you to step through first before she followed and the other two did the same.

The moment you stepped through, barely able to take account of your surroundings, a distinct whistle sounded. And before you could respond, a hand grabbed the back of your pack and yanked you inside the gas station just as the sound of gunfire appeared. Bullets whizzing past you, the wall behind the front register was slowly becoming riddled with bullets. The trio were quick to return fire and keep the Seraphites off of them for as long as they could.

But you were stuck with that constant tremble in your joints. Much like when you had your first run-in with the cult, you couldn’t pull the trigger. This fieldwork wasn’t where you belonged. You preferred being stuck inside a tent smelling like metal and injured bodies all around you. That was when you were in your zone. But this? This shit isn’t ever going to be where you exceed.

By the time the gunfire stopped, you were already being hoisted to your feet. Faced to look at all the dead bodies of cultists, which were a lot more than you were expecting. They had the upper hand, the same firepower and large able bodies. But you were beginning to discover the pattern with Abby that she was practically invincible and a lot better than most people in this day and age were capable of being.

“We got wounded in the truck. Mind giving us a hand with that, outsider?” The title had stuck rather quickly in the short amount of time of you being “recruited” into the WLF. Everyone didn’t call you by your name or consider you a human being. If anything, you were a dog on a leash, being tugged along by Issac to do as he ordered. Because if you weren’t going to give him any info on Ellie or Dina, then he would make you useful.

Nodding, you followed into the truck after Manny. Moving to the center relinquishing your pack and quickly pulling out some gauze. Glancing up at the injured WLF soldier, he was shot right through the hand. Nothing that could limit his capabilities to work, but it would make him have to put down the rifle for a few weeks at best.

“Hold your hand out for me. This isn’t going to hurt, but bear with me, all right?” The man nodded, straining as you began to wrap the gauze around the wound. “You might think this part is the worst, but I’m going to need you to squeeze this as hard as you can.” Placing the roll of gauze in his hand, you slipped back into the seat behind you and sighed. Holstering your rifle and securing it whilst ejecting the round from the chamber. Out of everything Joel taught you and what you picked up, it was never wrong to make sure a gun was extra safe.

“You froze.” Lifting your gaze, you found Manny staring at you with almost a look of empathy. It was new coming from him. Constant badgering and snide remarks were all you got from the man. “In the train yard and gas station. You froze.”

It took you a moment, letting out a breathy laugh as you nodded sheepishly. “I’m not good with guns.”

“That’s hard to believe considering how you discharged your weapon.” He motioned to the rifle in your grasp. “Who taught you that?”

With pursed lips, you looked down. “Joel. Joel Miller.” That created a riveting silence amongst the “Salt Lake” group that stared at you. Still, the vivid imagery of that night still haunted Abby to this day. And to think that you travelled all the way here with your ex and a friend to kill her and everyone there that killed Joel was hard to grasp. She guessed this was some sort of act of torture. Forcing her to see the pain she indirectly caused with her decision. “But my father taught me how to handle a rifle–the basics, you know? His father taught him since he was a Vet before the world went to shit and whatnot. But Joel taught me to how to shoot, how to clean a gun, and how to kill someone.”

For the rest of the ride, the group was silent and you enjoyed it. Often, you felt like the outcast during most conversations with Abby’s group. The point being; they killed a close friend of yours. So, it wasn’t like you could talk about getting beers or having a barbeque with them. Instead, you would stand there in silence and only talk when someone attempted to converse with you. So, the silence was slowly becoming your best friend each day.

Arriving at the F.O.B., you hopped off the truck and assisted the injured man and Mel off. But it wasn’t long before a man came running over. “Hey, Outsider! Issac wants you in his office, pronto!”

Abby smiled. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” She teased.

You scoffed, nudging her softly. “I’ll see you up there?”

“You can count on it.” You smiled once more at the woman, feeling your guys’ gaze linger on one another a moment too long before you turned. Cheeks warm as you followed the soldier through the front barracks of the base.

From the gate, WLF soldiers were piled up under tents to avoid the sun. Some were working with faulty weaponry and supplying ammo, assisting with teammate’s gear. Others were working on battle plans and zones occupying Serphite forces. And in the center was where the fresh scent of food caught your senses. Men and women seated on dirty benches feasting on one of the few meals they could get in a day. It made you wish you got to stay back at the stadium. At least then you got to eat some fruit and not starve.

Entering the central compound, the dim lighting of fires blossoming from barrels did very little to give you a view of the interior. It wasn’t until you reached the lobby made into a jail of sorts that you could see clearer. The backup generators set up outside gave the fluorescent lights power with them occasionally flickering. But your eyes shifted to the prisoners. Seraphites and outsiders. All of them sitting in their own piss and shit. The sight of it was more enlightening than disgusting because you were in their place a mere few days ago. You were sleeping on concrete in your own filth. The only difference was Abby had specifically requested that you be given a bucket. The point was, seeing it from the outside gave you insight into what you must’ve looked like. And safe to say, you weren’t planning on it ever happening again.

Riding the elevator up to the office, the soldier opened the door for you. But you found no sign of Issac and as if the man was reading your thoughts, he said, “He’ll be up shortly.” And he left without hearing your response. Leaving you in a cleansing silence that you slowly eased back into. Collapsing onto a counter and staring out the window. The sunset hit your face nicely and allowed itself to warm you from the cold inside the office.

It took a few minutes, but Issac soon arrived. But when he entered, he turned around and stopped Manny and Abby. “The both of you wait outside.”

You frowned, sliding off the counter and looking past your leader at a confused Abby who looked like she wanted to protest but was stopped by the door closing on her.

Issac then turned to you. “Y/n,” he sighed, walking to his desk. “I heard you’ve been a great help at the Stadium.”

“Um, yes, sir. I’ve been picking up jobs where I can.” You hated these types of conversations with the man. It wasn’t too long ago that he had you tied to a chair and was extracting information from you. Cutting you up and probably was planning on doing worse. But you hated how intimidating he could be at times. You weren’t the confrontational type and he solidified it with his constant hollow demeanor.

“That’s good. Good.” Lifting up a paper, he waved it with a smile, scoffing to himself. “This job is going to kill me.”

“What can I do, sir?” You asked, taking a step.

He sighed, turning to sit on the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. “In the next coming days, I’m going to need you to stay here.”

The order nearly made you laugh. But finding his expression unchanging, you felt your own smile slowly drop. “May I ask why, sir?”

“We’re staging an assault against the Seraphite’s island and when we come back, I’m going to need a medic ready to patch our soldiers-”

“Is Abby going, sir?” The question slipped without much thought being put into it. Judging by the look on Issac’s face, he wasn’t exactly expecting it either. But he’d seen and heard about the two of you. How the both of you were nearly joined to the hip since you were released. He wasn’t sure how his most trusted soldier was able to grow attached to an outsider like you.

But he brushed it off. “This isn’t up for debate, Y/n,” he said. “They go, you stay.”

Pursing your lips, you nodded. “Affirm’, sir.”

“Good.” He turned back toward his desk, saying over his shoulder, “Your room is down the hall. Last door on the left.”

Biting your bottom lip, you walked to the door and swung it open. Finding the two soldiers standing talking to one another. But when they found your defeated expression, their conversation halted. Abby is the one to step forward and place a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Sniffling, you nodded, jutting a thumb over your shoulder. “You should go. He’s waiting.” Slipping past her, you were quick to wipe your cheeks as you followed the directions provided by Issac and entered your quarters for the next few days.

You didn’t know why you were crying. You didn’t want to. If anything, you were glad to be out of harm's way. Protecting and saving people was where you excelled. But you couldn’t take a life. No matter the person, it still meant that you were killing a part of yourself to survive. So, shouldn’t you be feeling relief instead of dread?

With a shaky exhale, you hit yourself in the head. “Stop!” The answer to such a simple question was Abby. It felt so wrong to care for her. After everything she’s done, she was supposed to get a bullet in the head or a knife in the stomach. But you hadn’t done what you were tasked with doing when you came to Seattle. That promise to Ellie had fallen through the moment you smiled at Abby. Then again, did you have to keep a promise with someone who couldn’t even keep theirs?

Storing your gear in the corner of the room by the bed, you made quick work to occupy your attention from the daunting thoughts and eventual conversation with Abby. Going into the fridge and pulled out some bread and eggs. Placing a pan on the stove and turning on the burner with butter soon following.

A knock sounded at the door before it slowly peeked open. Abby’s head slipped through the crack, glancing around before finding you standing in front of the stove, cracking open an egg and letting it hit the pan. Its loud sizzle and pops make you step back and look at Abby. “Do you want some?”

She smiled, shutting the door behind her. “Sure.” Walking across the room, she placed her gear with yours before looking around. Eyes staying transfixed on the single bed in the room.

“I’ll sleep on the floor.” You frowned, looking over your shoulder at the girl who was already unrolling her sleeping bag. It made you laugh.

“Scared you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself, Abby?” You asked, chuckling to yourself.

“I’ve been keeping self-control since I met you, Y/n,” Abby muttered. “But I want you to be comfortable and I would take up most of the bed.”

“But what if I don’t want to sleep alone?” You inquired a hint of mischievous intent in your voice.

Your arms crossed over your chest as Abby tilted her head slightly, smirking. This game that the two of you have played has been going on since the moment Abby saved you from imprisonment. Or maybe it started a few days after she found you helping Nora and Mel in the medical bay. Either way, it was a cat-and-mouse game that neither of you wasn’t afraid of indulging in. And, at the deepest part in your core, you knew this wasn’t okay. To sleep with the “enemy”. But she was attractive and had been nothing but caring to you since she met you. And maybe you fell for people so easily before looking at the red flags, but you wanted to enjoy life for a little while longer. At least until she left for the attack against the Seraphites. Because if she didn’t come back, you wanted to have one last night with her.

The steam of the stove grabbed your attention once more. Smirking to yourself, you flipped the egg. You could feel her gaze bore into your figure.

And it only took a few moments before you felt her hulking figure press into your back. Her pelvis is flush with your ass and her hands holding your hips. Her finger dipped further, gently pressing into your pelvis. It made you smile.

With her face pressing into the back of your head, you muttered, “If you’re wanting to fuck, then just say so, Abby Anderson.”

“Is it obvious?” Your only response was to gently shake your head, dreadlocks hitting her face, making her laugh.

With a deep guttural groan, Abby spun you around and lifted you onto the counter. A yelp fell from your lips as your hands fell to her shoulders, legs interlocking around her waist. Abby let out a deep sigh, staring up at you with a small smile.

“So, are you going to make the first move or do I have to?”

The two of you laid side by side with one another. You were still trying to capture your breath and savour the taste of Abby’s nectar on your tongue. Gently pressing kisses into her side. Your legs were tangled amongst one another with a bedsheet lazily draped over the both of you to escape the cool breeze that slipped through the window.

A sweet sheen covered your guys’ bodies that didn’t at all seem to bother either of you. If anything, it made the moment seem to carry on a little longer.

Letting out a gentle laugh, Abby sighed. “I’ve never done it with a girl.”

You smirked, rolling onto your stomach and resting on your forearms. “Did I impress?”

Abby grinned, nodding eagerly. “Oh, yeah. You did more than impress.” A soft laugh fell from your lips as you chewed on your nail, shaking your head.

Although you knew there might be some sort of clarity that hits you, making you regret your decision, you still enjoyed it. There had been something primal and intimate with Abby that you forgot what it felt like after months with Ellie. This felt way too different

“You ever think about running away?” You asked, looking at the taller girl. “

“Where would you want to go?” Abby inquired, staring up at the ceiling.

“Canada sounds nice. I mean, the winter would be shitty, but it’s nothing I’m not used to,” you said.

Abby hummed, eyebrows slightly pinching together in thought. “I think anywhere with you would be nice.”

Your lips rolled, corners pulling upwards as Abby huffed. “Flirting is not my thing, huh?”

A graceful laugh fell from your lips, forehead resting against the other side. “Baby, stick to flexing and being all sexy and flirting won’t ever have to be used.”

Another break of silence took its place with the two of you enjoying one another’s company. Holding one another softly. And it felt true. Like this is where you belonged.

Despite everything that happened leading up to this point, you liked this. It was a simple way of life working with the WLF and you wished this had been what you experienced in Jackson and with Ellie. But there always had to be something relating to Ellie’s pent-up anger and Maria tasking you with patrols. At least now you could do what you had trained yourself to do for years and feel like you might be making a difference.

And Abby made it better.

“I want you to know that I care about you.” Your confession came suddenly and caught Abby off guard. “Like, despite what we both went through. I care about you so fucking much and I know I shouldn’t. But, If I can, I want to be here with you.”

“Then stay.” You looked up at Abby, finding her smiling softly down at you. “I mean, who else is going to wake me up by throwing books at me.”

A laugh fell from your lips as you nodded. “Yeah, I guess I have a role to fulfill, huh?” She smiled, leaning down and pressing a gentle kiss to your lips before leaning back.

But Abby’s smile slowly faltered as she sighed. “I have to go out and find Owen soon. Any WLF soldier that finds him will likely shoot him on sight for what he did.” Despite her saying this, she made no move to start getting ready. She continued to stroke your hip slowly, occasionally reaching around to grab at your ass possessively. In all honesty, she didn’t want to waste any time away from you considering she was going to be putting her life on the line against the Seraphites.

You picked at the fabric of the pillowcase, adjusting your position on your forearms. Pursing your lips, you asked, “You still love him, don’t you?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have done this.” Sitting up with her back against the headboard, you adjusted to lay between her legs with your chin resting on her pelvis. “What I and Owen had is history. Young teenage love that faded out. Right now, I’m focused on you. I want to make sure I have something to come back to.”

“The attack on the Seraphites,” you measured your words, almost cautious of what you might say. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I’ll radio you if anything comes up, all right?” She kissed you on the corner of your lips and you nodded. Reach up and grab her ponytail and forcefully tug her back down to meet you fully. Tilting your head and pressing further into the kiss. Only parting with your teeth gently at her bottom lip. Warm breaths intertwined with one another as you looked up at her with those eyes that tempted her to forget Owen for a little longer and spend some more time with you

“Make sure you come back to me.”

It’d been a day or maybe two. It was hard to tell at this point with the workload given to you. What you did know is that there had been little to no communication from Abby. And laying awake in your room, thoughts of the prior night kept you up and wanting more.

In full honestly, it’d been a while since you got laid. Ellie had been rather busy before Joel even passed and most of the time she wasn’t in the mood. So, you had to deal with the pent-up stress and bottled it. Abby helped you release it and always seemed to be ready to give a “helping hand” with your situation.

So, maybe out of desperation, you grabbed your walkie-talkie and held it close. Smiling to yourself as you pressed the button and whispered, “Abby.” There was no response. “Abby, are you there?”

Again there was another long pause, making you realize how late it actually was. Making you sigh, sitting up in your bed with your legs curling into your chest. “I guess you might be sleeping. I’m pretty lonely here. I just wish you were here with me, you know?” You sighed. “I will say that if you don’t make it back to me, I’m going to go to hell and kill you again, all right? Let me know if Owen is alright and when you guys are on your way back.”

Silence filled the void, letting you hope that maybe your words had drifted into your sleepy daze and would be at the back of her mind when she woke. The idea of it made you smile. So, with a sheepish smile and a heat growing across your body, you whispered, “I love you.”

A pause before the radio clicked on with audio.

“Y/n.”

The voice made your body tense up as you stared at the device in horror. A cold chill ran down your spine, shivering as you shakily brought the device close and muttered,

“Ellie?”

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