I Adore The Vividness Of This Little World! Its So Wonderful To Watch Her Heal And Warm Up To The Cabin

I adore the vividness of this little world! It’s so wonderful to watch her heal and warm up to the cabin and the little family. And Din’s competency and knowledge about the farm animals is too hot.

On the road, he enjoys this time best alone. He likes watching the moonrise, a sweet secret of the dark just for him. But here? Suddenly he has the absurd notion that if you possess smiles like this one, what the hell does he need the moon for?

THIS part!!! I scrambled to read this last night before I went to bed, and I’ve been thinking of this part all morning. Din is so sweet and devoted already! 🥰🥰

Western Skies: Ch 4

Din Djarin x F!Reader. Western!AU. Series Masterlist. Masterlist.

Warnings: Grief; allusions to trauma (none occurs, implications are that Reader expects abuse due to past abuse); fake marriage/marriage of convenience; Reader is described as having hair and a menstrual cycle.

Summary: While you prepare to stay, Din prepares to leave, or: yearning for things we cannot have.

WC: 6.2k

Note: Follow @jules-onpaper for updates! Dividers by @mykento. Thanks so much to @frannyzooey for the encouraging beta read and the Van ladies for their constant support 🩵 Tagging cowboy girlies (gn) below (let me know if you would prefer not to be tagged):

@secretelephanttattoo @imaswellkid @fuckyeahdindjarin @goodwithcheese @maggiemayhemnj @kedsandtubesocks

Din has needed to leave for days now. Karga had been insistent the last time he had visited town. The window of opportunity was closing.

Instead he stays put, observing you closely without watching, tracking your movements through the house and the yard by the swish of your skirt, the trail of water drips you leave behind, the low chatter to the kid. Mostly he sticks by the barn, mending leather; you do not come outside as often if he trails the yard.

Din thinks he catches you watching him too. He feels it seep through the windows, your doubt and irritation and all of the clear signs you’re exactly where you don’t want to be, mourning everything you’ve ever had, and rightfully resenting his making you stay here when you could be on your way to the only other family you’ve ever known. You do not know he has the money to have sent you on your way already, though he certainly does – that it’s only your bargain and his selfishness keeping you here.

If you do suspect it, you don’t bother voicing your displeasure. You’re busy working yourself to the bone in chores and housework. In fact, your first few days at the homestead, he wavers on the knife’s edge of physically stopping you.

You get up so early he wonders if you’re sleeping at all. You haul water for the washing up. He sees you at it, up and about before he is, smoke from your hearth trickling in a lazy trail up into the speckled dome of early dawn, your shoulders wavering to and fro under the weight of the buckets. You’re so small beneath the weight of the yoke, it takes everything in him not to step to you and take it from you. But he knows you want work of your own to feel useful, knows that you resent the weight of your grief and you are fighting it tooth and nail. He doesn’t know if you are winning, but he knows it is a battle worth fighting.

So when you’ve returned, sweating and rubbing at your shoulders with a wince, he calls you over. That morning he teaches you how to feed and care for the cuckoo hens, and the next day, to feed the cows and hogs.

The next time he catches you up with the dawn, he teaches you to milk.

“C’mon,” he jerks his head toward the barn. You freeze like a hunted thing as you always do when he speaks to you, but you let your bundle of logs fall back onto the pile with a wooden clatter and follow him without protest.

The barn’s hay smell does only a little to cover the smells of the animals, but if it perturbs your city sensibilities you don’t comment on it. Din leads you over to the spotted Jersey and pats her down a bit, letting her get used to him.

He sets down the pail and squares up on the stool, tugging a few fine streams of milk into the dirt to clear out any debris from the teat. There’s a thin metallic sound as white streams trickle rhythmically into its tin bottom. You watch him for a bit, and then in a frigid morning whisper,

“She won’t kick me?”

Din shakes his head, bristled cheek rubbing against the cow’s warm side. “No, s’long as you go slow and let her know where you are. She’s gentle, this one.”

“Does she have a name?”

“No.”

There’s a small pause. 

“Why not?”

Instead of answering, he stands with a grunt and beckons you over to the stool. You approach warily, despite his reassurance that the bovine placidly chewing her cud wouldn’t harm you.

“All right, you try.”

Biting your lip, you do. You tug, but nothing happens. Your forehead creases. You try again and the cow snorts gently, as though perplexed at the holdup. He sinks to one knee beside you to watch. Ah, that’s it. You’re squeezing your little hand around the teat with all of your fingers, tweaking your wrist deftly, as though you’re–

“Here.” It comes out more gruffly than intended, and you stiffen for a second as he wraps his hand around your cold little fingers, showing you which grip to use, the pressure, the movement, firmly insisting his thoughts not wander and therefore filling his own head with images of your nimble fingers he’s going to see branded behind his eyelids tonight, he’s sure. With his help, the milk lets down. Once you’ve got it, he rises to his feet and watches you fill the pail.

When you’re done, you pat the cow’s side as if to thank her for behaving during your first milking, and the soft little secret smile he catches you wearing makes his chest fill with something that satisfies. Something like pride. Something like–

He sighs, scrubs his beard with the back of his hand, looks out into the pinkening sky with a deep inhale. The cool morning air clears his head. Somewhat.

After that, he gives you the charge of the chickens and milking, standing by to help if you need it. With a full load of chores, he’d hoped that you would tire yourself out and take a well-earned break at last, but he hasn’t found you out by the creek once since your first morning here. Morning, noon, and night, you cook meals of dubious consistencies. All day, you chase after the kid – much more deftly with your new moccasins, he notes – as though nervous he’ll disappear.

When at last his frustrated concern outweighs his sense and he offers to haul water and logs, you give him a steely no, thank you and continue to do it yourself, no matter how long it takes you to stagger through the yard. You won’t let him near the hearth either; it has quickly become your territory. Should he even step close to it, he can feel your glare burning into the hairs on the back of his neck. It raises his hackles just the same as a wolf’s eyes on him out on the trail. Now, as then, he steers himself and the kid well clear of the threat and keeps an eye out for any mischief.

You’re a little less wary with the animals each day, but you cook meals and you wash dishes with a focus that ought to leave burn marks behind you. Your hands are red and raw after, as though you’re attempting to scrub yourself clean of some evil he has no idea how you could have come to possess. During your first week you take on what you call “fall cleaning”, despite the fact that the prairie’s heat has barely dipped from oppressive to brisk and the September days are sunny and bright.

Whatever “fall cleaning” is, what results is a cataclysm, with many plumes of dirt any prairie dust up would envy and much moving of furniture and scattering of quite settled families of bugs and spiders. Din takes Grogu into the barn and fixes harnesses. He senses that you’re beating at something harder to reach than the cobwebs, and surmises that you want to be alone for it. 

Also, he thinks wryly, rescuing the curious child from the cuckoo cockerel (or rather vice versa, he hardly knows which cawing heathen is worse off) for the third time, it’s perhaps a kindness that the kid’s well out of your way for a day. He’s certainly felt the benefits of having long hours free from having to check every two minutes for a small hand to be where it shouldn’t, to feel the first stab of anxiety at every cry lest it be really bad this time, to feed or clean or soothe. It’s one more item on the list of things he doesn’t know how to express gratitude to you for.

That evening when it seems safe to approach, he has to admit the cabin does look more tidy, though he hardly sees what all the fuss was about. You’ve beaten away the dust and rearranged the room to your liking. The rug that usually caught all the crumbs from dinner now lies in front of the hearth. He doesn’t have much in the way of dishes, but you’ve arranged the nicer ones, two of cheap tin and two of chipped porcelain – in a row on the mantel. They glimmer gently in the evening light, making the place look more like a proper parlor than it’s ever been.

You ask him in a roundabout way if he might hang the nails for the cooking utensils lower, so you can reach them. He agrees at once. He’s ready to do anything you need to get you comfortable here if it will get you out from under that shroud of weariness, ease the hollows beneath your eyes that he fears if touched would bruise and blister like fruit gone to seed too soon. 

But that evening, you fall asleep right at the table, your cheek squished flat on one hand, the fork with your last piece of pancake you’d been drowsily offering the kid drooping from the other. Grogu watches with solemn disdain as the food drops uselessly onto the plank floor.

It takes several calls to wake you. “Girl. Girl.” He almost reaches for the delicate curve of your shoulder, the wrinkle of cotton where the borrowed dress doesn’t quite fit you. When you do wake up it’s with a start, a huff of annoyance as your tired gaze slides to his and he looks away, mindful of the beast he has woken.

“What? Now you have nothing to say? You look as though you do.”

Din works his jaw and looks down at his tin plate. It’s still something he’s getting used to, being observed bare faced like this by you. Your eyes are so bright and direct, staring him down as though you have every intention of seeing him clean through to the blood and sinew, through to every mistake and sin he’s ever committed. But this time, instead of wishing for the cover of his hat, his bandana, he steels himself and meets your eyes. His heart thumps uncomfortably hard in his chest.

“I want you to take it easy from now on. You’ve done enough. You’re pushin’ things too hard. Gonna hurt yourself.”

Now as always, your lips part quickly, baring your teeth. He thinks you feared he would strike you during your first days here. If you had ever had cause to be struck by that dead husband of yours, Din privately considers him better off lying washed up somewhere on the riverbank. But now that you’re seemingly satisfied that Din’s not going to do anything close to beating you, your teeth are sharp and ready to bite.

This time, though, he’s ready, even as you begin by sharpening words out of his own mouth.

“You said it was going to be a hard winter, I’m doing my part. You still have to show me how to pickle the vegetables, and I still don’t know how to make jam, and-”

“No,” he cuts you off sharply. Your expression breaks and freezes. He’s never been this firm with you. He sighs through his nose, glances at the kid. Unafraid, but curious at his tone, no doubt. Kid’s eyes are like planets.

“There’s some time,” he says more calmly. “We’ve got time ‘til all that.” When you’re about to protest again, he presses, “Ain’t gonna make spring come faster for working yourself half to death. Can’t do nothin’ for the winter or for the kid if you’re laid up. Cabin’s clean enough, so just worry about the regular chores a while. The rest will keep.”

Your eyes get very bright, almost glassy in the firelight, and if you were another woman he suspects you might have cried. But you’re not weeping. You’re wringing your brain for any other excuse to get what you want.

It’s surprising, really, that he finds your indignation somewhat endearing. You’re just like Grogu when he’s prevented from something he wants. Hot and determined that you’re going to have it, and hang what Din says. So he doubles down. He’ll take the snips you give him, the way you try, subtly, to draw him into a fight that you will lose. Maker be thanked you have no idea how much practice he has at resisting exactly that. May you never know. You’d run a thousand miles away.

“It’s final.”

He returns to his plate. It’s best if he reminds everyone at this table who’s in charge here. He needs to keep you both safe, healthy, and he will not let you work yourself into an illness or injury that Maker knows might kill you out here.

Your scowl deepens, but you rise from the table with the dishes without further argument.

He tries to go on chewing. His appetite has waned, and the… whatever it is you’ve put on his plate isn’t helping. It used to be meat, he thinks. Something squeaks against his back molars and he pauses a moment. Swallows. He’s had worse and survived. Besides, he didn’t keep rat poison in stock on account of the kid. And now because of you.

Din snorts to himself, and earns a look from you. Not a glare, but suspicious all the same, like the moon’s fingernail peeking over the horizon; the bright of your eyes over the smooth curve of your shoulder. Quickly, he goes back to chewing over the meat.

What are you thinking? He has no idea, except that you’d clearly prefer if he wasn’t close by. You have people back East. Are you fond of them? They of you? Do you miss them, or do you return to them out of duty and obligation, because there is simply no one else who would shelter you at their hearth?

It must be a little like being a foundling in the covert, he thinks, except that the rules are different among your people. Women without husbands or fathers or brothers to protect them lose status, as though the ability of a man to care for them made them more virtuous. Your women are not permitted to be warriors in their own right.

This is a shame, in his opinion. If you knew any better, if you had any concept of what a Child of the Watch was truly capable of, would you take pride in being a Mandalorian’s wife? He doesn’t know of any Mandalorian women who are not trained in combat, but supposedly there were some once, before the Fall. 

Devoted. Strong. Mothers of warriors.

Needless to say, he doesn’t tell you this; you don’t want to hear it. And he shouldn’t be thinking about the dreams of a younger man, anyway. He hands you his plate.

“Thank you for the meal,” he says, as he has each time before. 

No response. Just a tired look, as if you wonder why the hell he’s bothering. The tin plates clatter together noisily.

He says goodnight and again, you do not answer. On his bedroll in the lean-to, he watches the smoke from the hearth dissipate slowly and thinks of you lying in bed. Do you cry there? Do you mourn the man you lost? Or do you simply think, as he does? Perhaps you’re also awake, staring sightlessly, imagining the patterns of the stars hidden from your eyes above.

He half-expects you not to, but you heed his order to take it more slowly. At least, you look less feral at the dinner table the evening after next. You chat with Grogu, encouraging him to eat the peas on his plate rather than mash them to a green pulp coating in his hands. The baby shows you his milky teeth in a shy smile. You almost smile back, your forehead softens. The dead look seems to leave your eyes for several minutes after that.

Day by day, you’re taut with the stubborn will to live, hollow with a readiness to die. It’s still difficult to watch your grief and have nothing to stem it with but food and shelter and his poor attempts at lightening your load and occupying your time. You wear your pain deeply, yet with a stoicism he recognizes by instinct. He watches as the wound begins to knit and scar. He keeps his distance. He lets you snarl and chew, adjust to things in your own time, lest you jerk from even the most gentle of hands and gut yourself further, a snared rabbit in a trap, your soft body tinged with a red that stains. 

Slowly, very slowly, the hollowness fades. Your sharp tongue eases from a weapon of brute force to a mistrustful tool of laceration. Yes, the rest seems to do you good.

You’ve seemed to bond with the child. He had observed the tear tracks and the exhaustion on both of your faces that first day, and determined it best not to ask too much about it. The kid was fine, after all. 

He clings to your skirts now, watches you while you mutter at the fire as though daring it to go out. And while you still stumbled and sighed and tried to keep him occupied, it was with the kind of patience you did not offer anything else, including Din himself. And then, you had looked so solemn when you said, I’ll keep him safe. He had believed you. Still did. And not many had earned that trust so quickly.

Maybe that is why he senses the cracks within himself the first time he sees your smile. Not some hidden or halfhearted twitch of lips, but the real thing. 

It’s at the kid, of course, but it’s while he’s perched on Din’s shoulder as he’s walking indoors, and your grin is so broad, so sweet and affectionate and gentle that it hits him full throttle in the chest. That stretch of your fine, pretty lips echoes through his body like buckshot. He is as rattled as though you had meant to offer it to him, and not the baby with the fistful of prairie blooms: blue aster, wild bergamot, prairie rose.

“You got some pretty little flowers, didn’t you? Did you eat any bugs today?” you coo, reaching up as the kid caws at you, wearing your own precious gift on your face. When Din only stands there in the doorway, frozen, you glance at him in question.

He catches himself, lowers the kid into your waiting arms. It’s your routine by now; you take Grogu before evening chores, he takes the kid after dinner while you do the washing up.

He just hadn’t expected it, that’s all. How the simple gesture transformed you, made you look beautiful, no, vibrant. Maybe if you had smiled sooner in the day, or later, it might not have caught him so unawares. But there’s something special about this time, he has always thought. He has always felt cloaked and safe as the evening as the stars swell, when the sun retreats behind the curtains of the hills, when the crickets chirp and everything begins to still.

On the road, he enjoys this time best alone. He likes watching the moonrise, a sweet secret of the dark just for him. But here? Suddenly he has the absurd notion that if you possess smiles like this one, what the hell does he need the moon for?

But the smile is not for him. So he leaves it be.

There is so much you don’t know.

Your smile reminds him of that moon so much he thinks he might never sever the connection, and it startles him.

He needs to leave.

A few days after Din demands that you take it more slowly, he decides to punish you for it in an unexpected way. Of course, just as you had begun to feel you’d gotten the first real rest you’d had in weeks, begun to swing into a pattern, it all goes to hell.

“Well hey there, neighbor!” caws the voice from the wagon. Peli scoffs impatiently at your stunned face and brushes past you, hauling a large basket in her arms. Din descends from the wagon, somewhat shamefaced at the glare you aim his way. He had said nothing about anyone coming to the homestead. For kriff’s sake, you’re wearing these strange, comfortable shoes and there had been no hair pins in the box Mrs. Shackleton sent; your hair was braided long down your back and tied with the store twine. You’re still wearing the same damn dress. You look like a heathen.

“Well, girl, where you keep your bread tin at?” Peli calls from within.

“We’re baking bread?” you ask, still staring Din down. Clearing his throat, he passes by you without answering, his bandana and hat masking all but his dark eyes, which he does not give you, either. He sets another basket, this one full of small jars, on the kitchen table with a clinking rattle and touches the rim of his hat with two fingers. 

Peli waves him off out of his own house with authority. “Get on, Mando, we won’t be needin’ ya.”

He goes, but not as though in a hurry. This time, he meets your eyes, a golden-brown gleam. 

You stare after him for a few seconds, your heartbeat returning to normal, skipping as it usually did when he got close to you. Leftover fear, you guessed, from being around Leo’s unpredictable moods. “Gonna check the chickens, Peli,” you say suddenly then, and follow him out the door.

He’s already at the barn tacking up Razor when you approach.

“What’s she here for?” 

He buckles and re-buckles the strap at Razor’s belly, shifts the horse blanket, the saddle bags. The horse’s ears flick, perturbed. He checks the saddle once more before swinging up, his strong legs lifting him easily. “Visit,” he says at last, not looking at you.

“And you?” You scoff, fold your arms. “You don’t want to welcome your visitor too?”

“Rather not.”

Rage settles into your chest. You would also rather not, and yet here he was, getting to slip away to do Maker knew what, getting to hide behind saddle and bandana, while the sharp-tongued biddy inside was apparently more than ready to turn your day upside down.

“Only be in the way. ‘Sides, I have business in town today with the mayor.” He finally meets your eyes. “Not sure if I’ll be back tonight. Peli’s gonna stay if I can’t make it.”

You balk. “But what about the-”

“Don’t worry about anythin’, hear?” He jerks his chin towards the barn. “They’ll keep. I don’t want you goin’ in there without Peli or me.”

“Fine,” you bite.

He nods, touches the rim of his hat again, but doesn’t move. Razor snorts and paws, eager to go, but Din sits there, watching from beneath the shadow of his hat as you pout below like a child.

“I’ll keep him safe,” you say at last. Of course you would. The only thing that has kept you tethered to where you are, what you’re doing, keeps you from wandering in mind and body are the soft giggles and curious antics of his child.

He nods, solemn, and beckons the horse with his calves.

Your morning with Peli turns out to be a better experience than you feared. Though the two of you had had sharp tongues whetted to lacerate each other the first time you met, upon further reflection, you realize this may have been in large part your own doing. After all, hadn’t she been practically and calmly laying out your options, hadn’t she given you her bed and fed you?

In a few minutes you find yourself relaxing. She is nothing like the women that run the general store, the Shackletons, with their feathered hats that wouldn’t be out of place in your mother’s tailor shop, the women beneath them tutting and fretting at your buttonholes to save a few cents off the asking price. But Peli pays absolutely no mind to your strange footwear or lack of proper stockings and hair. Peli fixes a pair of wired spectacles around her goggling eyes, sets her hands on her hips, and instead of remarking on the mismatched china on the mantel, compliments how well you have scrubbed the floor. Then she takes several minutes to coo and fuss about the baby, bouncing him on her knee and saying things like,

“Look at those ears! Oh, you little prairie rat, it would be a shame not to grow into those. Here’s hopin’, huh? Tiny thing, you don’t seem to grow up much, do you? What have they fed you?”

Well, after that it’s pretty hard not to like her, as odd as she is. You even find yourself chuckling as the two of them chatter; only under your breath, but still. The vibration in your chest grates in your ribs, unfamiliar, and pausing over the coffeepot you feel a pang of shame. You shouldn’t be laughing, surely, with your husband dead only this short while?

The oppressive weight that had collapsed your lungs with shock and grief is easing from a bloodied death grip to a battle-ready fist. You’re surprised, actually, at how far you’ve come in a spare couple of weeks. You slept through the night with hardly any crying most nights, and when you did have a nightmare, it was brief and you could sometimes sleep again afterwards. When you couldn’t, you watched the baby sleep, his little puffs between plump lips and warm cheeks a sweeter vision than the ones rippling behind your eyelids when you shut them.

Peli seems to echo your thoughts as you set down a weak cup of coffee to the first and only guest you’ve ever had as a married woman; you’re also embarrassed to note you have nothing to offer with it, having broken the milk jug. Your mother would have turned up her nose and refused it, but Peli slurps the hot liquid with gusto and carries on talking. “You seem a mite more rested n’ when I saw you last, girl.”

“I am, thank you.”

“Been settlin’ in?”

“Yes.”

She levels you a dry, doubtful look over her coffee mug. She frowns a little, eyes narrowing at you. The cup makes a gentle clink against the sturdy wooden table. “Girl–” the sigh is as fond as it is exasperated. “Dunno why you won’t admit to it. Shoot, when I lost my daddy I was a wreck for many a day.”

You blink, surprised.

“It’s hard to watch somebody leave this world. Harder still I reckon to have it sudden-like, like you did, and him bein’ so young, yeah? No infirm old man comes out here for a livin’.” Peli’s amber eyes, creased with laugh lines but with no dull to their sparkle, flicker with sadness, but that’s not what loosens your shoulders. It’s the inwardness; she’s remembering a loss perhaps very far away in space and time. And it haunts her still.

Is that what you had looked like?

What did you look like now?

“I’m…” I’m fine, thank you for asking. I’m doing better. I’m all right, thank you kindly ma’am. The polite lies wither on your tongue. “I’m getting on, a little,” you admit. It still feels wrong, but it’s the closest your poor abilities can come to describing how you feel.

You tell her about learning to milk, feeding the chickens. You tell her about learning to handle Grogu. You tell her about the disastrous first instance of your cooking, and the fretfulness you had worked up in yourself over ensuring it did not happen again.

Peli’s gentle chuckles rise to a full belly laugh over your repeated plights in the cooking department, and when you grumble over the baby’s hair full of grits, she cackles and reaches down to tug the ear of the little one, as though congratulating him.

“It’s not funny,” you insist, though the corner of your mouth twitches. “It’s one of the main things I ought to be doing, taking care of the baby and cooking and-”

Peli’s arms fold comfortably. “Mando say so?”

You balk. “No.”

“Give you plenty of chores to do, then? Got you plumb beat?”

You hesitate, unsure from her matter-of-fact tone whether she expects the answer to be in the negative. Peli shuffles in her seat to get even more settled, resting her folded hands on her belly as though she intended to stay there all day. Below the table, Grogu coos over her shoe buckles.

“When Mando first came to town, I was the on’y one – the on’y one, mind – to open my door to his business. Coins are coins, in my opinion, and he had ‘em. Had this little prairie rat too,” she adds, with another fond tweak of the kid’s ear. “Took a shine to him I guess ‘cause he was polite and had a half-pint little rugrat to care for. No proper home as far as I could tell. He wanted me to fix up his wagon. Said he would be gone a few days, would I keep after the little one?”

She grins. “Well, his coin was good,” but she glances down at Grogu adoringly. “The dogs liked him, though Mando doesn’t seem to care for dogs much.”

“What did –” you hesitate over using his name. Did Peli not know Din’s name? That seemed ridiculous, but perhaps this was a nickname the two of them shared… though that didn’t seem to fit either of their personalities very well. You avoid the question. “What did he go off to do?”

Peli shrugs. “Not my business. Coin was good. Came back after a day or so, as he said.”

“And then he stayed?”

“Oh, no.” She takes a long draft of her coffee and smacks her lips. “Came and went for a few months, same as many do. I could tell folks about was as mistrustful of him as they used to be of my daddy, but just like I did, they came around when his business was clean.”

“Has he always…?” you chew on your question, uncertain.

“Covered his face? Sure. Never asked,” she tells you smoothly. “Impolite. Well, I guess he had some hullabaloo about town with some strange folk, and it was all the sheriff could do to help him clear it out. After that, the mayor was grateful enough to hand him a package of land. Good land too,” she adds, glancing out at the window. “Not that he seems of a mind to put it to much.”

“I noticed.” It was strange to Peli too, then, that a homesteader had no farm and few livestock. And, it seemed, the little cache of coins you had found did likely belong to Din, and he had had the money before the land and built that little hideaway to keep it safe. So where did he get it from? Surely a poor little pioneer town like this one hadn’t enough money to reward a stranger that handsomely?

“Well, to tell a man his business is wasted breath,” Peli says sagely. “That’s somethin’ Mando knows well too, you know.”

“How do you mean?”

Her eyebrows fold; pity? Or more exasperation at your clear inexperience? “Girl, you ain’t got a clue what you’re doin’ out here. When he dropped you at my doorstep you were hardly more’n a ghost. Like your body had come outta that river and left somethin’ missin’. Seems to me he’s grateful you’re here at all, never mind what you can do. You’re luckier than most to be alive, girl, and here you are fussin’ about a bachelor’s kitchen?” 

She snorts. “Well, I guess he ain’t a bachelor any more. Still, though, little thing like you.” She leaves it there as you note with skepticism that you have several inches on her.

“You’ll get on, girl.”

You look up. Your thoughts had wandered back to Din, wondering where he was now on his errand, if he really thought you as fragile as Peli implied. You wonder if you are. After all, what tenuous threads tie you together? The responsibility you were beginning to feel for Grogu? The promise of more work to distract you from your thoughts? 

“I guess so,” you offer. It’s the best you can do for now.

She’s looking at you with a stiff jaw, as though her compassion comes at a price she did not often pay. “I ain’t guessin’.”

You sit there and share that thought between you. That you will survive. The knowledge that you will, because you must. Maybe it’ll never be the same, but it’ll be. “And having a little one by to care for don’t hurt none,” she adds, with a bright look for the small hands using her skirt to lift the dark-eyed baby to his feet. The baby inspects the table for treats, and finding none, huffs in a wry tone beyond his years, as if to ask what on earth the point was, without any treats to get by on?

Watching you stroke your fingers gently over his pudgy cheek, Peli declares him as wise a prairie rat as she ever saw, and why didn’t the two of you make him somethin’ to eat? In a matter of minutes after that, she’s teaching you how to make bread, how to dollop cookies into a plate in the oven and throw coals on the lid to bake them. She blathers on about all the jams she’s ever made as she whips up a batch of that too, calling out ingredient for you to fetch, never minding your scurried attempts to follow along.

Once the bread is actually in the oven, though, you’re surprised by how simple it is, this visit with Peli. You show her the paper piecing you’ve traced to make yourself a nightdress and new gown. She peers at the pencil marks and huffs. For the first time, she looks rather impressed. “Maybe you do know somethin’, girl.”

Then she digs into her box that Din had brought and tells you she’s going to piece a quilt, and you seem to be handy with a needle. So you take the shears and the precious bolt of fabric for your gown, and she sits in the chair by the door and bounces Grogu on her knee.

It turns out the stitching is easy and companionable work, but you’re fascinated as she describes the intricate needlework on quilts she’s seen from some of the more skilled women in town. Patchworks of all sizes and descriptions. She asks if you’ve ever made a pinwheel like the one she’s brought, and you say you have not; your mother after all kept enough quilts at home, and the ones you had packed into your wagon had been made by your sister and mother as part of your hastily thrown together trousseau.

“Well, next time I come,” Peli exclaims, “I’ll be setting you to work! You’re quick with a needle, girl, and you’ll be a mighty help for these old eyes. Could sell, if you liked. But for now, let’s get this rugrat fed and to bed.”

Your heart leaps. Sell your sewing? Perhaps to the general store? How much money might that earn you? Would it be enough for a train ticket, or-?

But Peli heaves herself up with a grunt and carries herself to the cold storage, returning with a wrapper of beef, and tells you you’ll be making stew, everybody ought to know how to make stew. The question of sewing falls to the wayside.

Like the bread, it turns out to be simple when patiently explained over Peli’s quick, haphazard movements near the hearth. Surely she didn’t come all this way just to teach you to do that? No, that’s absurd, but it’s the strangest call you’ve ever received or witnessed.

As you sew, your thoughts return to Din. The longer you got to know him the more questions you had. His saddle, his belt, his holster, his boots – every strip of leather on him was carefully maintained, and you had seen him oiling them carefully until each one gleamed. You wondered if he was waiting for the cowhide to flash his reflection back at him.

You’ll ask him about selling some sewing to the store, you vow suddenly, your mood well improved by the full, comfortable stomach of stew and bread. It seems clear Din will not return tonight. You try and fail to coax Peli from the rocking chair, and instead settle her with a spare blanket and take Grogu into bed.

Yes. Oce you’re safely under the covers, the smell of baking helping you drift more quickly than you have in days, you resolve that in the morning you’ll ask him. You’ll be able to pay him back at least for the dress materials, for the costs you must be incurring him, if you could sell little things from the scraps at a profit. Tomorrow.

Dreams take you. For the first time, you sleep through the night.

Din doesn’t return for four days.

I AM INCOHERENT

I love this so much! I can’t get enough of the way you write pero in this. His so sweet and tender!

Sprout [Pero Tovar x f!reader]

Read on AO3

Sequel to Seed.

Fandom: The Great Wall

Ships: Pero Tovar x f!reader

Tags/warnings: Pregnancy, pregnancy kink, pregnant sex, dirty talk, some angst and fighting but also making up with more sex, labor, you get it. Soft Pero!

Words: 5,999

Summary: After trying long and hard, you are finally pregnant. Pero is delighted, but now begins a time of waiting and fussing and, well, lots of sex. That's the plot.

When you finally become pregnant, you know it immediately.

It is eerie, almost magical, the way you just feel something take root in your womb. Not the presence of a person, but just something new, something growing. It is early morning, you awake before Pero, last night’s coupling still a warm, sticky memory on your skin along with his breath, his limbs so tightly wound around yours. You mean to rouse him with kisses and caresses, but then you feel it, and you just know. A blissful smile spreading on your face, you decide to relish this feeling for as long as you can, and so you just stay still and quiet, one hand on your lower abdomen. When Pero eventually stirs, hands and lips starting to claim you, you gently peel them off of you.

“I’m sore,” you whisper to him, accepting a chaste kiss on your lips.

“I’m sorry, my love.”

“Don’t be. I just need a rest.”

He pecks your lips again before releasing you to start the day. You hear him use the chamber pot, and when he comes back into the bedroom, he stops and looks at you, brows drawn together.

"What?" you ask.

"You look different."

"Do I?" You can feel heat rise to your cheeks, but in the same moment you decide not to tell him, not just yet. You want to be sure, live with this new presence by yourself for a couple of days.

"Yes."

He grabs his shirt and trousers, pulling them on while regarding you. You shrug innocently.

"Don't know what it would be."

That was all for that morning.

You tell him about a week later. The feeling of attachment deep within you had not diminished, and you have become more confident that it is real. During the entire week, you have gently turned down Pero's advances, citing tiredness and aches. Pero may be a loving husband, but he does not keep track of your monthly bleeding, and so he seems to have accepted that it's your time of the month, and been content with sweet caresses and kisses.

It's evening when you tell him. You're sitting together outside the house, facing the back garden. Surrounded by fragrance in the dying light, listening the first cicadas of the night starting the concertos, you feel that it is the right time to tell him.

"Husband," you start, lifting your head from his shoulder and facing him. "There is something I need to tell you."

His features are immediately painted with a wariness, like he is expecting bad news. Your sweet warrior husband, always ready for life to be full of hardships. You give him a reassuring smile.

"It's nothing bad, I promise."

"Then what is it?" he barks, hand squeezing yours like he's afraid you are going to get up and leave.

"I'm with child."

His eyebrows shoot up, leaving his eyes round and wide open, just like his mouth.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes," you giggle now, his reaction too amusing not to cause you mirth. "I am certain, Pero, that you are going to be a father."

His face is as raw as it was on your wedding day, the joy shaving years off his scarred features. He raises your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles before pressing your hand to his heart, and then his lips are on yours. You feel him tremble a little, from nerves, happiness, or excitement you don't know, but you pull him in for the kiss, and he relaxes in your arms.

He carries you inside and lays you on the bed, never stopping to kiss you until he has to, in order to pose a question.

"Can we...?"

"I think we can," you answer breathlessly before pulling him in for more kisses. Pero needs no further permission: he lays down over you, stealing your breath away with him kisses before sitting up to get you undressed. When you're naked before him, he leans down to trail soft kisses over your belly.

"My child," he murmurs, looking up at you, eyes shining. "You will take care of my child, won't you?"

"You know I will," you promise, shivering from the goosebumps of pleasure induced by Pero's bristly skin.

"And I will take care of you, wife," he vows, trailing light kisses down between your legs, which fall open to accommodate him.

He’s more gentle than usual, more perceptive of your mewls, the way your legs twitch, your grip on the sheets. It may not be his intention, but he ends up tormenting you even more with his slowness. It is a stark contrast to the frantic fucking of the past few weeks. His seed, shot inside you on a daily basis, has finally taken root, and he seems determined to nourish that little sapling as best he can. Even if that means teasing you at the brink of release until you’re sobbing.

“Pero…!” You’re writhing, trying to push yourself against his mouth for the relief you need, but his arms tighten around your thighs, rendering your lower body immovable.

“Hush,” he admonishes you in a thick whisper. “You have to relax, my darling, you can’t get overexcited.”

You press the back of your head into the pillow and run your fingers through your hair.

“Please,” you whisper desperately, “please, Pero, I can’t bear it any longer.”

You know he’s smiling from the curve of his lips against your sensitive inner thighs, and then he finally takes mercy on you. The orgasm feels stronger than usual, maybe due to the prolonged, sweet torture, or because of your condition. When Pero presses a kiss to your inner thigh, you almost kick him, your legs coming together to seal in the pulses in your pussy, and you turn over onto your side to get away. He lets you be for a moment, hearing from your breathy moans that you are unharmed, but he soon takes a gentle grip of your arm, and makes you roll onto your back again.

“My love,” he hums, dipping down to brush his lips over yours. “Are you well?”

“Yes,” you manage, and that works as enough of a reassurance for him to press his lips to yours. The kiss is sweet enough, but you sense the urgency in him, and his cock is hard and leaking against your thigh.

“Come to me, husband,” you mumble, opening your legs anew. Pero is instantly between them, guiding his cock into you. He slides in easily enough as he lays down over you, and you brace yourself for his usual brand of frenzy. He does, however, stay still, sheathed deeply inside you, as he cradles your face and kisses you. You are full of him, so full, and yet you want more, so you raise your hips to urge him to move.

“Patience, my love,” he reprimands you gently, kissing your forehead before moving his hips only enough to be able to push them into your again. “We have time.”

“I need you,” you pout, happy with how it makes him swallow hard.

“I know, wife, and you shall have me every single day, but we need to be careful. “ Another thrust, slow but so deep, makes you whimper. “We will make sure that the baby grows big and strong.” He thrusts again and your nails press into his back. “I will make sure that you are satisfied, my love, and that our baby is happy as it grows inside you.” One more thrust has you running your nails down his back. Hissing, he punishes you with a stab of his cock right up against your womb, and when you bare your throat to him, he dives down to suck his love marks into your skin. His hips move with more insistence now as he fucks you bruising deep, and when he releases his seed into you, he whimpers in a way you have never heard before. Your arms wrapped around him, you pull him down over you, forcing him to stay inside of you for as long as he’s hard. When he finally rolls off of you, he whispers his I love you first into your ear, then to your belly.

A couple of weeks later, you have your first morning of being sick. Pero had taken to a morning routine of greeting both you and your belly with kisses and caresses, but he barely touched you before you fly out of bed, barely making it to the slop bucket in the kitchen before your stomach turns inside out.

Pero hovers behind you, unsure how to help you as you retch into the bucket, but when you rise and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s there to embrace you, combing your hair away from your face.

“Are you done?”

“I think so,” you tell him weakly, and he carries you back to bed and tucks you in before bringing you water. He then proceeds to building a fire, and making breakfast that he brings in to you.

“You don’t have to fuss,” you tell him, a little embarrassed at his extreme measures. “I’m perfectly capable of making us breakfast.”

“You need rest,” he tells you with a finality that you have never heard from him before. “Take it easy. You work so hard already.”

“No harder than you.”

“When I’m not escorting caravans, I don’t do much. Now eat, if you can stomach it.”

You can, and you’re suddenly ravenous.

After breakfast, you take your basket and go down to the marketplace to do your daily shopping, and when you return to find Pero outside the house, brushing down the horse, you sigh deeply as you put down the basket.

“Well, everybody knows now.”

“Knows what?” Pero asks, resting one hand on the horse’s strong neck. The warm sun has already turned his hairline damp, and he’s squinting against the light. You give him a what do you think? look, and he nods.

“I threw up the second I smelled fish,” you tell him, the sour taste still fresh in your mouth. “We’re having meat for the time being, husband.”

He shrugs, not having a preference one way or the other.

“Suits me fine. Are you well?”

“I’m fine.” You pick up the basket again and kiss his cheek, careful not to exhale what with your breath being so foul. “I’ll go in, put all this away.

“Leave the basket, I’ll carry it inside when I’m done with the horse.”

“I can do it, it’s not heavy.”

He glares at you then, clearly unhappy, but you kiss his cheek again.

“Don’t worry, Pero.”

But he does worry. And his worry grows with each day that starts with you throwing up. You are not showing, and the only sign of your condition, to him, is you being sick. He can’t feel what you feel, the presence inside you, although he tries every night, digging deep and slow into you until you’re begging him to cum because you can’t take it anymore.

That worry culminates one afternoon when he catches you carrying water from the well in your garden.

“Just what the hell do you think you are doing?” he glowers at you as you step in, burdened with one bucket in each hand. You stare at him, not even understanding what he’s talking about.

“What do you mean?”

“You shouldn’t be carrying something so heavy!”

“Pero – “

“You need to be more careful.” He makes it sound like you have been living irresponsibly, and it makes you furious because he has never spoken to you like this before. That scowl of his would scare anyone else in the village, but not you. You simply put down the buckets, your hands coming to your hips as you scowl right back.

“Now you listen to me, Pero Tovar! I am not frail, I am not ill, I am able to perform my chores! I may be pregnant, I may not be able to keep my breakfast, but there is nothing about my state that is abnormal!”

He seems a little taken back with your response but collects himself quickly.

“You should be resting more,” he insists, “and you getting this upset isn’t good for you, either.”

“I am not getting upset, you are making me upset!” you snap, heat rising to your cheeks. “I am doing fine and I would be doing even better if you weren’t so hell-bent on making me feel like I was dying!”

“It is precisely to stop you from dying that I am being so protective!” he bites back. You clearly hit a nerve there, and you’re angry enough to keep pinching it.

“So I cannot carry water during the day, but you can nail me to our bed every night?” you spit. “That’s a very strange way of protecting me, is it not?”

His jaws move, like he’s screaming something new at you, but then he casts down his eyes, his frown still prominent and neck muscles bulging. You cross your arms in front of your chest, waiting for his next move, but he just mutters something before storming out. You stare at the closed door, not expecting his departure. Pero has not survived by backing away from a fight.

You go on doing your chores, your blood coming down from its boil, and by the time supper is on the table, Pero returns. He stands by the door, leaning against it like he’s unsure that he’s welcome, but you gesture silently at his customary seat at the table, so he comes and sits down. You serve the food, you both eat it, and not until your plates are empty does Pero clear his throat.

“I’m sorry for earlier.”

You meet his soft gaze, seeing the regret – but also fear.

“Husband,” you whisper, but he shakes his head.

“I’m so afraid of losing you, my love.”

“I know.”

“I have never had anything as… good, and beautiful, as you, and the thought of losing you…”

“I know, my love,” you nod. You know this fear, but you have not known the same hard life as Pero has, and that helps you in not being ruled by that fear.

“Losing both you and our baby…”

“But you won’t,” you cut him off, softly but with conviction.

“You don’t know that. There is so much that can go wrong.”

“I don’t know that, no. I just believe it. I believe we will be okay in the end.” You reach your hand across the table, and Pero takes it. “Can’t you believe with me?”

A small, hopeful smile lights up his face. “I’ll try.”

Leaving everything on the table, you take him to bed. As you undo his belt, the belt pouch falls to the floor, and you hear the clinking of glass.

“Fuck,” Pero grunts. “I forgot.”

He bends down to pick up the pouch, pulling two bottles from it. He exhales in relief when discovering that they’re not broken.

“What are those?” you want to know, eyeing the two bottles, one larger, the other no bigger than Pero’s thumb.

“I went to the midwife,” he tells you, rolling the small bottle between his fingers. “She says that a couple of drops of this on your tongue every morning will help with your vomiting.”

You pick up the bottle and pull out the cork. The sunny, sweet smell of oranges wafts out. You quirk a brow and look at Pero, who shrugs.

“It’s worth trying, don’t you think?”

“It is.” You put the cork back and close your fingers over the bottle. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s been hard for me to see you be so sick,” he confesses, hand coming to a soft rest on your waist. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

“It’s not so bad, husband,” you assure him. “It’s just in the mornings, and it’s not going to last.”

“I hope the tincture will help.”

“If not, you have another bottle?”

“Oh.” Pero holds up the bigger bottle, as if he had forgotten about it. “This is not medicine.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s oil for your belly,” he explains, and now his gaze turns soft. “The midwife said that as your belly begins to grow, the skin often turns dry. This is to help with that.”

You smile, your hand coming up to his bristly cheek.

“That’s so sweet of you, Pero.”

“I promise I’ll rub it onto you every night, starting now,” he vows with a mischievous little smile, and you giggle.

“I’m not showing yet!”

“The midwife said it’s important to start before the skin begins to stretch, so would you please take your clothes off, wife, and lie down on the bed.”

You laugh, but it’s not you who ends up lying on the bed, it’s Pero.

“You’ve been so good to me,” you purr, sitting astride him and teasing his cock hard by rubbing your cunt against it. “Let me take care of you now, husband.”

“Yes,” he swallows hard, “my love, please.”

You kiss the wet tip of his cock, nip at the head, trail the veins down his length with your tongue, make him whine and writhe and come apart for you. You give him only a moment to catch his breath before you take his cock in your hand and stroke it to keep it hard. Pero inhales with a hiss.

“Oh, fuck, careful…!”

“I am being careful,” you promise as you keep your touch light. “I just need to make sure that you are able to service me, husband.”

“Always,” he chokes as you sit astride him.

“My cunt is hungry for your big cock, my love.”

“Oh, please… please… ahhh!” You sink down on him, your wet cunt splitting open but taking all of him, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you exhale in a loud moan. Your eyes have closed involuntarily, and when you open them, you see Pero looking up at you with awe in his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you bend down to kiss him.

“I love you, too.”

His hands splay over your lower abdomen. “And I love you.”

You kiss him again and start to move your hips. Your love life has been less frantic since you became pregnant, but it is not lacking in passion. Your slow, meticulous grind reflects that, and when Pero reaches for the oil bottle next to him on the bed, you sit up straight and let him rub the oil onto your skin.

“You are so beautiful,” he sighs as he circles his rough hand over your soft stomach. “And you will be even more beautiful when you start to show.”

“Will I”? you coax him, and he nods.

“I want you to ride me like this when you’re big and round, wife.” His voice drops, and the way it drips hot honey down your spine makes you clench. “I want you to take your pleasure from me likes this when you’re so big that you can hardly move, and your tits are leaking milk.”

“And if I can’t?” you breathe. His eyes are molten coal when he stares at you.

“Then I will help you.”

With that, he slides hand to where your bodies come together. His oiled fingers dance easily on your nub, and with his help, you ride him home, taking his load deep into your slick, warm cunt.

Your nausea does not bother you as much the following morning. Pero credits it to the tincture but you know that something has shifted in your relationship, become easier and more earnest.

“Maybe I shouldn’t go.”

You squeeze Pero’s arm against your side. “It’s a little too late for that now.”

“I can still tell them – “

“They need you,” you remind him. “So many people depend on you.”

“You are the most important one of all of them,” he points out, stopping in the middle of the street and turning to you. His free hand, the one that’s not holding the reigns of the horse, comes to rest on your slightly rounded belly. “You, and the little one.”

“It’s only a week.” You cup his cheek, stroke your thumb over his lips. “It’s not a long time. You’ll make good money, and I promise that I’ll rest.”

He raises his brows, and you laugh at his skepticism.

“I promise!” you hold up your hand to your chest. “I promise, Pero, you know you can trust my word, right?”

“I know,” he nods, now smiling, before dipping down to kiss you softly. The horse snorts, and Pero ends the kiss with a quick peck on your lips, before you once again take his arm, and walk to the town square where the caravan is getting ready to leave. Pero was early on asked to provide security for it, and even though he was loathe to leave you for an entire week, both of you knew he would. Winter is on its way, trading will come to a stop, and he will be free to spend the rest of your time at home.

You nod at familiar faces when you reach the square, but soon have only eyes for Pero as he takes you in his arms. You expect admonition and reprobation, but only receive whispered assurances of his love for you.

“You will take care of yourself, won’t you?” he finally asks, when the caravan leader is announcing departure. You give him a naughty smile.

“Take care of myself how…?”

He grins back. “You know how. I left you the oil, and the memory of me.”

“My own fingers are nothing compared to you, my love.”

“As my hand is a meagre substitute for your warm, wet cunt,” he breathes against your ear. There is time for a hot yet subdued kiss, and a quick caress of your belly, before Pero has to mount his horse. He blows you a kiss and is off.

The week passes slowly and uneventfully. It rains a lot, which means you keep mostly indoors, and it makes you a little restless. The baby is restless as well; you feel it twitching and floundering almost every hour that you are awake. It is a comfort, knowing that you are not alone, but you still miss Pero.

It is late night when he returns. You are already in bed but the sounds of the wagons returning to the village draws you out of bed. You pull a shawl around your shoulders, but don’t get dressed, loath to leave the warmth of the house to go out into the late autumn chill. It does not take long before Pero rides into the yard, dismounting midstride when you come out onto the doorstep. He rushes to you, lips on yours before he’s even wrapped his arms around you. His lips are cold but his breath is warm, and his body fits to yours perfectly, shielding you from the cold.

“Are you well?” are his first words to you.

“We are both well, husband. How about you? How was the journey?”

“Uneventful. I am unharmed.”

He falls to his knees, hands tracing the roundness of your stomach through the nightgown before pressing a kiss to it.

“Hello, little one.”

You feel the baby move, and then a powerful jerk. Pero flinches, then looks up at you, mouth open.

“Was that…?”

“Yes,” you smile, hand coming to cup the top of his head. “That was our baby, my love, saying welcome home.”

“Was it really?”

You nod, your smile growing wider as you watch Pero stare at your clothed belly, hand circling it in search of another kick. A light breeze sweeps across the yard, and you shudder.

“Let’s go inside, husband.”

He has to put away the horse first, so you prepare a small supper while you wait for him to come in. When he finally does, he forgoes any food, instead taking you to bed. Balls deep in you and kissing your breath away, he tells you over and over again how much he loves you.

Winter slows down the entire village, although you feel slower than ever before with each passing week. Your belly grows, and with it your tiredness. Your feet hurt, your hips hurt, you back hurts, you feel clumsy, and you're hungry all the time. Pero takes all your griping in stride, helping you with your heavier chores that you finally relinquish to him. He rubs your belly and breasts with oil every night, and pleasures you with his mouth, fingers, and cock every time you ask for it – which varies from day to day. Some days you cannot have enough of him, others you can barely stand the thought of sleeping with him. Your patient husband takes no offense at your ever-changing mood.

You realize very soon that you have been incredibly lucky in your choice of husband – not that you didn’t know that before, of course. When going to the marketplace and meeting the village women, your growing belly gives you a new role in the group. The younger women titter, the older give advice or tell crude jokes that make you blush.

“Glowing skin, hazy eyes,” one comments one morning by the vegetable stand, “and him looking like the king of the world. Neither one of you goes wanting, that’s for sure.”

Your cheeks heat up. The comment is spoken without malice, and in a pleased tone, but it feels like the speaker had direct access to your bedroom that morning, seen you come apart on Pero’s cock, witnessed him fuck his cum deep inside you.

You mumble something, and the older woman chuckles.

“I’ve had five, and my husband serviced me with all five of them. A father’s seed will make the baby grow strong. Your child will be born big and healthy, I can see that.”

The baby moves in your belly, bringing a smile to your face. You look up at the woman, see her friendly face, and thank her, before slinking away and finding Pero at another stand. He takes the basket from you, offers you his arm, and you walk home together. As you put away your purchases in the kitchen, Pero breathes life back into the fire, and you sink down onto a chair with a sigh. He runs his gaze over you, a frown on his face.

“Are you okay, my love?”

“Just a little tired,” you promise as you rub your belly. The baby kicks against your hand before settling down, maybe to sleep. You look at your husband, crouching by he fire, and clear your throat.

“Pero?”

“Yes?”

“Do the men in the village talk about… pregnancy?”

He looks up at you again. “What do you mean?”

“The women – “

“Women talk a lot of rubbish,” he scoffs, and you grimace at his dismissal of your sex.

“Sorry,” he immediately apologizes, and you glare at him to let him know that he is only barely being let off the hook. “Tell me, my love, what do they say?”

“They talk about pregnancy, how the baby is carried, what sex it probably is, cravings, pains, aches… and intimacy. And I was wondering if men do the same.”

Pero directs his attention to the fire for a moment.

“They do speak of the pregnancy, but more of the children once they are born,” he tells you softly. “They speak of what it is to watch a child grow, how to provide for it, the way you worry about it all the time.”

“But nothing of the pregnancy?” you press, and he shoots you a teasing smile.

“A little, but only things I will not repeat to you.”

“Pero, I am no dainty little thing that you have to protect!” you roll your eyes, and Pero laughs before putting another log on the growing fire, then closing the hatch.

“I do know that, wife,” he acknowledges. Coming to his feet, he walks over to you, and sinks to his knees before you.

“I will tell you what they say,” he rumbles, his deep voice making your heart skip a beat. “Many of them speak of wives who become voracious when heavy with child.”

His hands, warm and large, rest softly on your knees, and start to carefully separate your thighs. You lick your lips quickly, leaving your mouth open as your breath turns heavier.

“They speak of wives who crave cock every single day.” Pero lifts your skirt up, leaning in to kiss the inside of your thigh. “They say that fucking a pregnant wife is the best feeling in the world.” He presses another bristly kiss to your sensitive skin. “To fill her already full womb even more…” Another kiss. “To have her sensitive cunt wrapped around your cock… how she mewls underneath you as you fuck your seed into her… it is heaven.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark, a smug smirk on his lips. “And they are right.”

“Pero,” you beg breathlessly, your cunt dripping from his words, your body ablaze for his touch.

“Come here, my love.”

He pulls you down on the floor, and you help him undo his trousers to get his cock out. Crouching astride him, feet firmly planted on the floor, you sink down his length, Pero supporting you with strong arms, even he can no longer reach around you. You ride him with impatience, one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping his leg behind you, your lips on his lips, his neck, his shoulder.

“My love,” he gasps, “take what you need from me, use me, just like that, use my cock…”

You whine before baring your throat and hanging your head back, chest out, Pero dipping down to suck a leaking nipple into his mouth. You moan as your body is in spasms from the sweet release, and Pero plants a hand on the floor behind him, and thrusts up into you, grunting with effort as he seeks his own climax. You encourage him with moaned filthy words of your own, choked out as he slams into you, again and again, until he grips your buttock hard to keep you still on his cock, and you feel him fill up your core.

He lays down on the floor after, pulling you down next to him to give you a sweet kiss.

“My darling wife,” he sighs before kissing you again.

“My darling husband,” you smile, a satisfied shudder running through you as his seed oozes out between your swollen lips. “I am utterly disheveled. I won’t be able to show myself at the sewing circle later today.”

“Good,” he yawns, pulling you closer. “It is a husband’s duty to keep his wife disheveled with his love.”

“I cannot argue with that,” you giggle, and he kisses you yet again.

It starts in the early hours of the darkest winter morning. You wake up from a sharp pain, and before you’re properly awake, you realize that your nightgown is soaking wet. As you sit up to light a candle, another stab of pain makes you whimper, and you drop the fire striker. Pero stirs and reaches for you, only to be awake and sitting straight almost immediately.

“It has started,” you whisper. “I’m all wet. Pero, light a candle.”

He does as he’s told, and you throw the covers to the side, finding that your water has broken. No blood, as you secretly feared, but only water.

“I’ll get the midwife,” Pero tells you resolutely, but you can hear the worry in his voice. “My love, are you in very much pain?”

“Not too much,” you reassure him, getting out of the bed as he springs up to get dressed. You pull your shawl over your shoulders and start walking around, as the women of the village have told you to do. The pains come in sharp stabs, but they’re manageable.

Pero looks desolate to leave you, but you wave him off with a smile and a kiss.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, just go get her.”

When the midwife arrives, she gives you a quick examination before shaking her head.

“Go back to bed,” she tells both of you. “It’s going to be another day or even two before it starts, so get all the rest you can.”

“Are you sure?” Pero demands in his most imposing voice. The midwife does not even blink as she collects her things.

“Make her as comfortable as you can.” She turns to you. “Rest but walk around every chance you get. And if something seems amiss, come get me again.”

She takes her leave, and Pero grumbles about the lack of sympathy. You, however, have heard a lot more about labor, so you just shake your head at him.

“Help me change the sheets, husband, and come to bed. You heard what she said.”

“You are in pain!”

“It’s not so bad anymore,” you tell him truthfully, and start to strip the wet sheets from the bed. Loath to have you do it by yourself, Pero comes to help you, giving him something else to think about. When you’re back in bed, embraced and sleepy yet too nervous to rest, he caresses the roundness of your belly.

“I can’t wait to meet our baby,” he whispers to you.

“I feel the same.”

“What are you hoping for? A boy or a girl?”

“I don’t care,” you yawn, “as long as it’s healthy. Any child that is half you is going to be perfect.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Late in the following night, the contractions change, become more intense and frequent. You send Pero to the midwife again, and this time she stays. You have prepared during the day so there are linens and boiled water to be had. Pero is dismissed from the bedchamber, and you see that he wants to fight the midwife on that decision, but you just shake your head at him, and he heeds your wish. But when the midwife tells you that you are crowning, that the baby is coming, and the contractions are sucking all the strength from your muscles, you scream for your husband. He nearly takes the door off its hinges as he barges in, all but brandishing the sword he has not touched since his last caravan. He takes your hand between his and kisses it.

“My love,” he breathes, “my strong, beautiful wife. You can do it, I know you can.”

Your baby is born with a few pushes, and the first scream that cuts through the night makes your tears fall.

“You have a son,” the midwife announces as she wraps up the baby and puts it on your chest.

“A son,” you repeat, not really understanding the words.

“I have a son,” Pero mumbles, his voice thick. You glance up at him, but he is only looking at the baby.

“Pero…”

“I have a son.”

Suddenly, he spurts out of the room, leaving you to stare after him, mouth agape. You hear the front door slam open, and then Pero bellowing into the night:

“I have a son!”

You chuckle, tears streaming down your cheeks, and when Pero returns, his eyes are shining as well.

“My love,” he whispers. “My love. My life. I love you so much.”

You can’t speak, this is all too much, you are exhausted and hurting and happy and sweaty and bursting with joy. As the midwife retires to the kitchen, Pero lays down next to you, cradling the baby in your arms.

“My son,” he whispers, his voice thick. “We have a son, my love.”

“We do.”

“I will always take care of him, and of you, this I promise you.”

“You already do, my love,” you smile, and Pero kisses first your forehead, then the baby’s.

Succession 2.05 | Tern Haven

the last of us (2023) | 1.02

like real people do (joel miller x f!reader)

i will not ask you where you came from. i will not ask, and neither should you. honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss, like real people do.

summary: a temporary arrangement leads to permanent feelings that joel can’t seem to shake — for you. but do you feel the same?

warnings: post-outbreak, jackson!joel, age gap (28/56), smutty thoughts & happenings, jealous!joel, angst, pining, reader has curves & wears joel’s jacket, masturbation (m), typical canon violence & weapons, graphic description of wounds, cursing, blood, food, alcohol, unprotected piv, 18+ minors dni.

notes: this is my contribution to @undercoverpena’s april showers challenge 💛 jo, you are such a light. thank you for organising this, i had the best time!

as ever, i am indebted to my flawless beta @macfrog - max, i can’t ever thank you enough for the way you transform my work. i love you. big love to @frannyzooey & @swiftispunk for the encouragement and reassurances. you both rock my world.

Joel shakes his head like a wet dog, wipes his brow so he can see past the droplets clinging to his lashes. He can just about make out the gates of Jackson in the heavy rain, the reins slipping between his hands. No matter, really. Blue knows his way; the horse’s damp ears pricking at the sight of home.

His only concern is you.

Joel twists in the saddle, ignoring the protesting muscles in his spine as the wind screams in his ears.

You’re behind him, just like he needs you to be.

You’re soaked, bleeding through his hasty bandaging, wincing in obvious pain. But you’re there. Upright, still breathing. He can heave a sigh of relief.

Today was a close call. Too fuckin’ close.

It’s not like Joel didn’t know you were going to be trouble.

He did. From the moment you showed up on his doorstep, his brother’s arm over your shoulder.

He knew.

Joel stirs to the sound of incessant knocking on his front door. Sunlight spills into his bedroom, a pool of honey over his sheets. He’s not due on patrol today; a rare twenty-four hours of freedom lay ahead of him. And he’d planned to spend a good portion of those in bed, or sat with his guitar.

Clearly, someone has other ideas.

“‘m comin’!” he shouts, cricking his neck and reaching for his jeans, discarded on the floor beside him. He figures he best pull on a shirt, too - he has no idea who’s pounding at his door, but at seven in the morning, on his day off?

Surely can’t be a sign of anything good.

Joel grumbles as he heads down the stairs, pulling at his zipper and shaking his head. This better be fuckin’ important. He reaches for the door none too gently, ready to reprimand whoever’s stood the other side.

He opens it to his brother.

Joel’s readying himself to launch into a tirade borne out of week-long exhaustion. He doesn’t expect to see Tommy’s arm round the shoulder of a terrified-looking young woman.

You.

You’re covered in grime, sneakers falling apart at the seams, shirt splattered with blood.

“Mornin’, Joel,” Tommy starts, his voice soft and pleading. Joel stares into eyes so like his own, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m needin’ a favour,” he continues. Joel’s gaze flits to you for a beat, and he swallows.

“I guess it couldn’t wait till after breakfast?”

Tommy’s laugh is strained, false grin tight across his cheeks as he squeezes your shoulder. “Don’t take no notice, darlin’. Bark’s worse’n his bite, I promise.”

“This young lady here arrived late last night,” he says as Joel folds his arms across his chest. “We found her up on the ridge, nobody else with her. As you know, the Pattersons took the last available house we got, and Harley’s nursery took up our spare room,” Tommy jerks his chin over the street, and Joel has a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Now that Ellie’s moved out ‘n all, Maria was — we — were wonderin’ if we could put her up here, with…With you,” he finishes, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Joel desperately wants to ask him if he’s lost his goddamn mind, but you’re looking at him with the same haunted gaze he’s become so familiar with in the past two decades.

Joel isn’t a monster. Those live outside the very walls that now keep him safe. He has no desire to ask how you made it past them, though; he knows you’ve seen things you never want to talk about again.

There’s something inside him: buried and dormant. It’s not your fault. You’re not asking Joel to house you, to spend his day off getting acquainted with you. You just look like you need a shower, and a week’s worth of sleep.

It’s not your fault.

“Temporarily?” he asks, clearing his throat as you stare at the ground. “Yes, Joel,” Tommy grimaces at his bluntness. “Temporarily.”

Tommy tells you to come find him and Maria when you’re settled, that they’ll fix you up with some more new clothes, give you some time to adjust. He hands you a backpack, and you step over the threshold. Tommy heads off with a curt glance towards his big brother, leaving the two of you alone.

You still haven’t said a word.

“‘m Joel,” he says as he closes the door, more gruffly than he means to. You nod, offering your name quietly in return. You look so fucking afraid of him, and he hates that. He holds out a hand to shake, and you take it.

Soft.

Your hands are so fucking soft. Your fingernails are caked with dirt, knuckles scarred, but your palms feel like warm velvet. Joel clears his throat, drops your hand like it’s burned him.

“This way, ma’am,” Joel instructs, a distant memory of his mama telling him to mind his manners. You follow him up the stairs, and he ushers you into the room that used to belong to Ellie. It’s empty now; Ellie having relocated her collection of belongings to the outhouse in the backyard.

“My, uh, kid used to stay here. She’s moved out, now,” Joel tells you, thumb pointing behind him. You’re nodding again; he can tell you’re exhausted, the way you’re moving like you’re carrying the weight of a thousand people on your shoulders. He knows that feeling, wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. Shower’s just down the hall, so feel free to use whatever’s in there. Won’t be anythin’ fancy, mind,” he shrugs, and is surprised when you smile at him in return. It opens up your whole face, lifts your eyes, a ray of sunlight carving a path between you both.

You study him for a second; Joel feeling your eyes assess him, straightening his back instinctively. “Here I was, expecting five stars,” you comment, and Joel’s taken aback by your gentle teasing, your quiet confidence.

For one strange moment, it’s like you’ve claimed the space already. Like this room has always been waiting for you, somehow.

“Don’t know what my baby brother’s been fillin’ your head with,” Joel smirks, “but I’ll try my best.”

You look at him one final time before he leaves the room.

“Counting on it.”

Joel learns that you’re twenty-eight, the only survivor from a group who broke away from the Kansas City QZ. He recognises the shadow that falls across your face when you tell him about it, knows all too well the living hell it became.

You compare stories with him one morning over a breakfast he prepares for you both, before you silently agree not to discuss it again. Jackson is a new start: a place all about reclaiming that sliver of human decency that’s left on the Earth, the one thread of connection and community that binds the residents together.

Joel wants you to know that.

Weeks turn into months, and before he knows it, Joel’s memorised your gait, your scent, the way you always forget the creak in the stop stair. He watches you with Ellie, how you understand their relationship with a slow nod of your head, no further questions asked.

You and Joel gossip with one another, leave notes scribbled in broken pencil. You bake for him, and in return he builds you a chair to join him on the porch. Joel remembers the jolt when you’d hugged him for it, kissed his whiskered cheek. So goddamn soft.

He begins to feel a creeping shame over the way he’d treated you on that first day; broken and worn down on his steps. Joel had no idea how peacefully you’d co-exist: sharing meals and laundry loads like two normal housemates would, if the world wasn’t so fucked.

The fact that you’re so beautiful is neither here nor there.

Joel’s tried not to notice it.

Your smooth skin, the curves of your body beneath the shapeless clothes Maria’s given you. Unfortunately, he knows just what you’ve got on under them. He almost felt lightheaded one day watching you hang your panties out to dry: delicate, wispy things; items he has no idea how you got your hands on.

Before long, Tommy’s prepping you to start patrol, and Joel makes time one evening to reassure you about it. He can tell you’re nervous, the way your hands are twisting, rubbing at your forehead frantically.

“If you really don’t want to do it, you don’t have to,” Joel offers, and you sigh.

“Nah. It’s about time I started pulling my weight around here.”

Joel smiles at your tenacity, the way your mouth sets firmly. “Alright, then. Want to go over the routes one last time?”

Your eyes are wide in thanks, staring up at him from the couch, blinking through your lashes. Everything about the situation is innocent, besides every single thought running through Joel’s mind.

Tommy put this girl with you in good faith, asshole.

Woman.

Not a girl.

He reminds himself of that when he’s in the shower that night; tugging frantically at himself, thinking about the tight curve of your ass in the jeans you’d traded for.

Yeah. You were fucking trouble alright.

“I always wanted to be a teacher, back when I was a kid,” you tell him one night, as Joel clears the soup bowls away. “Miss Macy, she was my favourite, kinda inspired me in a way. I loved English; reading, writing, all these imaginary worlds I’d create. I’d still like to do it, if I can.”

Joel loves the way you laugh when you share stories of your childhood. It’s the same kind delight he sees on your face watching Jackson’s children giggling as they chase each other round the streets, playing tag and missing dinner time.

“Teach?”

You nod, and Joel’s suddenly back in Texas, Sarah tugging on his hand across the parking lot as they head towards her parent-teacher conference. Sarah’s a hard worker, and fantastically talented when she applies herself. Unfortunately, she lets herself be distracted by other students, and I’ve had to separate the group several times.

He smiles. “Scary bunch, teachers.”

He watches your eyes roll, chin resting on your hands. The light outside is fading, both of you full with a warm dinner. Your movements are languid; the way your fingers dance across your collarbone, the way your shirt rides up a little when you stretch your arms out above you.

Again, Joel tries not to notice it: the sliver of bare skin above your waistband, gentle fingertips he’s found himself thinking about more often than he really should.

“Big, bad Joel Miller? Afraid of me?”

Now it’s his turn to roll his eyes, throwing a rag in your direction so you can help him with the drying up. “Maybe in your dreams, darlin’.”

You smirk, taking your place beside him as he hands you the cutlery. With difficulty, he pushes all thoughts of your soft body and kind eyes from his mind.

Joel bears witness to you thriving in Jackson, unfurling like a butterfly born in the spring. You make friends, tell him all about them each evening as you trade stories about your day. Soon, you’re invited to gatherings that he isn’t, and you tell him stories about people he’s never met. He hears you come in late, starts to notice that you don’t rise to join him at breakfast.

Still, he doesn’t ask Tommy just when this temporary agreement might come to an end. For some reason, he just can’t find it in him.

Joel figures you won’t want to spend all your precious free time with a man pushing sixty, so he’s not mad about it. You’re not family, but he thinks you’re starting, maybe, to become a friend.

He makes the most of Ellie when he can, watches her glow when she talks about Dina. Tommy’s the same: content with his life with Maria and Harley, Joel’s nephew. He can hardly believe - even after two years in Jackson - how life just goes on. Despite it all, people found a way.

Joel finds himself thinking about Sarah a little more than usual. He can’t bring himself to process the fact his baby would be thirty-four now; maybe married, career of her own. She’ll forever be fourteen to him: curls bouncing, soccer trophy under her arm, innocence in her heart.

Joel tells you about her one day; tells you how, for the first time in twenty years, he’s been able to just stop and give time to his thoughts. To sit with them, feel the ache bloom in his heart. No need to fight for his life every day, to make sure he sees another sunrise. He’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

“It can be both, Joel,” you say, wrapped in a blanket he brought out to you. You’re sat on the front porch together, chairs side by side, watching fireflies dancing in the late afternoon light.

“Yeah?”

You nod, and move to take his hand. Something stops you, letting it fall into your lap. There’s something in your gaze that tells him you’ve felt the same pain, bled the way he has. Joel clears his throat, asking if you want another drink.

“No, thanks. Especially if it’s that fucking whiskey,” you grimace, and he chuckles, rolling the tumbler in his hand. Your profanities make him smile; he’s let you spend too much time with Ellie.

“You really hate it that much?”

“Uhuh,” you mutter, getting to your feet. “Hey, Ryan is having a few of us over for a card game evening. I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up,” you inform him, with that grin he’s become so fond of.

Joel tells you to have a great night, watching your retreating figure head into the dusk. He collapses into sleep on the couch not long after, book resting on his belly when he wakes to the sound of the front door opening.

“You really didn’t need to walk me back,” you giggle, and Joel stays frozen in the dark. He shouldn’t. It’s rude to eavesdrop, to listen in to your private conversations.

Still. He doesn’t move.

“S’okay. Still sharing a place with Miller, then?” he hears Ryan ask, and he assumes you nod in lieu of a reply. “Heard he can be a pain in the ass,” he adds, and Joel listens to your tinkling laugh. “He’s alright.”

“Hopefully you’ll get a house of your own soon, though, without an some old guy hanging around. You can start hosting me instead,” Ryan continues, and Joel fails to miss the suggestive undercurrent in his tone; the way it makes his jaw tick.

He doesn’t hear your response, and the door shuts with a click. You switch the lamp on, gasping in surprise to see Joel sat there. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” you say softly, and Joel just shrugs, frowning.

He watches you move around the kitchen - his kitchen - with a familiar ease, seeking a glass to pour some water, searching for a hunk of cheese to nibble on. Again, Joel’s hit with that feeling he had on that first day he took you to your room: this house has always been waiting for you, the lock aching for the slide of your key.

Which is why the notion of you leaving causes him so much pain.

“Guess you won’t have to worry about wakin’ anyone when you get your own place.”

He hates how petulant he sounds, but he can’t help it. Joel hasn’t been that short with you in a long time; he can see on your face how taken aback you are.

“You heard that, huh?” you ask, watching him over the rim of your glass.

“Yeah. Y’can always speak to Tommy, see if there’s anything goin’. If you feel trapped here, that is.”

You sigh, hands flat on the dining table. Joel built it himself: not his finest work, a little rough around the edges.

A direct reflection of how he feels right now.

“You don’t want me here anymore?” you ask, face half shrouded in darkness, half lit in an orange glow.

Joel chews his lip, watching you blink at him.

“Just sayin’. This wasn’t ever meant to be permanent, anyway,” he mutters, scratching the back of his head. You fold your arms across your chest; eyes narrowing. You look.. You look hurt.

By him.

“Ryan seems like a good kid. ‘m sure he’d treat you right.”

Joel knows he’s projecting his own insecurities onto you. He’s fucking afraid: he’s come to care for you so much more than he realised, and every time Joel cares about someone, he loses them.

A bite. A bullet. A new family.

But this? For some reason, this cuts just as deep. Joel won’t let it happen again. No matter how bad he wants you.

“Where’s all this coming from?” you ask. You’re quiet, voice flat with disappointment. It makes Joel’s heart ache; he’d rather you told him to fuck off, call him out for being a dick, tell him you’ll pack your stuff and go.

You don’t.

Your shoulders just slump when he doesn’t respond, staring at him imploringly.

“Well?”

Joel should tell you he doesn’t want you to leave, not in the slightest. All he wants to do is kiss you, crush your lips to his, run his tongue over every inch of your flesh, slide inside you and make you scream his name. Tell you he’s better for you than anyone else in Jackson; that he can take care of you, keep your bed warm every night, better than any fucker half his age.

But he doesn’t.

He just lets you go, watching as you shake your head and turn on your heel, leaving him alone in the dark.

Breakfast the next morning is a solemn affair.

You’re already gone - which isn’t unusual - but there’s no note from you, no sandwiches wrapped in paper to take out for patrol. Joel feels a little disgruntled: it’s your turn to prep them today, as per the agreement you have when you’re both scheduled for a shift.

You must be really pissed at him.

He wolfs down his bacon, throws on his jacket. It needs patching up, almost worn through at both the elbows. Joel recalls you telling him you’re nifty with a needle and thread, that you’ll do it for him at the weekend.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never learned how to sew,” you smirk, sizing up his jacket, throwing it over your shoulders. Joel can’t help but admit how good it looks on you; the fact you’re wearing his clothes doing something inexplicable to his groin.

“Just like you never learned how to drink?” he teases you, and you hold up your hands in defeat. “And don’t be forgettin’ I made you a whole goddamn chair.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you sing, admiring yourself in the cracked mirror. Joel shakes his head; eyes lingering on the tilt of your hips, the way your breasts push at the fabric.

“Guess I owe you.”

He supposes he’s better off taking it to the seamstress on Main Street, now.

The sky outside is grey to match his mood, brewing ominously with the threat of rain. Nothin’ worse than patrol in the rain. Boggy trails and limited visibility never work in anyone’s favour, and he prays for an uneventful shift.

Blue’s tacked up and ready for him; Joel slips the horse an apple from his pocket, pulling at his forelock gently as he says hello.

“Gotta stay outta trouble today, boy. We’ll be home soon enough.”

He hears his sister-in-law’s voice from outside the stable, calling his name.

“Mornin’, Maria.”

She smiles, hands on her hips as Joel leans against the stable door. “Your brother has done an irresponsible thing and gotten sick,” she sighs, eyebrows raised.

“Y’sure he ain’t just had some bad eggs?” Joel chuckles, and Maria shakes her head.

“Judging by the way he’s shivering, I think it’s the real deal. In any case, we need you to take his partner today,” she tells Joel, thumb over her shoulder.

She moves aside, and he freezes.

Fuck.

Of course: it’s you.

You’re adjusting Shimmer’s stirrups, unaware Joel’s even there. Those goddamn jeans sticking to your thighs like glue, eyes rimmed red like you haven’t slept.

Maria continues, tapping her foot. “I’m assuming that won’t be a problem? She’s still settling into it, as you well know, and we haven’t had her go up —”

“S’fine. Not a problem.”

Maria raises her eyebrows at Joel’s brusqueness, turning on her heel and leaving the stables.

You look up, watching her go. Joel swallows as your gaze tracks upwards, locking with his.

“Hey.”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Look, I know this ain’t ideal, but we’ll talk when we’re back. Yeah?”

You roll your eyes, laugh sarcastically. You brush past him, knocking into his shoulder as you go.

“Counting on it.”

Joel scrawls both your names in the log book, heaves his rucksack back onto his shoulders. They’re aching, as per usual. Almost as stiff and awkward as the whole morning with you has been.

“We all good to go home?”

It’s the first sentence you’ve uttered since you both left Jackson, your tone still clipped, not leaving much room for any forgiveness.

Home.

Joel wonders if that looks different to you now; wonders how soon he can expect your possessions in boxes by the front door, to see the disappointment in his brother’s face when he hears how unreasonable he was towards you.

All because he doesn’t know how to fucking tell you.

The descent back to Jackson from the ski lodge is slow, clouds low and threatening in the sky. Thunder echoes atop the mountain ridges, lightening flashing across the jagged peaks.

Then, the rain comes.

It starts as a drizzle, just enough to dampen the leaves on the trees, for Joel to hear you sigh disdainfully behind him. “Stay close,” he calls, and you tell him you will.

Soon, the rain falls in a barrage, hammering down on you both as your charges slide in the dirt. Joel’s soaked to the bone, the storm moving directly overhead as the sky flickers and crackles above.

He doesn’t like this. Not one fuckin’ bit.

He feels exposed, vulnerable, the hairs on the back of his neck raised; an ancient warning sign —

“Joel!”

Your scream is agonised, drawn-out, hurtling past him in the swirling wind. He wheels Blue around, startled.

Three men. Two guns, from what he can see. A machete.

Shimmer rears high on her hind legs in panic, one of the fuckers dragging you from the saddle. Another has his gun aimed at your head; the third is advancing towards Joel, silver weapon brandished in his hand.

Their faces are gaunt, eyes sunken. They’ll murder you both, take anything they can find, leave your bodies to rot until you’re found by the next band of raiders, or worse.

You fall to the ground with sickening crunch, still yelling his name, body crumpling against the exposed rock.

No time to think. He needs you to survive.

One, two, three.

The shots ring out through the valley in quick succession, blood soaking through the shirts of your attackers. They fall like marionettes, slithering to their deaths amongst the grass and mud.

Joel dismounts, scrambling to get to you. You’re not unconscious, thankfully. No obvious wounds to your head, either; Joel cradles your face in his hands, asking you to tell him your name, to open your eyes.

“My back, Joel. My fucking back,” you moan, and he grits his teeth, turning you on your side as gently as he can. You cry out in pain, and he sees the laceration above your hip, your skin sliced open.

“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you,” Joel reassures you instinctively, shrugging his rucksack off to retrieve the bandages he needs

You grip his forearm, fingernails piercing him. “Don’t leave me, Joel,” your voice breaks, tears joining the wetness on your face as Joel swipes a thumb across your cheekbone.

You’re still miles from Jackson, bleeding out onto the rock beneath you, horses loose in the valley. The rain pounds, the wind howls, and Joel makes his promise.

“Never.”

Maria puts you on bed rest for a week.

You recuperate, slowly but surely. Joel had carried you to Jackson’s version of an infirmary, watched your wound be painstakingly stitched up. Turns out, the fall had smashed two of your ribs, too.

Joel nearly chews his lip in half when he finds out.

So fucking stupid. He should’ve insisted you go in front, acted more on instinct. Joel was supposed to take care of you, keep you safe.

Hasn’t he learned?

You’re due back home today. Joel’s changed your bed linen, lit a fire in the sitting room, gathered some flowers to fill the cracked vase you covet on your nightstand. The arrangement was clumsy, but he hopes it’ll be the first step he can take on the path back into your life.

At the very least, Joel hopes they make you smile.

You arrive when he’s pouring your favourite soup into two bowls, setting them at opposite ends of the table. It hurts him to do so, considering you’d usually sit side-by-side, stealing the bread off his plate, your legs folded underneath as you caught up about your day.

Still. He has to take this slowly.

“You didn’t have to do all of this, Joel,” you say softly, and he shrugs.

“Figured we’d need to build your strength back up,” he says, pulling your chair out for you.

“And soup is the way to do that?”

“Quit arguin’,” he chides gently, setting your dinner down in front of you. Candles burn in the centre of the table, the night closing in outside. Everything is quiet for a while, spoons scraping against decades-old china as Joel sits with you — and his thoughts.

“So.”

He looks up, watches you settle back in your chair. You swallow, picking at your nails, avoiding eye contact. Joel waits, doesn’t want to interrupt whatever it is you’re finding hard to say.

“I feel like almost dying has put some things into perspective for me,” you say, and Joel can’t help but laugh at your sarcasm, and soon enough you’re giggling too, until you wince sharply.

“That bad, huh?” Joel murmurs, and you nod, hand over the bones that broke. “You mind if I go sit on the couch?” you ask, and Joel comes to help you to your feet, your hand in his.

Fuck, he’s missed it. Soft, warm and smooth.

Once you’re settled, he sits at the other end, still keen to give you space. “You know what? I think I want a whiskey,” you muse, leaning into the cushions. “Will you join me?”

Joel’s eyes narrow in confusion, but he fetches the tumblers anyway, sets them down on the coffee table. He pours you a small measure and hands it to you tentatively.

“I didn’t think you’d hit your head when you fell. Maybe I was wrong,” he comments, and you roll your eyes, swirling the amber liquid and observing it closely.

“Maybe you were.”

You toss it back, and Joel does the same.

“God, no. Definitely still tastes like shit,” you splutter, face contorted as you swallow the liquid down. Joel can’t help but grin as he watches you place the glass on the table, soft features glowing in the orange flames.

He feels the instant hit of alcohol in his bloodstream, loosening him up and relaxing his muscles. He lays back on the couch, head lolling as he turns to look at you.

“I wanted to say thank you. Y’know, for saving my life,” you tell him, staring into the fire burning in the grate. Joel can’t believe what he’s hearing; for a moment he sits stunned, unsure what to say.

“It was my fault. I was too slow, and too fuckin’ deaf to hear ‘em comin’” he admits. “I’m not who I was. Years ago, I would’ve destroyed ‘em. I’m sorry — fuck, I’m so sorry. You nearly died, because of me” Joel sighs, and you reach out to take his hand.

“Joel, I’m alive because of you. Nobody could’ve known that was going to happen - there’s been no talk of raiders for months now. Guess we both just got complacent,” you tell him, and Joel tsks under his breath.

“You’re still new to patrol. I should’ve let you go in front, brought up the rear. I can’t stop thinkin’ about it,” he whispers, and is horrified to find himself close to tears. “‘specially after the way I behaved the night before.”

You squeeze his palm gently, the firelight flickering in your eyes. “I want to leave it in the past. But if you don’t want me here, I need you to tell me.”

Joel faces you properly, holding your gaze for the first time all evening. For you to still think he doesn’t want you here breaks him: after the sleepless nights he’s had, tossing and turning, the echoes of your scream breaking him into a sweat that never dies.

“It.. It ain’t that. Hell, I love havin’ you here. I’m ashamed I ever made you feel like I don’t.”

You smile shyly, releasing his hand. “Then, why..?”

Joel breathes out, long and hard.

“You started movin’ on with your life. You didn’t need me as much, and I guess I let that hurt me. I let you down with how I reacted.”

“I appreciate you telling me,” you murmur, but your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, like it’s not what you wanted to hear. Joel’s puzzled, praying he hasn’t done anything wrong.

The atmosphere still feels tense, like you’re waiting for him to say more.

Like you know there is more.

“You look different, by the way.”

Your gaze find his as he digests your statement, and you tilt your head, lip pulled between your teeth. Joel wishes you wouldn’t fucking do that.

You’re twenty-eight, for Christ’s sake.

He’s fifty-six. He’ll go to hell for what he wants to do to you right now. You don’t want him: you want Ryan, someone your age, someone who can offer you stability and safety in the way he so clearly can’t.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks anyway, feeling his breath shorten as you lean in closer to him. Your skin is so smooth; reflected in the firelight, breasts fighting against the tank top you’re wearing.

Joel can smell vanilla, wants to taste it, too. But he can’t.

“More.. Relaxed. No frowning,” you tease, reaching out a thumb to his forehead, pretending to smooth out the crease that usually has a home there.

“Could say the same f’you, too.”

You smile, and suddenly you’re right beside him — above him, and Joel knows he’s powerless to stop you. The whiskey is warm in his veins, and he wants you. So, so badly.

You hitch a leg over his jeans, trap him beneath you.

“You know, I’ve had just about enough of you.”

Your hands are slipping from his shoulders, down the planes of his chest. Joel can’t help himself; he cants his hips up into you, relishing your gasp, the way you’re already so frantic for him.

Your lips beg for permission messily against his, thighs squeezing him tight. Joel grants it gladly; savours the taste of your tongue in his mouth, the way your breasts feel against his coarse fingertips as he ventures carefully under your flimsy shirt.

Your skin is hot beneath his touch, and he wants to tell you how good you are; letting him touch you like this, letting him pinch the pebbled flesh he finds, soothing it over with his mouth. He manages to be mindful of your sore ribs, the gauze above your hip, but it’s not without trying.

Joel’s so caught up in you: the sweet sounds you’re making as you kiss him so deeply, the way you pull at his hair, grind down onto him. He’s painfully, pathetically hard; it’s only when you come up for air that he takes a second to think.

Fuck.

“Hey — look,” he starts to withdraw, hands moving to your shoulders, holding you back. You pause, eyes narrowed, realisation dawning across your features.

You shuffle out of his lap like you’re ashamed. “I’m sorry, Joel. That was — that was too much.”

“No, don’t be,” he sighs, longing to reach out and cup your jaw in his hand, pull you back to where he so desperately wants you to be. “It’s the whiskey talkin’.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You won’t look at him; gaze cast downwards, swallowing thickly.

“It’s not.”

You say it so quietly, Joel wonders if he’s imagined it.

“No?”

You shake your head, and Joel breathes out, capturing your chin with his finger. His heart is hammering in his chest; your lips are parted, sweat dewing in the column of your throat.

You’re so fucking beautiful.

“I want you, Joel. I know you think you’re not worthy, or too old, or whatever you’ve made yourself believe. I haven’t been able to do anything but lie there and think, for a whole seven days. You know what I thought about?”

Joel waits, agonised.

“You. Everything you’ve taught me, shared with me. The way you’ve let me into your life, into Ellie’s. I turned up here alone, and now I’ve never felt less lonely. I don’t want to give that up. I don’t want to give you up,” you tell him, and press your lips to his.

“If you’ll have me, Joel, I’d like to stay forever. You and I, in our chairs, eating soup.”

Joel’s grinning now, tugging you back to him gently. “You mean that, pretty girl?”

“Uhuh. And forever starts now,” you press your forehead to his, then pull him to his feet. You keep hold of his hand, traipsing through the darkness, past walls you know so well.

It’s heaven. You’re heaven.

Joel wants to take it slow, but he can’t: not with you. He takes his time, though, sliding your shirt off your head, pressing a kiss to your battered ribs.

Your jeans drop to the floor soon after, and finally, you’re bare for him. He’s salivating; you’re a vision, soft and supple as he runs his hands along your thighs, the curves of your tummy, up over your sternum.

Joel revels in the sounds you make, the way you’re so responsive to him, whimpering as his hand closes over your throat gently, tongue back inside your mouth with a renewed ferocity.

“Wanted this for too damn long,” he says gruffly, hand under the bend of your knee, your body so pliant beneath him. You arch your back wantonly as he touches you, teeth sinking into his neck, red marks from your nails down his back.

“I’m yours, Joel. Just like I said.”

Joel slides into the wet, slippery heart of you, both of you groaning at the stretch, the shared feeling of euphoria.

Home.