▹— summary: you don’t like the blood in your reflection, joel wipes it away.
▹— a/n: this is like 1.4k words and it’s shit, sorry!!! barely any joel interaction but it’s the thought that counts? (from feb’23, posted june’25 so go easy lmao) this was supposed to be a lot longer i think
▹— warnings: extremely unfinished, creeps from silver lake, reader murders folk (off page), trauma, dissociation, BLOOD, canon typical violence
MASTERLIST
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Life in Jackson had been something of a miracle. A working, living society that fought back against the Infection that threatened to poison the whole world, and the humans who had taken advantage of it in the worst kind of way. It was a safe haven, a little pocket of life that you had never known before arriving alongside Ellie and Joel, close to a year ago.
But it didn’t change you.
It didn’t change anything about the world outside of the walls, either. The world was still infested with fungus, and full to the brim of immoral assholes who would love nothing more than to tear Jackson apart.
You couldn’t help but remain on edge, even as Ellie and Joel slowly began to relax into the life of somewhat normalcy. Every time you tried to just calm down and enjoy life, you felt overwhelmed with images of people destroying this place. You were sure it wouldn’t be able to last, nothing ever did.
It was the reason you were so eager to go on patrols, to be allowed the gun in your hands as your horse trotted along the routes that members of Jackson frequented.
So it was no surprise to you when you saw the smoke in the distance, coming from a supposedly abandoned cabin. You weren’t sure who would be in there, whether it’d be Jackson patrollers taking a pit stop, or someone more malicious.
You had been grateful, then, that being in Jackson hadn't made you soft. Your guard was still present, still strong, and you were thankful, especially as you got closer to the cabin. It had become increasingly clear that whoever these people were, they didn’t come from Jackson. The windows were unblocked, and you could see at least three men inside, their faces angled away from where you were staring in.
Nobody in Jackson would be that foolish, you were certain. It was standard procedure to block entrances to wherever you may be laying low, not wanting to risk Infected or hunters sneaking up on you. That open window would have anybody sneaking in with ease, which was why you knew you’d be getting answers.
You had tied up your horse, then, to a tree just out of reach, giving her a comforting pat against the side of her neck.
The next moments had been a blur, crawling through snow and bushes to keep out of sight, all the way until you had reached the open window, finally able to hear their voices carrying through the air. Your gun was gripped tightly in your hand, safety off, and you were ready to shoot first, answer later, before you caught wind of their words.
It had you freezing, eyebrows furrowed, and you recall the way misted breath had left you.
“They’ll all pay, Sid. That’s what we’re here for, ain’t it?” One of them had laughed, and you had heard the pat of him hitting presumably Sid on the shoulder.
“What? You think those assholes are gonna let us kill three of their own?”
“Hey, that stupid girl killed one of ours first. An eye for an eye.” The first voice responded, much angrier than his first comment had been, and you had realised then that this seemed… personal.
“They killed David, Sid. We ain’t about to let that slide!” A third voice spoke up, lower and much more vengeful when he uttered the name. Your mind had been racing, going through the likelihood that this was all a coincidence, and that they weren’t here for Ellie. For you. For Joel.
You were climbing through the window before you could think better of it, boots thumping harshly against the wooden floor and drawing all of their attention. You had grabbed the nearest guy before they could even make a move, your gun pressed to his head.
“Weapons on the floor.” You had hissed, pushing the metal harder against the man you held as they hesitated. “Now.”
“Alright, girl, jus’ calm down now!” One of the men, Sid, you figured, said, nodding towards his companion and dropping his pistol and rifle to the ground. You had jerked your chin, and kept your eyes sharp as they begrudgingly kicked away the weapons, out of reach.
Your hand had gripped the arm of the man in front of you as he held a knife, poised to strike you with it. “I wouldn’t.” The knife slipped to the floor as you twisted his wrist, and he cursed as you kicked it away, towards the window you had entered through. “What the fuck do you want? Why are you here?” Your voice had been dark, full of anger and a not so subtle threat.
“We just want the girl, okay? She killed one of ours.” Sid told you, his brows furrowed as he clearly tried to repress the anger in his expression.
“Where are you from?” You asked then, awaiting confirmation of your worst fears. You had repeated your question when they hesitated, pressing the gun harder against the head of the man below you, ignoring his wince.
“Silver Lake! It’s—it’s in Colorado!”
Your blood had felt like it was frozen, dragging through your veins at a speed so slow it physically hurt. You had swallowed, something in your eyes setting as you nodded, jaw clenched.
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The wind had numbed your limbs as soon as you stepped foot back outside, blood drying against your skin in the harsh weather.
Your horse was exactly where you’d left her, and she stayed quiet as you claimed back on the saddle, making your way back in the direction of Jackson with more supplies than you’d left with. The ride there was a complete blur, something inside of you just as numb, though not from the wind.
Concerned voices reached your ears when the gates opened, people reaching for you as you slipped off of the horse, patting her neck before someone took her back to the stables. “‘M fine.” You grumbled, stepping away from somebody as they reached hands towards you.
“Are you hurt?” They asked, hands stilled in the air, prepared to reach towards you again.
You shook your head, something fumbling from your lips about going home, and you set off before they could question you further. The journey blurred together, just the sound of your footsteps as you looked for the familiar road that was Rancher Street. You hadn’t fully registered the stares on you as you trekked through the heart of Jackson, finally reaching the house you were meant to call home.
“Joel?” You called, stepping into the house, the backpack and gear on your back being set down beside the door. When he didn’t answer, you frowned, knowing he wasn’t on any jobs this evening.
You made your way up the stairs, avoiding the fourth step that creaked when you step foot on it, and looked through the rooms, one by one. When you finally found the man, he was hunched over his woodwork desk, his mostly-deaf ear facing toward the doorway in which you stood.
“Joel,” You breathed, something of relief finding you as you saw he was fine, just working away in his own world. You were going to say something else, but were stopped by the way he looked over at you.
“Shit,” He said, standing immediately and making his way to you with quick steps. “Are you okay? What happened?” Joel asked, furrowing his brows when you didn’t answer him, rather stepping into his arms and gripping onto him like your life depended on it. He held on to the back of your head, holding you close, and couldn’t help but frown as you sagged in his arms.
He called your name, unable to do anything but be more confused and concerned by the second when you could only shake your head.
It takes him more than a few moments to realise that the blood staining you isn’t your own, and that brings along another realisation. Your despondency translates what happened for you, so you have no need to fill him in with words.
This is something Joel Miller knows all too well.
The disassociation afterwards is a powerful thing, but what comes after that stage isn’t any better. There are struggles ahead of you, he knows, and he knows those struggles well.
He holds you tighter, arms firm around you, and waits.
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▹—taglist: @rhymingtree @sleepygraves @wnstice (everything) @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @fariylixie0915 @faceache111 @randomhoex @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @soobsdior @sunflowersdrop @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @miss-celestial-being (pedro) please let me know if you want removing or adding!
i am very much not in the redacted fandom anymore, don't even know if its alive lmao, but I was purging my old pinterest boards and found my faceclaims of a handful of characters. sam was puuuurely self indulgent
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is facing one of the most challenging times of his life. Mohamad is 37 years old and left his homeland in 2015 in search of a safer and better future. He’s a kind, hardworking man, and his small family has always been his greatest priority.
Living abroad, Mohamad has recently endured unimaginable loss and financial strain. Amidst the ongoing conflict in his homeland, his mother passed away, leaving behind his sister and her five young children—the last remaining members of his immediate family.
As the situation worsened, Mohamad managed to help his sister and her children escape to safety in Egypt, covering their immediate needs and securing a temporary refuge for them. Since then, he has been fully responsible for providing everything they need to survive during this transition.
In his efforts to support his family and cope with this devastating loss, Mohamad has found himself deeply in debt. To make matters even more difficult, he recently underwent knee surgery, which limits his ability to return to work for the foreseeable future. This has made it even harder for him to manage his financial responsibilities and the pressing need to provide his family with a stable future.
Mohamad is now working to bring his sister and her five children to join him in Belgium, where he hopes they can find stability and opportunity after all they’ve endured. This transition, however, requires significant resources that he is currently unable to meet alone.
For privacy reasons, we are not sharing Mohamad’s full name, as he has chosen to keep his identity discreet. While he initially refused the idea of asking for help, I couldn’t stand by and watch him struggle alone. I insisted on doing this for him because he deserves a chance to overcome these challenges.
Your contribution will help Mohamad repay the debt incurred during this difficult time, cover ongoing living expenses for his family, and assist with the costs involved in bringing them safely to Belgium.
Mohamad has been a good friend of mine for years, and I’ve always admired his resilience and generosity. Any support, no matter the size, will make an incredible difference in helping Mohamad and his family rebuild their lives after these painful experiences.
Thank you for reading his story and considering helping a man who has always done everything he can for his loved ones.
Adam
✅ Vetted by Association: @bilal-salah0
Donate & share: Donation Link
I am reaching out on behalf of my dear friend, Mohamad S., who is faci… Adam Bin Ali needs your support for Help Mohamad reunite his family
Summary: The task assigned to him by the lords was a simple one, whether her body was brought in warm or cold mattered little to them, as long as her life had been extinguished. In their eyes, she was an abomination, a stain on this holy land that needed to be purged. And the more he watched her, the less he understood why.
Word Count: 7.1k
Tags: Witch hunter AU, witch!reader, third person POV, reader has she/her pronouns, probably inaccurate witchy things – just using my imagination, injury, threats, din reconsidering his life choices.
Main masterlist - Series Master list
There were precious few of us remaining, scattered across the land in hiding like hunted game. Fear gripped our hearts as we were hunted like deers, too dangerous to scavenge in groups or pairs, lest we be mistaken for the witches we were. Yet traveling alone was even more lethal, for the target on our backs grew a vivid red in the eyes of those who hunted us. The threat was too great, and the risk too real. Our very lives were at stake, every moment we remained on guard and alone.
For generations upon generations, witchcraft had been referred to as a gift, a mystical force that some bloodlines were lucky enough to wield. But now, it was seen as a curse, to be punished with a brutal and painful death simply because we were born with something that someone else did not have. The injustice was unbearable, as the gift became a burden, the once celebrated power a thing to be feared. The fear of witchcraft permeated the land, and any who bared the power must hide it for fear of being discovered and punished.
The men that hunted us were no better than ourselves, their fear of us blinding them to the reality. We meant no harm unless we were first threatened, our existence being no danger by itself. We were not naturally dangerous, unless unjust violence was thrust upon us.
And now, as she sprinted through the woods in the black of night, the unjust violence chased her. Fear gripped her heart and made her legs move even faster; the adrenaline rushed through her veins as she tried to escape the threat that hunted her down. Her body trembled, knowing that should she slow down for even a moment, her death would be swiftly and cruelly delivered. Every twig that snapped or leaf that rustled fueled the adrenaline running through her blood, every glance at the shadows or movements in the corners of her eye raised her heart rate all over again.
She had never hurt a soul, and yet here she was, being hunted for what she could potentially do. The unfair treatment made her heart weep, and her resolve wavered. The injustice of being hunted like an animal, like a dangerous beast with the potential for harm, was a crushing blow. But she persisted, through the pain and despair, to run. To run through the night with unjust violence in her wake, her life on the line.
He was faster than her though, and she could hear his footsteps gain traction as she attempted to flee. The hunter said nothing, never did. For two days, they have played a twisted game of cat and mouse, evading his deathly grip with the magic that threatened her very life. Every second spent evading the hunter, the threat of being caught grew exponentially, as the magic that has served as her shield and defense gradually chipped away at her health. The pressure was overwhelming, but she dared not stop.
She dared not harm him, to truly become what he feared her to be. To prove them all right. No, she would not harm him even when he eventually has her by the throat and she stares up into his hateful eyes, she will do no harm.
There was a series of events that had brought her to this point, the hunter trailing after her like a wildfire ripping through the forest. A glance that lingered too long in a village she was passing through, catching the attention of the masked figure who lingered in the shadows, stalking anything he considered a potential threat. Perhaps the smell of power he believed to be dangerous emanated from her person as she smiled and thanked the merchant for the bread she bought.
The man, the hunter, was surrounded by darkness, as if the very essence of the shadows were drawn to him and drowned him in a sea of inky black. She could feel him from where she stood across the bustling street, the dark alley that he stood in created an ominous presence. The very light of her power roared in agony, the burning brilliance and warmth drained away and suffocated by the all consuming darkness this man was. He was the very personification of darkness, a void that swallowed everything it touched, a living abyss of emptiness.
And yet, she felt sorrow for him. Though he was the one hunting her, she could not help but feel sympathy and pity for the man. She mourned the light that had been snuffed out from within him, extinguished by the darkness that had surrounded him like a shroud. Perhaps he had once been light as well, once held warmth and brightness, once given off the rays of hope. But that light had been taken away, replaced with shadows and nothingness.
He sat across from her that fateful night in the tavern, the corner she sought as a refuge now shared with the reaper. His face was shrouded in darkness, the hood of his cloak hung low, obscuring and hiding his identity. His lower face was covered by thick material, the features underneath hidden from view. His presence was ominous and unsettling, the air charged with tension and dread, as if he were more than just a regular hunter.
He wore black and grey, his clothes fitted like they were a second skin, every contour and line defined and displayed. Weapons littered his body, worn freely, as if he were advertising his level of threat. Though he did not need the weapons on display to make his threat known, his entire presence broadcast his danger to all who looked upon him. His whole being was one of immense threat, every part of him declared with boldness and certainty that he was a dangerous entity, a being to be feared and respected.
And yet, she was feared and hunted.
"A hunter," she declared, the weight of the words heavy upon her tongue.
Her meal, once a pleasure to consume, no longer held a taste for her. Her appetite lost as her mind raced. She set down her spoon, the presence across from her was the source of her anxiety and dread. A threat she could barely see, but felt, nonetheless.
“A witch," his voice was as dark as his presence, the words dripped with contempt and hatred in equal measure. He tilted his head, eyes hidden behind the thick material that covered his face as he studied her intently. His gloved hands rested on the table, clasped together, his stare sharp and unyielding.
“There’s no such thing,” she shook her head, the weight of his stare threatened to crush her. She kept her hands in her lap, avoiding any movement that might have painted her as a threatening or dangerous force.
Heaven forbid she appeared a threat to the darkness that he is.
He remained still, the silence hanging heavily between them, thick and dense, almost suffocating. It made her believe that he did not believe the words that spilled from her mouth. He could have said anything at that moment, but the silence spoke louder than any words. He had found his target, and nothing she said could convince him otherwise. He saw her, a witch by his definition, a creature to be exterminated and eradicated with ruthless brutality. The silence spoke for itself, speaking of an unspoken truth that filled the air with the scent of danger.
She stole a glance around the tavern, catching the gazes of the other occupants of the establishment as they exchange whispers and passing glances. Their bodies were still, and their whispers were soft, but their eyes betrayed their intentions, staring at her and the obvious witch hunter seated across. They all wondered if he would kill her right here, in front of them, in a display of his hunting prowess and skill. She knew that they awaited with bated breath, wanting to see the slaughter of another witch. Their praise of the hunter is inevitable should he deliver the show they all desire.
"You are going to kill me," she said, speaking up into the silence, addressing the masked hunter directly. Her words cut through the tense, charged air like a dagger, the truth of them sharp and piercing. He was a hunter after all, a hunter after her, and there could be no other reason behind this encounter but to see her death.
"This is the way." He stated coldly, a death sentence from his lips. The phrase was one she assumed he had uttered on countless occasions, as this was a familiar ritual for him. One of countless witches that had been captured, executed, and forgotten. For him, it was just another routine, another day on the job, another name to add to a list that would never end.
"It doesn't have to be." Her words fell upon deaf ears, dismissed and ignored by the hunter as his hand moved towards the dagger strapped to his chest. The simple gesture spoke volumes, the cold, emotionless demeanor that did not falter, the resolve that filled his visage as his hand closed around the dagger, all conveying his intentions.
“This is the way,” This was not a negotiation, nor a threat. This was a statement of fact. No witch had ever escaped this final encounter, none ever would. It was their moment of reckoning.
She had come to accept her fate, to make her peace with the inevitability of death at the hands of the hunter. She knew with certainty that her death would come with no just cause, in the name of someone else's beliefs. To die here, with an audience, was not the way she had intended. When she passed on from this world, she wanted to do so in the loving eyes of the earth, in the caring and nurturing embrace of her beautiful mother nature, to bleed and die into her, becoming one with her.
A smoke bomb was thrown, and screams of panic echoed through the tavern as chaos ensued. It was thrown not to save her life, but rather to give her just a moment more, a precious few seconds, to flee the hands of death, and the hunter who was hot on her trail. She raced towards the woods, ran with everything she had left, the hunter's footsteps grew louder and closer with each passing second.
If she managed to escape death, that was just a bonus.
But the woods were her home, a safe refuge, a sanctuary of solace and peace. It was the source of her strength, her power, her magic. The plants and earth itself were her lifeline, fueling and nourishing her gifts, a comforting and welcoming embrace. The woods were where she would run for safety, and where the hunter now sought to follow.
On the second day of relentless pursuit, her muscles grew weary and tired, her body had begun to feel the strain and fatigue of her nonstop use of magic. Her reserves were being drained for all they were worth, her strength and willpower waning as she continued to evade the hunter, who had followed her deep into the woods. It was becoming a game of who would tire from the hunt first, and it appeared as if she would be the one to succumb to exhaustion first.
She fell to her knees, digging her hands into the dirt as she struggled to muster the power within the earth, but the exhaustion was all-consuming and the reserve of her magic was running dangerously low. She felt as if her life force was being drained from her body, and she was unable to access the potent essence that normally flowed freely through the earth. The power was there, she could feel it, but she was unable to harness and channel it into herself. Her mind and body was reaching the point of utter fatigue and exhaustion.
He's behind her, the never ending darkness that he exuded and that engulfed him as he breathed, made his presence known to her in an almost otherworldly and menacing way. She could feel him creeping up on her, the shadow and the darkness grew in intensity and threatened to envelop her whole, to extinguish her light that was barely there anymore.
She knew that if she used more magic, it would surely cause irreparable damage and even kill her due to the strain it would place upon her. She had reached her limit, and to go further would push her weak and exhausted body over the brink, to be devoured by the all-consuming void that awaited.
His darkness had a thirst, and its hunger was for her life and existence. It was a race against time, against fatigue and exhaustion.
As she crawled towards the nearest tree, she slumped her back against its rough and splintering wood. She closed her eyes. She felt the world around her slip from her grasp and control, the life force steadily being drained out of her against her will. If this was how she were to die, then maybe dying here was not such a bad fate. Maybe death would be preferable to exhaustion and powerlessness, the feeling of being unable to control the world around her, having her magic drained without having the time to regain the strength she once had before.
The soft whirl of a stream nearby, the howling of a wolf, and the sound of frogs that hopped around her brought some sense of life back to her. The forest screamed of life around her, despite the exhaustion and emptiness that she felt within herself, the absence of the power and strength that she once had. Just because she cannot feel it, it does not mean that it is not there. The forest was alive, and it's calling to her, urging her to stay and to hold on.
The hunter was before her as she opened her eyes, his breathing heavy. His eyes were hidden in the shadows that enveloped his face, his features almost invisible in the darkness of night. She could not make out his features or his expression, only the faint shimmer of the moonlight reflecting on his sword as he took it from his back.
“You stopped running, witch?”
In one last final attempt to save her life, she summoned every last remaining shred of magic that she had left. She screamed out in agony, using all the energy that she could muster to conjure the vines from the ground, wrapping them around the hunter's body as he struggled against the will of nature. Her screams of pain echoed off the forest walls around her, rising above his grunts as he swung his sword in a desperate attempt to break the shackles of her enchantment.
All too soon, the vines were twisted around the hunter, her own body becoming a conduit for the potent and lethal magic that she had conjured, and the vines began breaking the hunters' bones and caused serious harm. Her cries blended in with the night, mixing together in a haunted melody, the sound of pain and anguish rose from her throat as the forest around her stilled and became silent like a tomb.
She had not meant to injure him, she just wanted him to stop.
She would have killed him that night, the magic she had summoned suffocating the air from his lungs, if she had not passed out from the sheer force of the exertion and effort that was required to conjure it in the first place. Her exhausted body was depleted of all the magic and energy that she had built up, and her weakened state led to her passing out before she was able to finish off her hunter and send him to his death.
When she woke with the rising of the sun, she felt like death itself had already seized a hold on her. Just the simple act of breathing felt like a struggle in her weakened state, and as she opened her eyes, she perceived how close she was to death. When she looked around, she saw that the hunter was still lying on the ground, the decaying vines still wrapped around him like an armored shell, his body unmoving.
Her chest constricted, and she let out a painful cough that brought up blood, leaking from her mouth. This was the price she had to pay for pushing herself beyond her limits.
The man stirred, groaning in pain, the soft murmurs of agony pulling at her heart. Knowing that she had caused this, almost having killed him in her struggle for life. It tore into her heart, an aching, bitter feeling that lingered even as the man began to come around, the thought and the knowledge that she had played a part in his suffering.
She had become what he feared her to be, only brought from the fear in her own heart.
She stood on shaky legs, wiped the blood from her mouth, the pain of exertion still present throughout her entire body. She stumbled over to the man, desperately trying to hold herself up as the exhaustion set in. She managed to make it to her knees beside him, examining the wounds that she had inflicted and observed the extent of the damage that she had caused. She saw the broken bones and the deep cuts through his clothes.
"I'm sorry..." She managed to whimper; her voice hoarse. her hands reached out for him, her fingers fumbling helplessly as she tried to stop the bleeding. Tears trickled down her face as the feeling of guilt and shame washed over her, the realization of what she had done weighed heavily upon her mind and conscience.
His hand moved like lightning as he grabbed onto her wrist, a sharp and sudden action that caught her completely off guard. His grip was tight, the muscles taut and the fingers gripping hard on her wrist. "Don't touch me." He groaned, the words filled with disdain and fury.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," she tried to explain, her voice caught in her throat as she tried to offer a rational explanation. Her gaze traveled to the void that lay behind his hood, unable to make out any features.
Her explanation was met only with silence, the echo of her own voice filled the void between her words, and the only sound around her other than the rustle of the forest leaves in the wind.
“Liar.”
He tried to move his other arm, but gasped in pain as he did so, the movement sent a jolt of pain through his body that rippled with the force of lightning. He closed his eyes tightly, the strain and the pain evident in the grimace on his face, the effort caused him to struggle to even breathe.
She shook off his grip on her wrist, his hold loosened as she reached across to his other arm. Raising the shredded sleeve of his shirt, she saw the broken bone lying beneath. The wound that she had caused. His unbroken arm reached back for her, gripping her cloak in a futile attempt to pull her away.
His sudden tug pulled her forward, pulling her close and caused her to press against the solidity of his chest. She was forced to stare at the shadow and the darkness that laid beneath the hood of his cloak, and her eyes traveled up to the edge of his hood, where the smallest hint of the hunter's face remained hidden in anonymity.
“Please, let me help you.” She pleaded.
"You will do no such thing." His voice was sharp and cold, the anger and disdain evident in each syllable. He lashed out at her, pushing her away and sent her tumbling onto the ground. She landed on her back, the force of his shove sent a jolt of pain through her body, the exhaustion further compounding with the effects of the fall. She laid there on the ground, the cold hardness of the forest floor pressing against her back as she felt the blood trickle from her nose.
He tried to move, but the sudden jolt of pain and the weakness that had come over his body forced him to fall back to the ground beside her. He groaned, a sharp gasp of air as he hit the ground, the impact sent a wave of pain up his spine. His body was still, the only movement came from his labored breaths as he tried to regain his composure and his strength.
She knelt beside him once more, her fingers wiping the blood from her face as she moved closer to him. He looked up at her through the pain that was etched across his face, his eyes burned into hers as she took his hand in hers. This time, he did not shake her touch; he allowed her to hold his hand, his fingers wrapping around hers as he let her touch him, holding on despite the pain and the anger that was still present within him.
"Just kill me." He sighed, the words spoken bitterly and quietly as he closed his eyes, his body tensing as he waited for her to deal the killing blow. However, the soft touch of her hand gently caressed his face. Her hand was warm against his skin, and her touch was tentative and tender, a stark contrast to the harshness of his words.
“I told you, I will do no such thing.” She repeated herself.
If she had the power to do so, she would heal every wound on his body and soul, to mend and to repair the damage that had been done. Even though he had tried to snuff out the light from her soul, she would ignite his, her own strength and resilience shining bright as she refused to waver in the face of his anger and his pain. The gentleness of her touch was a reminder of the empathy that still lived within her.
Despite the weakening of her own body, death's grip strong upon her as the remnants of her power slipped away, she gathered her remaining strength and dragged the hunter through the woods. Her destination was a cabin that she had taken refuge in days prior, a place where she would be able to tend to his wounds properly and give him the care and attention he needed. Her own body was struggling, the toll of her own fatigue and weakness starting to take its toll, but she pushed on, determined to reach the cabin before it was too late.
Blood flowed freely from her nose and ears, her body weak and close to collapse. In a desperate plea, she begged the very foundation of the world to give her just one final ounce of strength, to help her lift the hunter onto the bed. And with a sickening laugh, her prayer was answered. The price of said power snatched her consciousness away like a fleeting dream, and her body collapsed onto the floor beside the hunter, the last remnants of her strength used up in the act of bringing him comfort
The hunter groaned as he was placed onto the bed, the impact causing a sharp jolt of pain to run through his body. However, it was the sound of her body hitting the floor that caught his attention, the sound of her collapse echoing off the walls of the cabin. He sat up in the bed, and he peeked over the side, peering down at the girl who lay unconscious on the floor, lost to the world around them.
If his leg and arm were not broken, he would have walked right out of the cabin and left her there, abandoning her without a second thought. However, his injuries prevented him from doing so. He knew that he would not make it out the door without collapsing, the pain and the weakness too much to bear. The frustration and anger in him flared up, the helplessness and the fact that he was reliant on her for his own survival eating away at him.
The thought crossed his mind, the idea that he could end it all right then and there, taking advantage of her unconscious state and prevent her from ever waking up agin. But something about the fact that she didn't end his life in the woods and instead saved him nagged at his curiosity. Despite his anger and his pain, her act of mercy had bewildered him.
Witches were supposed to be heartless creatures.
She stirred once more, her body shifted as the moonlight streamed through the torn curtains. She managed to pull herself to her feet, the effort costing her as she trembled with weakness. The hunter watched her keenly, his jaw clenched tightly as he waited for her to notice him, to realize he was there. He braced himself for her to strike, expecting the worst.
The softly curled smile that formed on her lips as her eyes met the cloaked face of the hunter was not what he expected at all. It was an expression of peace and a calmness that went against the anger and the pain that lay within him. Her smile was gentle and sweet, and even through the shadows of his hood, he could feel the warmth that emanated from her gaze.
Her eyes shifted from his hood, moving down to his broken bones as the smile faded from her face. She sighed softly as she took a seat at the edge of the bed, positioning herself with her back facing him, her body mere inches from him and the bed, all too close to the danger that he posed. Her head fell as she looked away.
“It will take a few days until I’m strong enough to heal the wounds I caused you.”
The hunter grunted as he tried to shift himself further away from her, the effort caused him pain but he was determined not to let her touch him with her magic. He did not trust her, nor did he want to be vulnerable and weak in her presence, the remnants of anger and caution still lingering within him.
She paid no attention to the hunter's movement, as she stood up from the bed, her attention focused on the task at hand.
“I may not have magic at my disposal, but I can do what I can with simple medicine.”
Her mind was set on tending to his wounds and helping him recover, despite his protests and his unwillingness to accept her help. She moved around the cabin, gathering the necessary supplies she would need to treat his injuries.
The hunter watched her with intent, his gaze sharp and filled with suspicion. He tensed up as she sat before him once more, the labored sound of his breathing filling the air between them.
She had no intention of causing him any further pain, and yet he looked at her as if he expected her to draw nothing but screams of agony from him.
In the folktales, witches are often portrayed as beings who spread terror and destruction, burning villages to the ground with their magic. But in truth, it was often the hands of men, driven by fear and ignorance, who brought about the downfall of those villages. Their paranoia and superstition led to the persecution of those who were different, casting blame and suspicion upon anyone who did not fit into their narrow view.
In that moment, she turned to act not in violence and destruction, but in healing and care. She set his broken bones, mended his cuts, and soothed his bruises, tending to his wounds with a gentleness and a care that contradicted what he had come to expect from her. She acted not as his downfall, but as his savior.
The hunter had finally given into exhaustion, his body stilled as he drifted into a deep sleep. The pain and the fatigue that had plagued him had settled deep within his bones, and she was grateful for the silence that followed. She no longer had to fight him, to fend off his hands as he tried to push her away while she worked on him. A small part of her wondered if he would even offer her a word of thanks for her efforts.
She took advantage of the hunter's sleep to gather food and replenish her own strength. Drawing from the very earth itself, she felt her magic begin to flow back into her blood, replenishing the energy that had been drained from her. She was still too weak to wield any significant magic, but she no longer felt the icy grip of death upon her, a small but significant victory.
On the second day, the hunter woke with a sudden gasp, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet cabin. She held his arm in her hands, her eyes closed in concentration as she focused on her healing abilities. He yelled for her to release him, his voice filled with anger and pain, but her grip was unyielding, her hands like iron shackles holding him fast. Despite his protests, warm energy filtered through his blood, causing his body to jerk and writhe in agony as he felt the bones in his arm shift.
And then bliss.
He felt himself slowly sink into the bed; the once hard mattress now transformed into a cloud of blissful softness. His body grew heavy, as if he was sinking into the warm embrace of a river on a summer's day. A profound sense of contentment washed over him, a smile crept onto his face, and a strange and unfamiliar high took over his body.
The girl stumbled and fell to the floor, her fragile body succumbing to the strain and the toil of her magic. The cost of healing the hunter was too great, and the stain upon her magic was all too painful to bear.
The hunter opened his eyes and sat up on the bed as the blissful haze began to recede. His gaze fell upon the witch, her body lying motionless on the hard wooden floor. He studied her for a moment, the rise and fall of her chest the only indication that she still lived.
The thought flickered through his mind, the possibility of ending her there and then while she lay defenseless within his reach. He balled his hand into a fist, the arm that had been broken mere moments ago now completely healed, and he hesitated.
The frown that crossed his face was a reflection of the unfamiliar feeling within him. He had never hesitated before, for hesitation lead to death. But now, he was filled with doubt, a feeling foreign to him.
She had once again healed him, healing his wounds even though it drew her own death closer. She had tended to his injuries, only to cause greater harm to her own self. The act struck him as selfless and strangely altruistic, a strange and unexpected act from the very creature he had sought to kill.
When she woke once more, he asked for her name.
She managed a small smile where she lay on the floor, even as blood trickled from her mouth, staining her lips and chin. In a soft whisper, she spoke her name aloud into the darkening cabin, the sound echoing off the thick, wooden walls.
“Din,” The hunter replied.
She remained on the cold floor throughout the night, lying there unmoving and silent. He tried to convince himself that he didn't care, that her wellbeing didn't matter to him. Yet, as the morning light began to filter through the cracks in the cabin walls, he found himself looking towards her, his gaze lingering as she rose slowly to her feet.
She was so weak; he took pity on her.
She would make such an easy kill.
“So, Din,” she spoke, her voice a soft sigh that broke the silence of the cabin on the fifth day. She was seated, her legs curled up against her chest as she placed a small, worn book on the table beside her. Her gaze darted up to meet his, the light from the fire casting a warm glow across her face.
Din gave a soft hum in response, his attention still focused on stirring the contents of his bowl, the sound of the spoon clinking against the sides of the ceramic filling the air. He remained engrossed in his task, occasionally pushing the carrots around in the liquid, making no effort to look up at her as she spoke.
“Will you still kill me?”
The question hung in the air, the sound of his stirring spoon suddenly falling silent as he froze, the room seemingly holding its breath in anticipation. She waited, her heart pounding in her chest, yet she already knew his answer deep within her heart.
"This is the way," he repeated, his voice firm and steady. The words were more than just a mantra, they were the philosophy by which he lived his life. He continued stirring his soup, the movement of the spoon punctuating the finality of his statement.
There was a pause, a moment of quiet, before he spoke once more. "Will you still heal me," he asked, his voice steady, "knowing my intentions?" His eyes did not meet hers, yet he could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, her eyes piercing into the very depths of his soul.
"This is the way," she repeated his own words back to him, the words carrying the same stubborn resolve with which he had spoken them.
On the seventh day, she finally managed to coax Din from the bed to a chair on the porch. She could sense the brooding aura that clung to him like a dark cloud and felt that a change of scenery might help lighten the shadows that seemed to burden him.
The task assigned to him by the lords was a simple one, whether her body was brought in warm or cold mattered little to them, as long as her life had been extinguished. In their eyes, she was an abomination, a stain on this holy land that needed to be purged.
And the more he watched her, the less he understood why.
She sat among the flowers; a radiant figure surrounded by the very essence of life. Rabbits darted playfully beneath her feet, their tiny paws rustling through the grass. Birds perched on her shoulders, singing her name like a melodious chorus. As she moved, flora sprung from the earth in her wake, a beautiful trail of color and growth behind her.
It made no sense to him how he was tasked to end the life of someone who so effortlessly brought life into the world. Everywhere he looked, he saw the evidence of her power, in the flowers that bloomed, the creatures that surrounded her, and the beauty that spread like a canvas at her feet. How could he snuff the life from someone who had the power to create it?
And yet, he knew he had to follow the path laid out for him, for this was the way of his people. His creed was his identity, his purpose. If he did not abide by their teachings, then what would remain of him?
For whom would Din be without his creed?
That evening, her fingers danced through the air with grace and elegance, weaving intricate shapes and figures out of the wild vines that grew outside by the window. With a smile, she conjured a doll-like figurine of him, the resemblance striking even though she had never seen his face behind his cloak. And to his own surprise, he laughed.
The truth was, she had regained the strength to heal his injury days ago, yet, she had found herself reluctant to do so. She hadn't even realized how she had grown to enjoy his company, how he had filled the loneliness that had settled in her soul after all those years on the run from people like him. The time they had spent in the cabin, the moments they shared, had become something she had begun to cling to.
She knew this would not last, for he would kill her.
But, oh, how she was tired of running.
In the quiet, still darkness, she stood over him, her form bathed in shadows as she loomed over his sleeping figure. He lay vulnerable, defenseless against her presence, yet her actions were not sinister. She knelt beside the bed, her hands hovering over his wounded and broken leg. Then, she closed her eyes, her hands lowering gently onto his flesh, her touch soft and gentle.
He awakened with a strangled cry; his body drenched in torment as he bolted upright in the bed. The pain was all consuming, coursing through his core like a wildfire. His arms flailed, his hands seeking to grab the source of his suffering — her hands, which were still firmly pressed against his leg.
He gasped for breath, his vision hazy and unfocused as the pain overwhelmed his senses. He looked at her then, and saw the vitality slowly draining away from her as her own life force was transferred into him. He tried desperately to push her off, to break free from her grasp, but her hold was ironclad, her determination to heal him unyielding.
The pain, that all-consuming torment, finally yielded, giving way to a wave of bliss that washed over him. It was then, and only then, that her hands left his body, their touch gone as her body collapsed onto the floor beside the bed, the effort having robbed her of her strength once again.
She had braced herself for the inevitable, fully accepting that the moment Din stood on his own two feet, he would fulfill his objective and snuff the life from her. She lay there, weak and spent, knowing that she would not rise again, knowing that she had saved him at the cost of her own existence. And in her last moment of conscious thought, she found peace.
He rose from the bed, his leg no longer crippled and broken as he placed weight on it. There was no hint of discomfort or pain, as if the injury had never existed. He moved towards his belongings by the door and at the last moment, he paused, casting a brief glance in her direction, lying motionless on the floor. He grabbed the sword that leaned against the wall, the weight of the weapon familiar in his palm.
He moved closer, towering above her prone form on the floor. He hovered over her, his gaze fixed on her face. He raised his sword, the edge catching the light from the fire, the steel gleaming. He froze, his hand trembled slightly, the sword hovering above her vulnerable body, the silence stretching between them.
With a grunt, he raised the sword high above his head, muscles coiled tight. In one swift movement, he brought the blade down, the steel cutting through the air with a whistling sound. The sword met its target, driving deep into the wood of the floor, mere inches away from her head.
He let out a yell into the silence of the night, the sound a raw and primal thing, as he crumpled to his knees before the witch. The weight of his emotions was overpowering, the feeling of his heart being torn from his chest overwhelming him. He felt as if he was being unmade, as if everything that he was, everything that he believed, was being ripped away from him.
He was filled with a mixture of anger and frustration, his heart torn in two as the conflict raged within him. He loathed her for what she had done, for saving him, for making him question everything he knew.
Yet, despite his anger, he gently scooped her frail body off the floor and placed her within the bed she had healed him in, his hands tender and careful, everything he was not.
As she slowly stirred back to consciousness, the first thing she saw was him, sitting at her bedside. He was holding the book she had been reading, the one that had held her attention for days, his eyes focused on the words on the pages. She blinked a few times, her eyesight still adjusting as she watched him for a moment, confused and disoriented.
“You did not kill me?” she muttered.
The silence in the room hung heavy, broken only by the soft flutter of the pages as he continued to read. He did not look at her, his gaze fixed on the book in his hands, until her eyes started to flutter shut once more. Then, he spoke, his voice a soft rumble in the stillness of the room. "You are hard to kill, I'm afraid," his words spoken as a mere observation, his attention never left the pages in front of him.
As the days passed, he would carefully lift her from the bed and carry her outside, laying her gently in the soft grass. He would sit beside her, watching quietly as the earth healed her in ways he never could.
It was beautiful.
At first, the animals were hesitant to approach, wary of the man in their midst. But as the days went by, they began to join him in his vigil, taking their place beside him, silently keeping watch over their witch.
As he sat there, watching her sleep, a new creed formed in his heart. He vowed to himself that he would not allow any harm to befall her, for he would be there to protect her, to shield her from the harshness of the world. He would be her guardian, her defender, her champion, for as long as the world turned, and the stars continued to shine upon her.
For the first time in years, he felt the warm caress of sunlight on his face as he lowered the hood of his cloak. He sat there beside her, soaking up the rays of the sun as if it was the most natural thing in the universe. It was as if he was awakening from a long, dark sleep, the light chasing away the shadows that had clung to his soul for so long.
Din Djarin was a Witch Hunter no more, for how could he hurt something as beautiful and pure as her?
Notes
MY FIRST DIN FIC!!???? I have been so nervous to write anything to do with my beloved din because I just want to do him justice and star wars is so scary to write so, au it is.
When I say this has been in my WIP for three months now – I mean it. You can all thank the writing class I’m taking because it brought this back to life.
Also I have been deathly ill with influenza A and my mum has been in the hospital with viral pneumonia, I have not had time to write until today, the first day in nine days that I have been able to get out of bed.
➳❥ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 --- Logan Howlett x F!Reader ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄 --- Fluff ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌 --- X Men ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 --- None! ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 --- Unable to sleep, you seek comfort in Logan’s bed. He welcomes you warmly, and his steady presence and gentle conversation help you relax, allowing you to finally drift off to sleep.
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 --- 772
THE MOONLIGHT FILTERED THROUGH THE CURTAINS, CASTING A GENTLE GLOW ACROSS THE ROOM. The clock on the nightstand ticked softly, each second stretching into eternity as you lay in bed, restless and wide awake. No matter how many times you shifted or how many deep breaths you took, sleep eluded you. Frustration mingled with the quiet night, making the shadows on the walls seem even darker.
Finally, you couldn’t stand it any longer. You slipped out of bed with deliberate care, not wanting to disturb the quiet of the house. The hallway was dimly lit, and you moved quietly towards Logan’s room. As you reached his door, you hesitated, your hand hovering over the knob. The idea of waking him up felt like an intrusion, but your need for comfort was stronger.
Taking a deep breath, you knocked gently before pushing the door open just enough to peek inside. Logan’s room was sparsely decorated, but it exuded a comforting, lived-in warmth. His silhouette was barely visible under the covers, his breathing slow and even.
“Logan,” you whispered, trying to sound calm despite the knot of anxiety in your chest. You took a tentative step closer and gently shook his shoulder. He stirred, groaning softly, before his eyes opened and found yours. He blinked sleepily, his gaze softening with recognition.
“You okay?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
“I... I can’t sleep,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “I’ve been tossing and turning for hours. I just... I didn’t know where else to go.”
Logan’s expression shifted from groggy concern to understanding. Without a word, he shifted to one side, making space in the bed beside him. “Come here,” he said, his voice low and reassuring. You didn’t need any further invitation. You slipped into the bed, the cool sheets giving way to the reassuring warmth of his body.
As you settled next to him, Logan’s arm instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer. You buried your face into his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat had a calming effect, slowly erasing the restless tension that had kept you awake.
“Sorry for bothering you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.
“Don’t be,” Logan said, his tone gentle but firm. “If you need me, I’m here. No apologies necessary.”
You let out a soft sigh, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders. “I just... I couldn’t shake this feeling of restlessness. I didn’t want to be alone.”
Logan’s fingers gently stroked your back, his touch soothing and steady. “It’s alright. You’re not alone now,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “What’s on your mind?”
You took a moment to gather your thoughts, finding comfort in the steady presence beside you. “It’s nothing specific, really. Just one of those nights where everything seems to spiral out of control. And then I start thinking about everything I have to do, and it just... snowballs.”
Logan nodded, his hand continuing its gentle rhythm on your back. “I get it. Sometimes the quiet of the night makes everything seem bigger than it is. But you’re here with me now. Let’s just focus on that.
You nodded against his chest, feeling the tension slowly drain from your body. The room was filled with a peaceful silence, punctuated only by the soft sounds of your breathing and the occasional creak of the bed. Logan’s presence was a steady anchor, his warmth enveloping you like a cocoon.
As minutes passed, you found your thoughts slowing down, your mind growing quieter with each passing second. Logan’s gentle touch and the rhythmic beating of his heart created a sense of calm that you had been craving all night.
“Logan?” you whispered, your voice barely a murmur.
“Yeah?” he replied, his tone soft and attentive.
“Thank you. For being here. I really needed this.”
He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his embrace tightening slightly. “Anytime. You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad I could help.”
The comfort of his words, coupled with the soothing rhythm of his breathing, lulled you towards sleep. You felt your eyes growing heavy, the exhaustion of the sleepless night finally catching up with you. Logan’s steady presence was a constant reassurance, a promise of safety and companionship.
As sleep began to claim you, you could hear Logan’s voice, soft and soothing. “Get some rest. I’ve got you.”
And with those comforting words echoing in your mind, you finally surrendered to the embrace of sleep, finding peace in the warmth and safety of Logan’s arms.
summary: joel wakes and admires you and the morning.
wordcount: <600
warnings: joeticness, a little angst, a little twisty.
an: dedicated to @joelscruff, who told me this was one of her favourite gifs when i asked for inspo for my first ever giflet. for info on giflet's, see @morallyinept's list here. gif credit to the wonderful, amazing @perotovar.
Before, the routine had been to simply make it through.
To survive another day in a place where crimson clings to clotted wounds, where weeds choke signs as rot consumes all that once lived.
There are names that linger on his lips. Indelibly stained, carved deep inside him. Never forgotten, each a raw wound with grief around them that throbbed incessantly. Each woven into the very fabric of his soul.
When his eyes close, a horror movie plays on repeat. Blood-soaked shirts and the crack in his voice when he shouts. The snarl in his throat when skulls shatter and bodies break. In these brutal moments, he found himself living again, in a way that's both savage and necessary, the violence a perverse affirmation of his existence.
Plagued—tormented.
Then he wakes, and the truth crashes down—it’s not a movie, but his life. A routine he trudged through for so long until he found this place. A place where sunrise doesn’t mean pack up and move. Where golden light caresses the room he’s been given, kisses the guitar that has built callouses instead of his gun. Light falls softly on things he’s crafted with his hands, hands that once only knew how to take and destroy.
Joel wakes in a room, inside of a home, that’s now his.
A younger him might have given more for the kindness shown to him. The sacrifices he made would have felt meaningful, the blood spilt a necessary price. But now, the weight of his sins, the lives he’s shattered, and the innocence long lost have left him hollow. Acts of kindness feel like a cruel jest, an echo from a life he can barely remember, a life he feels he no longer deserves. In this quiet dawn, amidst the gentle light, he is haunted by the shadows of what he’s become.
But he's tired, worn. The face that greets him in the mirror is now aged, beaten down, and scorched by the relentless elements. Not that you seem to care.
You, who, as his lashes lift and focus, he finds reading for the second time this week. Twisted away from him, the book tilted to catch the sunlight so you don’t strain your eyes. You’d traded for it, your thumb lifting the corner of the page before dragging it to the opposite side—so loud in the quiet.
Joel doesn’t need to steal a moment, but he does all the same. He’s so used to taking, after all.
He admires how the years have been a little kinder to you than they have to him. How you are a rare sweetness in a world that knows only bitterness. A thing that would have been coveted before and is now more than cherished. He appreciates you when his body doesn’t betray him, when age doesn’t force his eyes closed as his spine meets the bed. But when he can, when he’s able, he leaves marks that’ll last for days—a prickly burn on your inner thighs as you weave your fingers into the hair he’s not allowed to cut. When he holds you so tightly atop him, he knows you can trace the bruises he’s left.
You leave your own marks too. One of them from simply looking at him, showing him that smile—the one that could stop a younger man's heart.
He waits for another page to turn, eyes closing and reopening before he slides his palm over your knee.
Morning, you say.
Morning, he replies.
A new routine, one he doesn’t hate, yet it haunts him with its simplicity and its promise of a fragile peace.
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