burningnerdchild

Latest Posts by burningnerdchild

doodling as I wait for my chicken to air fry

"all that honey, all that rot."

a step uncle!joel miller x reader

summary: the summer heat brings out the worst in people. and so do family reunions. (or, in simpler terms: A Southern Gothic Porno about things you shouldn’t say to your step-daddy’s brother, but do anyway.)

warnings: step uncle!joel miller (not your cup of tea? just scroll! <3), girthy age gap, obvs taboo relationship, religious guilt/blasphemy, power dynamic, smoking/alcohol, southern gothic themes (rotting morality, decay, etc.), emotional manipulation/guilt, emotional whiplash, unresolved shame spiral energy thingy whatever, a lot of smut... like a lot soooo (praise kink, degradation kink, public sex, dubious consent vibes, daddy kink & uncle kink, fingering, oral, some slight edging, possession, breeding kink, mentions of bodily fluids, lots of dirty talk, etc.)

a. note: this fic contains no actual blood relations, but it feeling wrong and depraved is.... kinda the point. anyways, god is not present in this fic and if you ever see me in public after this, no tf you did not!

July in Texas meant the kind of heat that makes the devil himself sweat, and the kind of family gatherings that make you wish he'd drag you back to hell with him.

The front porch of grandma and grandpa's old home sagged, tired of carrying generational secrets and trauma, its broken wood planks littered with cigarette butts and broken beer bottlers. Grandma June's cross-stitched Jesus watched over the house from the kitchen wall, thick and smudged by the steam of collard greens and cast iron grease.

The tea was sweet enough to make your molars ache, the gossip between your aunts somehow even sweeter. They wore their linen dresses and bickered like fighting crows over potato salad, their unruly kids screaming around the pool like a baptism gone wrong. Somewhere in the distance, a bloodhound barked loud and shrill, and somewhere even closer, Uncle Joel lit an American Spirit like he was trying to smoke out an ache from his chest.

You hadn't meant to look at him like that.

Well, not at first.

He wasn't supposed to be the one. It should've been Tommy- your mamma's brand new, shiny second husband, all clean smiles and thick forearms. But Tommy never looked at you the way his brother Joel did, like you were temptation dressed in a pair of cutoffs, like you were his Eve and he was getting real sick of apples.

He was the oldest brother, Joel. The grizzled one. The one with broad shoulders that blocked out the sun and rough hands that looked like they could rip Bibles in half.

He came in reeking of sweat, smoke, and the kind of loneliness that settles deep into a man's bones after too many years of pretending he doesn't need anybody or anything.

It was a tale as old as time. You should have been scared of him.

Instead, you sucked the melted ice cream off your fingers, looking at him from behind a pair of long fake eyelashes, cherry red lips stretched into a pretty, perfect smile. "Hi, Uncle Joel."

He flinched the first time you ever called him that.

Good.

You shouldn't have enjoyed it. The way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched and nostrils flared. But you did. And you would continue to enjoy it.

The first time you saw Joel- really saw him- was on the third day of that godforsaken family reunion, right as the sun bled out over the backyard and turned the skies to bruised peaches and dying lilacs. You'd come out of the sunroom for more sweet tea, barefoot on cracked concrete as a symphony of cicadas beckoned you forth, the hem of your sundress- same color as Joel's shirt- clinging damp against your sticky sweet thighs.

He was by the smoker, beer in hand, sweat darkening the collar of his flannel even though it was too hot for sleeves.

Joel was watching you. There was no attempt to hide it. Just a dark, sleezy pair of eyes following you, a hawk zeroing in on its prey, like you were nothing more than a rabbit trying to scurry away in time.

There was a raw, quiet sort of hunger, and you watched his jaw tick ever so slightly as he drank you in, as though he was memorizing every step you took in case the good Lord gave him one more chance to turn his back on you, on the taboo hunger that stirred deep in his belly.

"You shouldn't be wearin' that around me." His voice was a mutter, half to himself, as though he were conversing with a pesky little devil that had perched itself on his shoulder.

"Shouldn't be looking then." You quipped back.

There was a pause.

That same muscle ticked in his jaw.

Joel turned around and walked off with a huff, as though you had slapped him clean across the face.

You couldn't help but smile into your tea.

The next night, it stormed.

Texas thunderstorms never knocked politely. They rattled the windows like judgement day.

You watched from the dining room as the rain spilled down the glass, almost everyone else tucked in to bed for the night. You could hear over the lighting your grandma muttering prayers. Cousins were passed out on couches, your mother deep into a bottle of wine with Tommy in the sunroom, both sure no one else would be awake to hear them giggling.

It was quiet. The eerie kind of quiet the seeped into the walls of old Texas homes, the kind of quiet that only ever accompanied lonely nights like this.

Joel stood on the porch, the lightning carving out his silhouette into the screen door every few seconds, painted across the house like a ghost hungry for something other than vengeance.

You found him like that. Smoking, brooding, thinking some dark, unholy thoughts that you craved to learn for yourself.

"Can't sleep?" He finally asked, voice full of gravel. His back was to you, but he could sense you, he could smell you.

You didn't answer. What was there to ever say? You stepped out into the night air, rain cooling your skin, and leaned against the porch rail. The white cotton of your nightdress stuck to your back. No bra. No panties. Nothing.

Joel noticed.

Of course he did. He always noticed you.

"You walk around like that on purpose?" Joel inhaled a thick line of cigarette smoke, an eyebrow raised as he watched the old dirt road begin to turn in to mud.

"Would it matter if I did?"

The porch light flickered as the hum of the moths grew louder, the rain only darkening the sky even more.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, baby." His words sent a shiver right down your spine and straight between your legs, your thighs clenching at the hate that peppered his voice, the annoyance. It only made you want him more.

You tilted your head up at him. The same devil that plagued him with all those nasty thoughts danced behind your eyes.

"I was raised in a house full of liars and preachers, Joel. Danger is a game I know well."

Joel snorted out a response, turning back to the horizon.

You stayed quiet, listening to the hiss of rain and the gentle smolder of his cigarette, watching the way the smoke curled around his knuckles, hazy and Baroque. He didn't look at you, but you knew he saw everything- how the thin cotton clung to your skin, how your thighs rubbed together each time he lifted his smoke to his lips, how you licked the expanse of your plush lips like a girl who didn't know any better.

But you did. And he knew you did.

"Why're you always lookin' at me like that?" Joel's voice was low and rough, the words scraping their way out of his tobacco singed throat.

You shrugged. "Cause you always look back."

Oh. Oh. Now that got him.

Joel flicked the cigarette into the muddy yard with a sharp little motion that made your lips twitch, his jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grinding down like stone on stone.

Then he stood. He walked over. Too close. Close enough to feel his heart thrumming, close enough to breathe in that second hand smoke that always lingered around him like an aura.

The wood of the porch creaked beneath his worn leather boots as he boxed you in- one hand on the rail behind you, the other ghosting down your side, not touching, not really, but just enough to burn you like the sinner you were.

"You ain't got a fuckin' idea what you're doin'." Joel's voice was a warning, like smoke and sin, and it hit you like a brick.

"I think I do." Your words were more of a moan than a whisper.

"Is that right?"

You didn't break eye contact. You couldn't. You wanted him to feel it, all of it. That heavy thrum beneath your skin, that ugly, ugly craving, that part of you that yearned to be ruined by his hands, and his alone.

Before you knew it, that very same hand was wrapped around your throat.

Not tight- just testing. His fingers, calloused and thick, resting there like a cautionary tale you would never quite learn.

"Say the word. I'll stop."

"You won't."

"You don't know me, honey."

"Maybe not. But I know what you're thinking when you look at me like that." He felt your pulse against his palm, erratic and wild, hungry for more.

There was silence for a moment that felt too long, thunder rolling low in the back like the ground itself was growling, a desperate animal lurking and watching you two dance a dangerous tango.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't sweet. It was messy and hungry and depraved, teeth scraping lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth like he was starving and you were the only thing on his dinner table. Like he'd held back for too long and hated himself for it.

And God, of course you kissed him back.

You moaned into it, melting into the depths of his chest, his cheap cologne and aftershave meddling with the stench of ash filling your flaring nostrils as his mouth claimed yours. He dragged his lips down your neck, shoving the hem of your nightdress up to your hips with no remorse. Joel's rough hands pushed one of your thighs over the rail without a word, and he pulled away, staring at you for a beat too long, at your pussy that glistened in the shaded moonlight just for him, polite and pretty and intoxicating.

"Ain't gonna fuck you." He growled, his breath hot on your skin as he nipped across the soft skin of your jaw line. You felt the tip of his middle finger trace along your wet folds, gathering up that slick that was just for him. "Ain't gonna do it, not yet."

And then he knelt, like a sinner offering himself up before god, but not before slipping his finger in your mouth, allowing you to taste just how sweet your sin tasted, allowing your own moisture to coat your tastebuds, salty and sweet and damned.

Right there, on that forsaken porch, rain pounding down around you, lightning flashing, he tasted you for the first time. Your shift bunched around your waist while he pulled your leg over his shoulder and devoured you, like he was punishing you for existing, angry that you were there and stirring up so much trouble in his life.

He started slowly, gently, allowed him to explore every inch of you, and then you felt his mouth on your clit, sucking hard and rough, a wild wolf that finally caught his prey. His dull nails dug into your hips, holding you tight and hard as though the storm winds would whisk you away from him. You wanted to cry out his name. Joel, Joel, Joel. That was who was worshipping at the altar of you, that's who was making you feel this good, this... heavenly.

Your hands slipped down, found his own, and as he ran his tongue back and forth across your swelling clit, you traced the veins on the back of his hands, explored the divots of his knuckles, felt the tips of his rough nails worn down from years of labor, you memorized the way he felt against you.

You memorized the way his tongue felt in your pussy, his teeth on your thighs- and right there on that porch he made you his, ruined you for any other man. The pretty flesh of your lower belly was bruised by the markings of his teeth, tattooed by his incisors, purple and pretty and all for him, your arousal dripping down your legs, thick and heavy with the weight of your crimes.

You orgasmed with your hand tight in his hair and his name bitten into your bottom lip, you tasted the metallic tang of blood as he tasted your honeyed cum, flowing all because of him.

After you finished, he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and he stared at you, not saying a word, inspecting you like a sculpture in a museum.

Your chest rose and fell as you caught your breath, but he had nothing else to offer in terms of aftercare or remorse- he simply walked back inside, and you caught a glimpse of that cross-stitched Jesus watching you from the kitchen window.

The next morning came thick and hot, humid from all that rain, the air thick like syrup. The morning songbirds chirped like they hadn't just witnessed a crime against both God and family values on that porch, their melody delightfully pretty and annoyingly cheerful.

You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in an old robe that might have once belonged to your mother, but now hung open on you in a way that was clearly an act of war, devious and lustful.

You didn't have to look up to know Joel was there. You could feel him. Brooding in the corner like the storm hadn't quite ended.

He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his black coffee in one hand. Joel wouldn't look at you, in fact he refused.

"Moooornin', Uncle Joel." You grinned, your voice as light and sweet as the peach jam your grandma had laid out on the table. You didn't miss the way his teeth clenched together.

He nodded towards you. Didn't speak a word.

Coward.

Grandma was flipping pancakes. Tommy and your mamma were nowhere to be seen, which felt like a small mercy. The smell of butter and shame hung low in the air as you slid onto a stool at the kitchen island, your heels crossed just so as you poured yourself some apple juice.

"Sleep alright?" You asked him plainly, as if your thighs hadn't been wrapped around his handsome face a few hours ago.

"Slept fine." He muttered.

"Are you sure? You seemed a little... tense last night."

Joel slammed his mug down on the table a little too hard.

Your grandma looked up from the griddle with a startt, her voice a disapproving tut. "Now y'all better be gettin' along now. Ain't no room for drama in this house, except what's on daytime TV." She pointed her spatula between the both of you, he eyes glossed over with seriousness.

"Oh, don't worry, Nan. We get along real well." You calmed her with a big smile. "Don't we, Uncle Joel?"

He walked towards you, and you suddenly felt small against his shadow, tiny and powerless as he towered over where you sat. His face twitched. You smelled like that sweet coconut shampoo you always used, and that pretty vanilla perfume he could always pick out from a mile away.

"Go put on somethin' decent," he warned through gritted teeth, voice quiet and low. Your nan hummed naively in the background, whistling as she continued making breakfast.

"This ain't decent?" You blinked innocently, your voice like sugar.

He finally looked at you then, eyes locking, his irises dark and dangerous and far, far away.

That's when you felt it. That nasty tension, that heat that settled between you two- undeniable, like a bruise beginning to bloom beneath the skin of a polite conversation. The memory of his mouth and how it felt hung in the space between the both of you like humidity.

"Don't start," he growled beneath his breath, low enough that only you could hear.

"I'm not startin," you whispered, leaning in close enough to make him flinch. "I'm just finishing what you-"

"Stop."

You held his gaze for a beat too long. The word tumbled out low, dangerous- any other peep from you and he would take matters into his own hands, that much you were sure of.

Then you stood, slowly and deliberately, the robe parting just enough to show the curve of your hip.

"Fine." You relented, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "I'll go change."

You didn't miss the way his eyes dragged down your body one last time, and before either of you could turn away, he caught your wrist in his hands.

He nodded for a moment, eyes boring into your own.

"Good girl." Joel whispered, those simple syllables knocking the air right out of your lungs. His thumb felt soft as it caressed atop your knuckles, and you watched him saunter off to his coffee cup before you scurried towards your room.

For a long while you stood in the hallway, lips parted, trembling from the ghost of his voice against your ear.

Good girl.

He said it like a threat. Like a confession. Like the kind of thing a man only says once, or forever- either or.

You stood there dumbly for a moment, blinking.

The house buzzed around you- grandma humming over pancakes, a child screaming about a lost toy- but it all faded into static.

Because Joel Miller had just called you good girl, and you knew the world would never be the same again. At least not yours.

Your skin buzzed like live wire, chest tight. Between your legs was an entirely different story- a slow, throbbing mess. That damn robe clung to your body like it was trying to apologize for failing to cover enough, as though it wished it could have saved you from your recent conundrum of both the heart and the pussy.

You walked towards your room, chest pounding with every step, every bone in your body warning you to turn back before it was too late.

But it already was, and it already had been.

You didn't hear him follow you, you didn't have to. You could feel him, you could feel the air pressure shift and change, like the house was tilting in his direction. The hair on your arms rose, skin prickling with the heat that rolled off of him in waves.

You paused outside your bedroom door, fingers curling around the frame. And then, before anything else, came his voice: low, thick, full of grit and threat.

"You like actin' up in front of people?"

Slowly you turned your head.

He was standing there, arms cross, coffee mug long since abandoned. His gaze was darker than it had been at breakfast. It was predatory. That porch-slick, tongue-between-your-legs version of Joel... he had never left, in fact he was alive and well.

"Wasn't tryin' to act up-"

"Bull. Shit." Joel snarled, backing you up into your room, circling you like a hungry wolf. He kicked the door closed with the heel of his boot. "You think I didn't see what you were doin'? Wearin' that-that... thing. Lookin' at me like that in front of your grandma?"

You were backed into the wall now, the torn floral wallpaper a stark contrast to the energy that dripped off of your bodies. His hand came up, cupped your jaw- not hard, but firm, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip as though he were weighing whether to shut you up or make you moan.

"Maybe I wanted your attention." You muttered, gently chewing on your bottom lip.

Joel breathed hard, nostrils flaring, before his thumb dipped past your lip, just slightly, resting tenderly on the tip of your tongue. It was enough to make your knees wobble and your heart beat hard against the cage of your ribs.

"Keep talkin' like that," he growled, "and I'll take you apart right here, right now. With your mamma in the livin' room and the Lord watchin'."

You whimpered.

You hated yourself for it, loved yourself for it.

He leaned in, lips grazing yours, not kissing- hovering. Making you beg for his very touch with your breath.

"You gonna be a good girl for real this time?"

You nodded, wordless.

And then- He pulled away, snatched his hand back like you were poison and he had been cut.

"Then get dressed. We're goin' into town. Gotta pick up beer for the grill."

Just like that. A simple command. As if the little room hadn't nearly erupted into flames.

You stood frozen, skin flushed, thighs trembling, every nerve screaming his name over and over and over again. You wanted to scream after him, wanted to brand the word coward into him with a red hot iron. You wanted to pull him back against you and make him finish what he started.

Instead, you slipped into the closet and reached for something short, tight, and pretty. The shorts barely counted as fabric, and the little gold cross dangling around your neck was perfectly ironic, pretty and dainty between your collarbones.

Joel was already waiting by the door, keys in hand, a muscle twitching in his jaw like he'd been chewing on the same thought all morning. His eyes dragged over you once, and that was all it took.

He inhaled deeply through his nostrils before speaking. "Get in the truck."

A warning.

The ride started silent.

He didn't look at you as he drove, and you didn't bother pretending you couldn't notice the way his fingers tightened around the steering wheel every time your thighs shifted against the hot leather seat.

"You always this quiet?" Your words were meant to poke the bear, a shit eating grin stretched cutely on your mouth.

"You always this loud?" He shot back.

You smiled something innocent. "Only when I'm ignored."

Joel scoffed. "Ain't ignorin' you," he muttered, eyes on the road. "I'm tryin' not to fuckin' kill you."

You tilted your head. "Oh?"

"You think this is funny?"

"Oh no, not at all. I think it's... fun."

Another twitch. His fingers grasped the steering wheel so tight it looked like it hurt.

"You don't got any idea what you're doin'." Joel rasped.

"I'm wearing shorts in the summer, Joel. It's not a crime."

He laughed a short, dry laugh. "Not a crime? Oh baby. It is when you're sittin' next to your step-daddy's big brother with your legs wide open. I'm supposed to be your uncle."

You spread your legs a little wider, your grin only widening. "You lookin' or something?"

"Jesus Christ." He growled, umber irises clinging to the turf ahead.

You allowed the sweet kiss of silence to stretch long and painful between the both of you, the heat between your bodies thick enough to chew. The radio was off, the only sounds were the rumble of the engine and the occasional sharp exhale from Joel, like he was trying to exorcise something demonic from within him.

Eventually you reached over and turned the dial, letting some old country song roll in, low and moody.

"She got a body like a backroad..." The man crooned on the radio.

You smiled wide. "You like this one, Uncle Joel?" Your words were a taunting challenge, a hook and bait you were begging him to grab ahold of.

Joel said nothing.

You leaned in closer, close enough to feel his shoulder against your arm.

"Don't like it when I call you Uncle?" You asked softly, your voice a hot whisper that fanned across his face.

He shook his head. "No."

"Fine. What about... daddy?"

Joel turned and looked at you. Really looked at you.

Dark brown eyes wild. Breath short. Sweat kissing at his temple.

"You keep talkin' like that, and you're gonna learn what the word daddy means real fuckin' quick."

You licked your lips. "I was hopin' I would."

He pulled over. Fast.

His truck skidded into a shaded shoulder off the side of the road, gravel crunching like bones beneath the tires. He parked. Threw it in gear. Then turned to you wild and raging like he was about to do something illegal.

"Get in the backseat." He rasped.

You shifted. Slow, testing, leaning into his space. Your heart pounded.

"Make me." They were only two simple words. Soft. Defiant. But they were enough to bring the whole universe crashing in on you.

Joel stared you down, caught between deciding whether he wanted to kiss you or kill you.

He made his choice.

You didn’t even have time to squeal before he’d reached over, grabbed you by the waist, and hauled you over the console like you weighed nothing. You hit the backseat with a soft grunt, denim-clad hips scraping across the warm leather, and before you could blink, he was on top of you.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for,” Joel growled, voice like thunder rumbling in a storm cellar. His fingers were working the buttons of your shorts, rough against your exposed skin in a way that was deliciously dirty.

“I think I do,” you whispered, smiling up at him like the liar you were.

His hand was on your thigh, pushing it open—wide. Exposing the lacy little excuse for underwear you’d chosen just for this moment. It was soaked through.

Joel groaned like he was in pain.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

He leaned in, forearm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your thigh, hoisting it up until your knee nearly touched the fogged-up window and your foot was resting on his shoulder. His breath was hot on your face, the scent of coffee and cigarettes and something darker, something animal, wafting across your face.

“You’re drippin’,” he muttered, eyes locked on the spot between your panties that pulsed for his touch. “You’re gonna tell me this ain’t what you wanted? That you didn’t walk outta that house like a fuckin’ invitation?”

“I wanted this,” you breathed. “I want you.”

He growled. Actually growled.

His fingers hooked under your panties and dragged them aside, exposing your soaked cunt to the hot air inside the truck. He didn’t even take them off, just shoved them to the side, rough and impatient and easily forgotten.

Then his fingers were on you—two of them, thick and calloused, sliding through your folds, parting you open like you were his to split and ruin and mark.

You gasped.

“Joel—fuck—”

“That’s Daddy,” he hissed, and then he was inside you, two fingers buried to the hilt, pressing up against that spongy shot that had uncontrollable moans erupting from your throat.

You saw stars.

Back arched. Mouth open. One hand flew to his wrist, trying to steady yourself as he fucked you with his fingers, deep and precise, curling against that sweet spot like he’d mapped it himself.

“Tight little pussy,” he muttered, forehead pressed to yours. “So goddamn wet for me. So fuckin’ pretty.”

You were moaning now—soft and breathless and desperate. His name fell from your lips again and again, but it wasn’t the one he wanted.

So he slowed down, pulled his fingers out just enough to tease your entrance, not pushing back in until you whined.

“What’s my name?” he asked.

“Joel—”

“Wrong.”

He stopped completely. Just held you there, fingers resting at your slick, pulsing hole, lips against your neck, teeth dragging against your veins.

“What’s my fuckin’ name, sugar?”

You choked on a gasp.

“D-Daddy—fuck—Daddy, please—”

And just like that, he slammed his fingers back in, rougher now. Faster. His palm rubbed against your clit as he worked you open, relentless, filthy sounds echoing inside the cab.

“That’s my girl. My good girl," he murmured, kissing the corner of your jaw as you writhed beneath him. “Takin’ it so well. Just like you were made for me.”

Your eyes rolled back. Every muscle in your body clenched. Your stomach twisted tight and sweet, and then—

You came.

Hard.

Convulsing around his fingers, sobbing his name, thighs trembling against his sides. He didn’t stop until he wrung every last spasm from your body, until you were so sure you would pass out if he went any longer.

Only then did he pull his fingers out—slow, sticky, glistening—and stare at them like they’d just given him the answers to every question he’d never dared to ask. You watched him slowly sink one into his mouth, lick off the taste that sung of you, his dark eyes peering in to your own, challenging and mean.

“Taste like sin,” he muttered. “Sweet, nasty little sin.”

You lay there, spent and gasping, your skin hot against the sticky leather, your mind wrecked, your heart somewhere in the back of your throat, beating and thrumming and clawing its way towards your tongue.

And Joel?

He just leaned back in the front seat and lit a cigarette, breathing hard, not saying a word, allowing the smoke to cover him like a safety blanket.

“We still gotta get the beer,” he said after a long pause, voice low and ruined.

You blinked at him, dazed.

“You’re outta your fuckin’ mind,” you whispered, your top halfway off your body and your little jean shorts still unzipped and uncomfortably tight around your hips.

He grinned, crooked and mean. You shouldn't have found it so alluring, but you did. How could you not? "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

After Joel wrung your orgasm out like it owed him rent, the truck ride into town was—unsurprisingly—tense. He didn’t speak, nor did he look at you.

Just smoked his cigarette like it was a goddamn life raft and kept his eyes glued to the road.

But you knew him now. Knew the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of his eyes in the rearview mirror, the way his free hand kept flexing open and closed on the gearshift.

Uncle Joel was seething.

Not because of what you’d let him do to you, but because of how easy it was. How easy it was to sink his thick fingers deep within you, how easy it was for his ears to tune to the pitch of your moans, pretty and wild, how easy it was to get lost in the way your eyes went crazy and wide with pleasure he was giving you.

It was too easy, alarmingly so.

And by the time he rolled into the parking lot, those thoughts were thrumming loud in his ear drums.

The gas station was one of those sad little roadside stops with flickering lights and hand-scrawled beer specials in the window, old and rundown and oh so hick. The air was thick with diesel exhaust and divorced dad regret, heavy with a sort of tension that was unknown to you.

You slid out of the truck, legs still a little shaky, and walked inside like nothing had happened, still trying to adjust your bra straps, as though all of the town had their eyes on you and knew what you had just done. Joel stayed outside, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, eyes locked on you through the dusty windshield as he opened up his second pack of American Spirits.

You could feel the heat of him even from twenty feet away.

And then he walked in.

Some guy—twenties, scruffy, boots worn but clean. Too much cologne. You smelled him before you saw him, and he smelled like bad decisions made in the back of a pickup truck. Not unlike the one you’d just made, but something that was- somehow- even more embarrassing.

“Hey there,” he said, smiling wide, eyes dragging down your legs, over your ass, lingering just a beat too long on the swell of your tits beneath the tight tank. “You lost, sweetheart?”

You turned your head slow. Blinked. Smiled like a trap being set.

“No, I’m good. Just grabbin’ some beer for the grill.”

“Family BBQ?” he asked, stepping closer. “Mind if I crash? I make a mean brisket.”

You laughed. Sweet and dismissive. But then you glanced out the window.

Joel was still watching. His jaw was clenched, and his arms were still crossed, yet the veins on his arms bulged with something dangerously close to jealousy. You saw it in his umber irises- something murderous. It made your heart beat pick up, made that adrenaline in your belly pound for more.

So you leaned into it. Just a little.

“I dunno,” you purred. “You look more like dessert than dinner.”

The guy laughed, and his oil covered fingers touched your elbow as his lips parted to say something else, no doubt something boyish and horny.

Joel moved.

You didn’t see him come in—but suddenly he was there, all heat and fury, stepping between you and the stranger with the kind of slow, dangerous calm that made your stomach drop and all that adrenaline fade.

“She’s taken,” Joel said, voice low and steady, like a hungry dog growling through its teeth, with no cage to stop it from pouncing.

The guy blinked, all of his emotion draining from his face. “Whoa, man. I was- I was just talkin’—”

“Yeah, I saw.” Joel’s hand came down hard on the counter as he leaned in, inches from the poor bastard’s face, and you saw the crow's feet narrow alongside his eyes, saw the way his teeth gritted tight together as he spat out his words. “You ever look at her like that again, I’ll break your fuckin’ jaw.”

“Jesus, alright—”

“Don’t bring him into this.” You would have laughed if the situation wasn't so tense/

The guy backed off fast, muttering apologies as he grabbed a bag of chips and vanished down an aisle, his tail between his legs and his head down. You stood there, beer in hand, soaking in the tension like it was bathwater, unsure of what to say or do next.

Joel didn’t look at you. Not until you reached for the register. He leaned in close, breath hot at your ear. “We’re gonna have a problem if you keep lettin’ boys touch what don’t belong to them.”

You turned your head, inches from his lips. “I didn’t know I belonged to anyone.” Your words were steady, despite the way your heart pounded inside of you.

He smiled, but it wasn’t nice, it never was. “You will.”

He paid for the beer and a fresh pack of cigarettes before hauling you outside, back to the deserted parking lot, back to his truck that was hidden behind the dumpster, the air thick and still with summer heat.

"I don't believe you." You challenged, his hand tight around your wrist.

He stopped in his tracks. Joel looked at you like he'd just made peace with his damnation.

His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. And then—he grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you, it was more of a threat than a declaration. Not soft. Not romantic. Consuming.

You barely had time to gasp before he spun you around and shoved you against the grimy, vibrating hood of his pickup, right there in the gas station parking lot.

“Get in the fuckin’ truck,” he snarled.

“No.”

You didn’t flinch. You wanted the punishment. You needed the consequence. You craved him.

His eyes went dark. Dangerously dark. You felt it in your throat, in your clit, in your soul.

“You think you’re in charge?” Joel stepped in close, pressing the heat of his body against your back, one hand gripping your waist like he wanted to crush you and fuck you in the same motion. “You been walkin’ around all summer with your little ass hangin’ out, beggin’ for attention, and now you’re gonna act shy? Nah, baby. You earned this.”

His fingers trailed down your stomach and popped the button on your shorts with one flick. You didn’t stop him. You arched into it, your ass tight against his hardened cock.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you right here,” he muttered against your ear. “Where anyone could see. Where someone might walk by and know exactly what you are.”

“What am I?” you asked, breathless, barely able to get the words out as he dragged your zipper down and shoved your shorts and soaked panties to your knees.

Joel’s hand slid between your thighs. His fingers dipped into your wetness, obscene and slick.

“My dirty little girl,” he growled. “My fuckin’ problem. My cock-hungry little niece.”

You gasped, legs already shaking.

He chuckled darkly.

“Yeah. That got you wet, didn’t it? Bein’ my brother’s girl. Bein’ my family. You been thinkin’ about this every night, haven’t you? Touched yourself with that pretty little cross around your neck while you thought about Uncle Joel splittin’ you open like a goddamn peach.”

You whimpered. You were already on the edge. Already soaked. Already gone.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I want it.”

“Say what you are.”

You clenched around nothing. Your mouth felt dry and sinful, tongue aching for words that would never fully form.

“I’m your niece,” you whispered, words broken. “And I want you to ruin me.”

Joel groaned. Real. Deep. Like it hurt him.

Then he flipped you over, shoved you up onto the hood, and dragged your legs open with no ceremony, no patience, like a man unhinged.

You watched his eyes drag over you. Soaking. Spread. Wanton.

“I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he muttered, dragging the head of his cock through your dripping folds. “Told myself I’d be good. But then you started callin’ me Daddy. And now—fuck, baby—I’m gonna wreck you.”

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe.

One thrust.

One brutal, impossible thrust and he was inside you, bottomed out, thick and hot and everywhere all at once.

You cried out—loud, raw, unfiltered—and he loved it.

“Shhh, now,” Joel purred. “You don’t wanna get caught, do you? You want someone to see me fuckin’ this little pussy? Want someone to know you got your uncle's cock inside you?”

You moaned. Desperate. Aching.

He snapped his hips forward.

The truck rocked under you.

Gas station lights flickered overhead. The radio inside buzzed faintly, muffled by the sound of you being fucked within an inch of your existence.

“God, Joel—please—”

“What? You prayin’ now?” he growled, grabbing the back of your thigh and lifting it higher so he could go deeper. “You think God’s listenin’? Sweetheart, He left the moment you let me push my cock inside you.”

You clenched around him, sobbing out with how fucking full you were.

“You like that?” Joel growled, hips slamming into you over and over. “You like Daddy tellin’ you you’re too far gone to be saved?”

“Yes—yes—I want it—I need it—”

Joel leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his voice a low snarl.

“I’m gonna cum inside you.”

Your eyes widened.

“You’re gonna sit at dinner tonight with my cum leakin’ out of you while your step daddy Tommy passes you the fuckin’ potatoes and pretends not to see the way you squirm in your seat.”

“Do it,” you begged. “Breed me, Daddy.”

That broke him.

He fucked you so hard the hood of the truck dented. Your thighs bruised beneath his grip. Your nails scraped the metal like claws, your voice rising in pitch with every snap of his hips.

You came so hard your vision whited out, screaming his name—Joel, Daddy, Uncle, whatever it took—as your pussy fluttered around him like it was made to take him, like it was created for the sole purpose of feeling Joel Miller's fucking cock, for taking his cum.

Joel’s hips didn’t stop even after he emptied himself inside you. He stayed deep, grinding into the mess he’d made like he wanted to etch his name inside your womb. You could feel him—still hard, still leaking, still not satisfied.

You whimpered, face pressed to the warm hood of the truck, your legs spread wide and shaking. Every movement sent another hot trickle of him dripping down the inside of your thigh.

“Too much,” you gasped. But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

He leaned over you, chest against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You don’t get to say that,” Joel growled. “Not when you begged for it. Not when you called me Daddy with my cock already buried inside you.”

One of his hands slipped under your shirt and dragged up your belly, sliding rough over your ribs until he palmed your breast, squeezing tight, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasped.

“Now you’re gonna take it.”

He slid out—just enough to watch your pussy flutter and leak—and then slammed back in, all the way to the hilt, feeling your gummy walls constrict tightly around him.

You cried out. It was too much. It was perfect.

Joel moaned behind you, grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise. He didn’t care that you were shaking, that your thighs were already slick with both of your cum, that you were gasping like you were about to cry.

He fucked you anyway.

Hard. Deep. Fast. Dirty.

The truck shook with every thrust. The sound of it—wet and obscene—echoed through the empty parking lot like a prayer in reverse.

“Listen to that,” Joel grunted. “That’s what you wanted, right? That sweet little cunt of yours suckin’ me in. You fuckin’ hear it?”

You were sobbing now, your face pressed to the metal, your body twitching from overstimulation.

“I can’t—Joel—please—”

His hand slapped your ass. “You can. And you will.”

Then he spit on his fingers and reached around, finding your clit like he’d done it a hundred times. Like it was his.

He rubbed tight, brutal circles against it—no patience, no mercy, your little bud tight and sensitive, twitching beneath the pads of his calloused fingers.

“Don’t you dare hold it,” he growled. “Cum on my cock again. Show me just how ruined you really are.”

You couldn’t even speak. You splintered. You came so hard your knees buckled. Your mouth opened in a silent scream. Your pussy clenched around him like it didn’t want to let go.

And Joel—he came again.

Harder this time. With a groan so deep it sounded like a man dying and coming back to life at once. He stayed deep, rutting into you, making sure every drop of him was inside, that none of his spend would go to waste.

You felt it—hot and thick and endless—coating your walls, your thighs, your soul.

And then… stillness.

Heavy breathing.

You, draped over the hood of the truck like a used doll, your body soaked in sweat and slick and shameful satisfaction.

Joel pulled out slow, watching his cum drip from you. A thick string slid down the inside of your leg and he groaned at the sight of it.

He dragged two fingers through the mess and brought them to your mouth.

You opened. You sucked. You tasted everything—him, you, the filth of what you were—and didn’t look away once.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, running his thumb along your bottom lip. “You're mine now, baby."

You nodded. Smiling like the little sinner you were.

Bent. Fucked. Full. And proud of it.

When you arrived home, you walked into the kitchen, the house loud with the clatter of silverware and family gossip. You could feel Joel's cum thick and hot between your legs, stuffed full, your pussy sore and used and humming with pleasant satisfaction.

You walked inside like a new woman. You were freshly showered- sort of- rinsed off by a hose outside on Joel's orders, while he smoked and watched the way your body moved, told you not to get too clean.

So you didn't.

You were still wearing his flannel. No bra. That pretty cross dangling between your pretty breasts, glistening and glimmering beneath the low light of the old rickety house.

Everyone had seated for lunch. Grandma at the head of the table. Your mother, flushed from wine. Tommy, smiling wide. Cousins, loud and sticky with grape soda and sunscreen. The TV was playing some rerun of an old Baylor football game in the living room. A fly buzzed lazily near the screen door, the ambiance unsettling and homely.

Joel sat across from you at the table, his eyes following every movement you made, watched the exact moment your legs pressed together tightly because you shifted and felt that familiar drip, that tempestuous aftershock of all he had done to you.

He was pounding back Coors and sweet tea, doing anything he could to keep his mind off of you.

Your grandma passed the green beans and muttered something about politics. You tried not to make a sound, until your mamma looked at you with concerned and asked, "you alright, baby? You're awfully quiet."

"I'm fine, Mamma. Just sore."

Joel choked on his lager.

"Sore?" Tommy asked with a blink.

"Yeah." You sighed out innocently, raising your cup to your lips as you sent Joel a challenging glare from behind the brim. "Took a real long ride earlier."

Joel hid a grunt with a cough, loud and rough. He dropped his fork and stood up from the table, muttering about taking a smoke break, his face the vision of a man who wasn't sure if he were about to hit someone or fuck you again- and you weren't sure which it would be.

He looked at you. Hard. You grinned, slowly chewing on a spoonful of cobbler, watching as he walked out.

You waited for a bit. Got swept up in the conversation about football and politics and how crazy the world was getting.

You set your fork down after a while, following the blazing trail that Joel had left in his wake.

You found him on the back porch, cigarette lit, a hand in his pocket. The setting sun painted him in gold and ash, air heavy with tension and cicadas and everything you hadn't said.

He didn't turn around. He took a long, heavy drag, finally speaking. "This can't happen again."

You stepped closer, pressed your chest to his back, slid your arms around his waist- you swore he leaned in to it, tilted his head back every so slightly, like a broken man who hadn't been touched like that in years.

"Sure it can."

"No, it can't. You're-Tommy... you're-"

"Doesn't really matter." You hummed.

Joel turned, fast, eyes wild and mouth tense.

"You don't get it- I can't... hold back. Not with you."

"Yeah, I'm kinda counting on that, Joel."

There was a long silence, loud with singing crickets and your heartbeat and every broken thing that the both of you were.

But then?

He kissed you. Soft this time- but it wasn't safe, it never was, it never would be. It tasted like the end of something, like the beginning of something even worse.

Joel pulled back just enough to whisper, "you're gonna be the death of me."

And you smiled, tasting him on your tongue. "Maybe."

You glanced over your shoulder, through the screen door. Lunch was in full swing. Grandma rambling, Tommy laughing, Mamma pouring more wine- everything was normal. Everything was fine.

And none of them knew. Not yet, hopefully never.

You leaned in close, grabbing Joel's hand, your lips pretty against his ear, "but you'll die happy."

Smoking, side profile + wedding ring, lethal combination.

ch.4 - fences and cities - dbf! joel miller &f!reader

series masterlist

previous chapter

A/N: I know you've been waiting a while for this chapter, so here it is!! we are nearing the sweet sweet spot of the story and I am loving every second of this. I went back and forth about how I wanted this chapter to play out and I think I ended it perfectly and you know where its heading next 🔥😉

mentions: it gets steamy, hot heavy tension, joel being so fucking hot and possessive, teasing and also alcohol consumption, throwing up (not described though) if there's any mentions you think are missing, let me know!

Minors stay out or read at your own risk! I'm not responsible for your consumption!

Do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own. Thanks!

He’s just finished mucking out a stall, sweat clinging to his neck, shirt slightly clinging to his back—rough hands, tired eyes. He turns a corner and stops short.

You’re laying on the hay-strewn ground, arms soft at your sides, legs relaxed. One of the more temperamental horses—usually wary—has its massive head nestled in your lap. You’re absently stroking its mane, speaking quietly, rhythmically.

It’s such a tender image. Quiet. Peaceful. And for a second, it breaks something in him.

He says, kind of stupidly, kind of under his breath, “Horses are... they’re sensitive. They pick up on people. You’ve got good energy.”

You glance up, smiling softly, still stroking the horse.

“They like you,” he adds, voice lower now, something unreadable swimming in it. Then, like a fool: “I do too.”

And immediately regrets how it came out.

Cue a small beat of silence—your heart’s doing something weird in your chest. But you don’t make it awkward. You say something that keeps the moment soft. Maybe:

“Yeah? I thought you just liked how I shovel hay.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. The tension breaks—but it lingers too.

He left a minute ago—said something like “Don’t stay too long, alright? We got work to do” before walking off.

The horse lets out a soft huff, nuzzling into your hand, and you sigh like you’re finally letting something out.

“I know. I know he’s off limits,” you murmur, half to the horse, half to the universe. “But he’s so…” You trail off. A pause. Then, “Have you seen his hands?”

The horse shifts its weight but stays pressed to you like it’s listening. It's like it gets it.

You keep going, just letting it spill.

“He looks at me like he knows things he shouldn’t. And when he says I’m a good girl—Jesus, like my bones forget how to work.”

You laugh, embarrassed at yourself. “I sound like an idiot. He probably just thinks I’m some kid playing pretend out here.”

You’ve just finished with the horse. You gave it one last stroke, whispered a little “thanks for listening” into its neck like a secret. Now you’re stepping out into the cool evening air, brushing hay off your clothes, cheeks still warm from your little emotional monologue.

You’re not expecting to see him.

But Joel’s there. Leaning against the side of the barn like he’s been waiting.

You freeze. He doesn’t speak right away—just watches you with that unreadable expression of his. Then:

“You talk to them often like that?”

You blink, startled. “What?”

“Horses. Or were you talkin’ to me?”

Your throat tightens. You try to laugh it off.

“Didn’t know I had an audience.”

He pushes off the wall, steps closer. Not threatening—just intentional. There’s something in the air now, sharp and heavy.

“Wasn’t trying to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, low. “But I heard enough.”

You go quiet. Heat rushes to your face. You look down.

He stops in front of you—close enough to smell the leather on his gloves and the pine on his shirt. He lifts your chin with two fingers, slow and careful.

“You think I don’t see you?”

Then it happens.

He leans in—and kisses you.

Soft, but intense. It's like he’s been thinking about it for days or like he’s finally letting the thing unravel. Your hands find his jacket, his thumb brushes your jaw.

When he pulls back, both of you are breathing harder. He looks at you like he’s just crossed a line—and liked it.

“This ain’t smart,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

But his hand’s still on your face.

“I don’t care.” You say quietly.

And neither does he.

________

You went home straight after the barn. Showered. Changed.

But nothing helped. Not the water, not the coffee, not even the nap you tried to take. His face wouldn’t leave you. His voice.

You told your dad you were going to see a friend. You needed air. Needed to feel normal again—shake off the way his lips felt against yours, how you’d replayed that kiss twenty times and imagined twenty more.

You’re sitting at the bar now, glass in hand, staring blankly ahead. Guilt swims under your skin, warm and tight.

Then you see him.

Joel.

Your stomach drops.

He’s not alone.

There’s a woman with him. Laughing at something he said, hand brushing his arm. She leans in too easily, too familiar. And he’s smiling—not like he smiled at you, no—but still.

Your blood turns to fire.

You turn back to the bartender.

“Something strong. Surprise me.”

The glass hits the bar. You down it too fast, throat burning. You don’t even flinch.

But you keep watching him. You can’t stop. Rage and confusion brewing in your chest like a storm. How dare he. How fucking dare he.

And then—he notices you.

His eyes find yours across the room. You don’t look away. You want him to see you angry. You want him to feel it.

He shifts, says something quiet to the woman, then gets up and walks toward you.

Each step makes your pulse spike.

He stops beside your stool, jaw clenched, voice low.

“What are you doing here?”

You scoff, shaking your head.

“Oh, fuck you, Joel.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You kissed me. You told me—” Your voice catches. “And now you’re out here with some woman like that didn’t mean anything to you?”

He leans in, angry too now—but not at you.

“You think that meant nothing?” His voice is quiet, gutted. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since it happened.”

You stare at him, stunned, fire still dancing behind your ribs.

“Then what the hell is she doing here?”

He runs a hand down his face. “She’s just—she’s no one. Christ, I wasn’t even— I didn’t know you’d be here.”

A beat of silence.

You slide off the stool, push past him, headed toward the back door. You don’t want to cry in the middle of the goddamn bar—and besides, you don’t want to make a scene in a place where surely a lot of people know your dad.

But he follows

You push through the door, the night air hitting you like a slap. Cool, biting. You pace a little, trying to breathe, trying to calm the mess in your chest.

Then the door swings again.

Joel.

His steps are hard, sure. Voice rough with urgency.

Joel catches up, grabs your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you.

“Don’t walk away from me like that.”

You whirl around, fire in your chest.

“Why?” Your voice cuts like a whip. “So you can go back to your little date and pretend you’re not fucking around with your best friend’s daughter behind his back?”

He flinches. Actually flinches.

“She’s not—It’s not what you think.”

You laugh—sharp, bitter, broken.

“Really? Because it looked like flirting from where I was sitting.”

A pause. Tense. His hands are clenched at his sides. He steps closer.

“You think this is easy for me?”

His voice is low, taut with emotion. “You think I’m not fighting this every damn second?”

Your voice breaks.

“Then why’d you kiss me?”

He breathes like he’s been holding something in for months.

“Because I couldn’t not.”

The alley goes still. Everything else fades, people walking around, the music that blasts from the inside of the bar. All you can focus on is him.

“I tried,” he says. “God, I fucking tried. But then you looked at me with those eyes. And that mouth. And I—” He takes another step. His voice drops lower. “I wanted to ruin you.”

Your throat tightens. Your stomach flips.

“Say it, Joel.” It’s soft. Pleading.

He stares at you like you’re the edge of a cliff and he’s already falling.

“I want you. Not just the kiss. Not just your hands on me.” He exhales like it hurts. “I want you. Every goddamn inch of you.”

“Then stop treating me like a child! I’m not a child!” Your voice cracks—quieter now, trembling at the edges. “I don’t want to be your child. I want to be…” You trail off. You can’t even say it.

And then—you don’t have to.

Because you crash into each other like gravity demands it.

His mouth finds yours, bruising and hot and desperate. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his thigh slides between yours—firm, possessive, grounding. One big, calloused hand slips under your skirt, the other fists in your hair, tugging just enough to make your knees buckle.

You gasp into his mouth, breathless, wrecked, gone.

Then his lips hover over yours, his breath ragged against your cheek.

“You want to be what, sweetheart?”

Your eyes lift to his, wide and wet and dizzy with want.

And you whisper it.

The truth that’s been choking you for days.

“I want to be yours.”

The words leave your mouth like a confession—soft and broken.

And Joel groans.

Like he’s been starving for it.

He surges forward, kissing you again—hotter, deeper, hungrier. His hand pushes further under your skirt, rough palm sliding up the back of your thigh, fingertips grazing the edge of your underwear. You moan into his mouth, your hips rolling into him instinctively, the tension unraveling in messy gasps and the sharp pull of need.

His thigh presses tighter between yours. His hand in your hair tilts your head just how he wants it, exposing your throat as his mouth trails lower, biting softly at your jaw.

“Say it again,” he growls against your skin. “Say it, baby.”

You do.

“I want to be yours.”

But then—

It hits.

The flip in your stomach. That sudden lurch.

The alcohol. The adrenaline. The emotion.

Your breath stutters. The world spins.

Joel feels you falter.

You shake your head, pushing past him with a stumbling step.

You take two shaky steps to the side and double over the bushes behind the bar, the night spinning as your stomach violently turns.

You throw up.

Joel’s there in seconds.

Hand on your back. The other pulling your hair away. Kneeling beside you, murmuring your name like it might keep you steady.

He stays quiet while you heave—humiliated, tears stinging your eyes, from the alcohol, the choking heat, and the words you just said out loud.

The worst part? He doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t move away like it’s too much.

Instead, his hand rubs gentle, slow circles on your back.

“Okay, okay,” he says softly. “You’re alright. Let it out.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, your whole body trembling.

He takes off his flannel and offers it like a shield against the cold air and your shame.

You don’t look at him.

Not yet.

“Don’t look at me.”

“Too late,” he says gently. “Already do. Can’t not.”

You sit down on the curb, head in your hands.

He crouches beside you, quiet for a long beat. 

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for, do you?”

You lift your head, glassy-eyed.

“Maybe not. But I know I want you. Isn’t that enough?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares at you like he wants to both hold you and run from you.

Then he stands, offers you his hand.

“Come on. I’m takin’ you home.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, voice low and calm now, everything about him shifting to gentle.

“Let’s get you home, alright? Come on. I’ve got you.”

You nod, weakly. Eyes wet. Chest still shaking.

But his arm stays around you the whole walk back to the truck.

And even when the burn of the kiss fades, the weight of what you said—I want to be yours—doesn’t.

Not for either of you.

You’re slumped in the passenger seat, cheek against the cold window, wrapped in his flannel. The engine hums low. Neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy.

His knuckles tighten on the wheel every time he glances over at you.

You’re pale. Your eyes are half-lidded, fighting sleep. But he can see the tears that dried on your cheeks.

And he still hears it.

I want to be yours.

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't stop thinking it, either.

You’re slumped in the passenger seat, cheek against the cold window, wrapped in his flannel. The engine hums low. Neither of you speaks.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s heavy.

His knuckles tighten on the wheel every time he glances over at you.

You’re pale. Your eyes are half-lidded, fighting sleep. But he can see the tears that dried on your cheeks.

And he still hears it.

I want to be yours.

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't stop thinking it, either.

He pulls into the driveway, cuts the engine.

Inside, the living room lights are on. Your dad’s passed out on the couch, half a beer still in his hand, the football game blasting. The sound of roaring crowds filters through the open door.

Joel slips in with you in his arms. You’re warm and boneless, your cheek tucked against his shoulder, breath soft against his neck.

He carries you through the hallway quietly, like it’s sacred ground.

Your bedroom door creaks open. It’s modest. Familiar. Yours.

He lays you down gently, brushing hair from your face. You stir a little, lashes fluttering.

“Joel…?”

“Shh. You’re home now.”

You smile, dazed. Your hand finds his wrist and holds it weakly.

“Don’t leave.” It nearly breaks him.

He sits on the edge of the bed and watches you. His heart’s a fucking mess.

“You’re gonna feel this in the morning,” he says, voice low. “And I’ll hate myself if I stay.”

You don’t respond. Already half asleep again.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek. Then, after a long pause, he leans down and kisses your forehead. Gentle. Almost reverent.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

He can’t stay.

He wants to—but he knows if your dad wakes up and finds Joel in your bedroom at dawn? That’s it. Game over. Dead man walking. No amount of apologies or "I swear nothing happened" will save him.

He stares at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

Then he slips out the door.

Quiet as a ghost.

By the time the sun comes up, he’s gone.

I am so excited about where this is heading, and I hope you are too!!

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I can’t with him

#he was insane for this

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live! | March 24, 2025

I recently made a bunch of Hunter reaction memes.

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leave this man and his coffee alone 😭

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PEDRO PASCAL

Sundance Film Festival 2024 // "Freaky Tales" premiere in Oakland, California, 2025

Happy 1 year of Hunter Bad Batch in “Bad Territory” to all who celebrate (me)

ch.3 - fences and cities - dbf! joel miller &f!reader

series masterlist

previous chapter

A/N: A lot has happened, I wrote this then it got lost and I thought maybe I wrote it in a dream, you know those kinds of dreams where you go about your day but I didn't give up, I was SURE I had written it. Anyways, save a horse ride a cowboy

warnings: sex jokes. cowgirl pose reference, if I am missing any warnings please let me know. there're some hints for the future 😉

Minors stay out or read at your own risk! I'm not responsible for your consumption!

Do not copy, translate or claim this story as your own. Thanks!

"Rise and shiiine!" Your dad flicked the light switch on and off repeatedly, making the room flash like a faulty strobe light. You jolted awake immediately.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" you groaned, yanking the sheets over your head. It was way too early for this.

Your dad chuckled as he walked over and ripped the blanket off. "Come on now, gotta make the most of the day."

"What time is it?" you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

"Almost 5 a.m.," he said, clapping his hands as he headed for the door. "Making some coffee downstairs before driving you to Joel."

Shit—right. You had to work with Joel today. The only thing motivating you to get out of bed… and simultaneously, the one thing making you want to stay buried under the covers. Because having a crush on your dad’s friend—the one you had to work with—was both exciting and painfully embarrassing.

You head downstairs, dressed in comfortable clothes for the ranch—practical, but with just enough effort to look cute and put-together. Not that you’d admit it was for Joel, but if it made him do a double take, well… that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

Something had been off about him last night. He wasn’t his usual self. And maybe—just maybe—you were a little too tempted to poke at whatever was bothering him, like pressing on a bruise just to see how much it hurts.

Your dad drives you to the ranch, and after a quick goodbye, you step out, making your way toward Joel.

Joel turns when he hears your voice—or maybe it’s the sound of your footsteps crunching against the packed dirt and gravel. Either way, he does, in fact do a doubletake.

He plays it off like he hadn’t thought about you last night after dinner. Like he hadn’t pictured your face, your lips locking with his in the dark, or the shape of you—your waist, the way you moved. Like he wasn’t just caught looking.

"I’m shocked you actually showed up," he says, his voice edged with something unreadable.

"Oh, come on," you tease, tilting your head. "Why the bad image of me? Thought you had a better impression."

Joel shakes his head with a smirk, wiping his hands on his jeans, but his eyes linger on you a second too long. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, clearly unconvinced by your teasing. His eyes linger on you a second too long before he turns away.

“C’mon, let’s get to work.”

He leads you toward the stables, where the horses are saddled up. You already know what’s coming.

“Nope,” you say, shaking your head. “Not happening.”

Joel lets out a low chuckle, resting his hands on his hips. “What, you scared?”

“I’m not scared,” you scoff, folding your arms. “I just—” You pause, glancing at the horse. “I don’t ride.”

Joel raises an eyebrow, voice edged with something unreadable. “You forgot how to?”

Your stomach tightens at the way he says it, slow and deliberate. You pretend not to react. He doesn’t need that kind of power.

“Well, I’m not about to relearn today,” you mutter.

Joel ignores you completely, adjusting the saddle straps before turning to you expectantly. “Put your foot in the stirrup.”

You don’t move.

He sighs, stepping behind you. “Here,” he says, voice lower now, hands settling firmly on your waist. Before you can protest, he lifts you effortlessly, guiding you up onto the horse.

It happens fast—one second you’re on the ground, the next you’re settling into the saddle, straddling the horse, legs spread over either side.

You struggle for a second, adjusting yourself in the saddle, shifting your weight, fingers fumbling with the reins. This is harder than it looks.

Joel stands nearby, arms crossed, watching as you awkwardly try to mount the horse. He’s ready to step in, but he’s clearly trying not to overstep.

Finally, after a few wobbly adjustments, you settle in. You exhale, trying to play it off like you’re totally in control.

“Well, I’m definitely not a professional cowgirl,” you mutter, still shifting slightly, “but I guess I’m figuring it out—kinda like when you’re learning a new position.”

You laugh awkwardly. And then it hits you.

Oh. Oh.

Joel freezes. Blinking at you like he just misheard. Then his expression changes—his lips twitch, his shoulders shake slightly, and suddenly he lets out a deep, unrestrained laugh.

“Did you just—” He snorts, shaking his head. “Did you really just make a cowgirl joke?”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh. My. God. Why would I say that?!”

He exhales sharply, grinning as he drags a hand down his face. “Christ. Now that’s stuck in my head.” His voice dips slightly, eyes trailing over you, slow and unreadable. “And I can’t decide if that’s a problem or not.”

And that’s when your brain fully malfunctions.

You freeze. Your whole body burns.

Joel smirks, clearly aware of what he just did to you.

Now you’re both in full-on awkward mode, avoiding eye contact like two people who just walked straight into something dangerous and are pretending it didn’t happen.

You focus very hard on getting comfortable in the saddle, adjusting your posture, gripping the reins, trying to seem like you have a clue what you’re doing. But every small shift you make, every slight adjustment in the saddle, feels too much, like you can practically feel Joel’s gaze flicking to you—watching, thinking, replaying.

Meanwhile, his brain is racing.

He’s staring straight ahead, jaw tight, but he’s not thinking about the horse, not thinking about work. No, his mind is looping one single thought over and over again—what you just said.

You clear your throat, desperate to move past this. "Okay. So. How do we—uh—start moving?"

Joel takes a second to respond. Maybe because he’s still forcing his brain to reboot.

He exhales, stepping beside the horse. "Just a light kick, let her know you’re ready."

You do as he says, and the horse starts to move at a slow, steady pace. Crisis averted.

Or… not.

Because as you walk alongside him, your hand accidentally brushes against his arm. A small touch, barely anything, but it’s like an electric shock.

You both flinch, just slightly.

Neither of you say a word, but you know. You both know.

You’re not thinking about the joke. Except you are. So is he.

You try to act normal, cool, indifferent—but the tension is palpable, crackling in the air between you.

One accidental glance at each other—just one—and everything feels like fire. And suddenly, you need out.

The second you get the chance, you slip away, finding a quiet room in the stable, shutting the door behind you.

You lean against the wall, pressing your hands to your face.

"Did I really say that? What is wrong with me?! What just happened?!"

The secondhand embarrassment is real.

You groan into your hands, replaying it all over again.

But then the overthinking starts creeping in.

"Did I just make it super weird?! Or did he? Was he actually flirting with me, or was he just messing with my head?"

You think about the way his eyes lingered on you. The way his voice dipped just slightly. The way he said he didn’t think he wanted to forget it.

You shake your head to yourself. No. No way. He was just teasing.

Right?

Meanwhile, outside, Joel is definitely not as unaffected as he’s trying to be.

He goes back to work, hands busy, mind not busy enough—because he keeps thinking about what you said.

He’s still smirking to himself, shaking his head every now and then like he can’t quite believe it. He should let it go. Should pretend like nothing happened.

But he’s aware of you now.

Every time you move, every time you speak—hell, even when you’re silent—he notices. Every small brush of your arm, every glance that lingers a second too long.

And then he realizes you’re gone.

He frowns, scanning the stable before heading toward the room where you probably went in hiding. He hesitates for a second before knocking lightly.

“Y’alright in there?”

You freeze.

Shit. Shit.

You take a second before responding, forcing your voice to sound normal. “Yeah! Just—uh—checking something!”

Joel’s voice is too casual when he replies. “Right. Well. You done checkin’ yet?”

You swear you can hear the smirk in his voice.

You swallow hard. Your heart is doing something ridiculous.

You open the door just enough to peek out, avoiding eye contact.

Joel is standing there, one hand resting on the frame, a steaming cup in his other hand. His eyes flick over you, watching the way you shift on your feet, the way you won't look at him directly.

He notices.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Doesn’t push.

But he doesn’t leave either.

And that’s when you realize—you can pretend all you want, but whatever this is… it's not going away.

"Don't hide from me next time."

Then he walks away.

_____________________

You spend the next couple of hours pretending that moment never happened. You avoid looking at him for too long, focusing on the horses, the work, anything but him.

Joel? He doesn’t say anything about it.

Not at first.

You think, Okay, maybe we’re just moving past this.

Then, mid-task, while you’re standing side by side, working in comfortable silence, he suddenly leans against the fence and says,

“So, I’ve been thinking about that cowgirl joke…”

You freeze.

Your heart does something stupid, and you turn to him way too fast.

Joel just watches you, waiting—expression unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something mischievous in his eyes. He’s baiting you.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He smirks. "What?" he says, voice slow and knowing. "You don’t wanna talk about it?"

You flinch. "I—no, I just—Why are you—"

He leans in slightly, arms crossed over his chest.

“You know,” he drawls, way too amused, “I’m not sure I’ll ever look at a horse the same way again.”

Your jaw drops.

You gasp, whipping around to glare at him. "Joel!"

He laughs—low and entirely too pleased with himself.

You slap his arm. "Oh my God, you’re the worst."

He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins down at you, eyes still flickering with something unspoken.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re laughing too.

And he just watches you, smirking, shaking his head like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And he knows he shouldn’t.

But the thing is?

Joel doesn’t seem to care. Not right now.

Because for some reason, none of that matters. Not the age gap. Not the fact that your dad trusts him. Not that this is a bad, bad idea.

Because he likes this. Likes watching you get flustered, he likes the way you’re pretending you’re not thinking about him too.

The workday finally comes to an end and the tension is still hanging thick in the air.

Joel doesn’t say much when you get into the truck, just a quick glance your way before starting the engine.

The drive is quiet. Not awkward, not exactly. Just… charged. Like there’s something unspoken pressing against the space between you.

Joel parks his truck in your dad’s driveway. You could get out now. But you don’t.

You sit there, stealing glances at him, pretending you’re not hyper-aware of how close you are.

Joel keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. He looks calm and composed, but you notice his fingers twitch—like he’s thinking.

And then, he glances at you.

No, he's looking at your mouth.

For a full minute, his gaze lingers there. Slow. Deliberate.

You don’t move. You don’t even breathe.

Your pulse pounds, and suddenly, you can feel every inch of your skin.

Joel shifts in his seat. His grip on the wheel tightens.

He’s debating something. You can see it. Feel it.

And then—just as he makes his decision, just as he starts to lean in—

Your dad’s voice cuts through the air.

“Joel!”

You jerk back, the moment shattering instantly.

Your dad walks up to the truck, leaning against the open window, completely oblivious.

Joel exhales sharply and immediately leans away, one hand gripping the wheel like he needs to ground himself. His eyes snap forward, blank, unreadable.

Your pulse is thundering. You don’t look at him. You can’t.

“How was the workday?” he asks.

Joel inhales sharply, blinking like he just snapped out of something. He clears his throat.

"Good," he says, voice a little rough.

Your dad grins. "How was she?"

Joel’s eyes flick to you for just a fraction of a second before he answers—too smooth, too casual.

"She was a really good girl."

Your breath catches. That fucking sentence.

Your dad smiles, then playfully taps the roof of Joel’s truck, a familiar, warm gesture—one that feels easy, trusting. Like Joel is just some guy your dad’s comfortable sending you off with.

Like this is nothing.

“Guess I’ll be sending you off to work with Joel often then,” he says, still grinning.

Joel just nods, his smirk barely there—but his eyes?

They’re still on you. Burning.

And as you step out of the truck, heart pounding, you realize:

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

THAT LAST SENTENCE WHEN I TELL YOU I WAS SCREAMING GNAWING AT THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE!!!! UH UHUHU AAAH AH AH

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Let me know what you think of this chapter and stay tuned for the next one!

taglist: @burningnerdchild

If you are interested in being added to my tag list let me know.

Reblogs, likes and comments help this story grow! ✨✨✨I'm grateful for each one of them!

Happy 1 year of this insanely beautiful side profile shot

LORDDD

doing this reminds me of older fandom culture so i hope its nostalgic for y'all too

Cody: That's it, you're grounded! Bly, no adventures for you! Wolffe, no fighting for you! Gree, no stealing for you! And Fox… oh force, is there anything that you love? Fox: Revenge. Cody: No vengeance for you. Fox: I was going to say "I'll get you for this," but I guess that's off the table.

Y'know what I'm just gonna

*pat*

IF YOU ARE UNMARRIED, DON'T HAVE KIDS, AND HATE YOUR PARENTS PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HAVE A FUCKING WILL

this has been a public service announcement from your friendly neighborhood probate lawyer

this is so niche but I believe I've just peaked

Credit: look.sir.memes on insta

I did another :)

why must tumblr eat the quality 😔😔

pictured below is me trying to figure out how to draw the standard clone hair

tags: @lonewolflupe @ghostymarni :)

I just realized if Howzer had not helped the Syndullas escape in TBB season 1 "Rescue on Ryloth", there may not have been a Rebels storyline or team with Hera, Kanan and the rest. And then there wouldn't have been a family to find and guide Ezra, and Thrawn would have not been taken out as long as he was. The early Rebellion may not have had enough talented people to get it going. It's always neat how one man's valiant actions change the course of history in ways he could never have predicted. Howzer really is a pivotal clone even if he doesn't get a lot of screen time.

Waking up on New Year's Day With the Clones - Command Edition

Inspired by @freesia-writes and her lovely New Years Eve with the Clones drabbles! I wrote these on my phone datapad in bed while waking up on New Year's Day and doing precisely none of these things.

Rex: You crack one eye open just as he's slipping back into bed with you. It's seven AM. He's already gone for a run and had a shower. You mumble something incoherent, and he tucks you in against him, kisses your forehead, and tells you to go back to sleep. “Happy New Year, cyar’ika.”

Cody: He surprises you with breakfast in bed, and it isn't ration bars. It's your favorite breakfast, the one you only really eat on special occasions, and he executes it flawlessly. When you get up afterwards, you discover the kitchen is already clean. There's nothing to do for the rest of the day but relax and have fun, whatever that means to you.

Wolffe: You ARE his breakfast in bed. 😏

Fox: There is no such thing as morning. You both sleep until one PM, and when you finally stumble out of bed, you only make it as far as the caf machine before collapsing on the sofa. He chugs his caf and then falls back asleep, lying between your legs with his head resting on your belly while you scroll on your datapad.

Mayday: You wake up slowly to the soft caress of his fingertips on your shoulder. You have no idea how long he's been awake, but the way he looks at you makes you feel like the only person in the galaxy. You don't get out of bed for a few more hours.

Neyo: He wakes you up with a hangover cure and a tube of bacta. You have glitter in places you did not know glitter could exist. After an abortive attempt at crawling out of bed, you both fall back asleep for another three hours.

Bacara: He wakes you up to go for a run, and it's not optional. He ignores your complaints and death threats, and when you get home, he rewards you with a long shower together, followed by a breakfast smoothie that is surprisingly delicious. He opts not to tell you that he set a personal worst speed record for a kilometer.

Happy New Year! I hope 2025 is your best year yet. 💋

Taglist:

@523rdrebel @wings-and-beskar @merkitty49 @arcsimper5 @clio3kantarella

@cloneloverrrrr @goblininawig @ladytano420 @arctrooper69 @sunshinesdaydream

@littlemissmanga @marierg @idontgetanysleep @lonewolflupe

@moonlightwarriorqueen @dudewhynotthis @sleepycreativewriter @tcwmatchmakingau @littlemissbshine

@heavenseed76 @bobaprint @sweetcream-coldfoam

@skellymom @pickleprickle @trixie2023 @cw80831 @flyiingsly

@lightwise @swcowgal @vrycurious @thora-sniper

@reader6898 @cdblake1565 @epicy0n @starstofillmydream @msmeredithrose

@totallyunidentified @eclec-tech @euphoriacafe @hipwell @kimiheartblade

@dangraccoon @transactivecybermemory @etod @somewhere-on-kamino

@burningnerdchild @saneabandoned @heidnspeak @maniacalbooper @mae-lou-ron

I don't have it in me to write full scenes, so here are some fun little drabbles of what it might be like to party with some of the boys on New Year's Eve! PLEASE feel free to add your own and use the tag #2024cloneNYE

Shoutout to @lornaka for the sweet helmet art. Find other dividers like these here.

Tup - Tries to take you somewhere neat to see fireworks, holding your hand and glancing at you sheepishly every now and then, but gets lost along the way. Is simultaneously frustrated at himself and nervous at what you’ll think of him until you pull him into a side alleyway to show him some fireworks of your own. 😎

Jesse - Is so delighted to be spending the evening with you that he nearly gets into three different fights with troopers at the bar because he's just so dang excited. Dances your ass off then takes you out for street food, where he does get in a fight with a handsy vendor. Gives you the best kiss of your life at midnight. 🥴

Fives - Tells you to wear a disguise. Dies laughing when you show up and he is wearing a simple poncho while you have donned a huge fake mustache. Sneaks you both onto a large cargo freighter that is scheduled to depart from Coruscant a bit before 00:00, so that as it’s slowly lifting into the sky, you get a bird’s eye view of the fireworks all around you. Of course, he now needs to figure out how to get you both off the ship without being caught. 🥸

-=-=-=-=-=[SORRY BABES, no Corrie dividers!!]=-=-=-=-=-

Fox - Shows up at your apartment in sweatpants and cracks up at the side of you as you open the door, as you are in sweatpants as well, even though you both had said you were going to “go celebrate” together. But you both knew exactly what you meant by “celebrate”, and you watch crappy holofilms while snuggling on the couch, dozing off until the sound of fireworks rouses you. You gaze blearily out the window, watching the flashing colors as you’re nestled into his arms, then you both drift back to sleep after a feeble “whoo!” 😴

Howzer - Dresses to the nines to take you out to dinner but feels awkwardly self-conscious about it until you distract him by coaxing him into sharing stories about his squad, which light him up immediately. Then he’s got nothing but soft admiration for you, insists on two desserts, and walks you to your front door to finish the evening with a tender kiss. Comes running back to knock on your door about 10 minutes later when he realizes it’s just now midnight and “he kissed you too soon.” The oversight is quickly remedied. 🤭

Hardcase - Finds out where they're setting the fireworks off from and sneaks you in. You both tuck in a tiny little corner between a huge metal structure that holds the firework launchers, and when they start going off, it's so loud that you can't help but squeal. Hardcase also yells in delight, catching the attention of nearby employees, and suddenly pretends he's escorting you off the premises after you'd been discovered sneaking into the area. 😂

Gregor - Grabs some wraps at a food truck and takes you to some random little park where a galactic Mariachi band (they exist, ok?) is playing sweet beats. Dances with zero shame, with and without you. Drags you up a nearby hill to see fireworks and produces a bottle of champagne seemingly out of nowhere. Forgot glasses though, so you take swigs out of the bottle and choke on the bubbles and foam. Spins and dips you at midnight and finishes with the sweetest kiss.

Tag List?! Are y'all even here anymore!? 😂

Join the tag list by commenting for the discord server link or filling out my form.

@techhasmjolnir @falconfeather23435 @ladylucksrogue @padawancat97 @baddest-batchers

@anxiouspineapple99 @yunggoblin @littlefeatherr @cw80831 @all-mights-babygirl

@totallyunidentified @lightwise @moonstrider9904 @clonemedickix @dangraccoon

@nursekyra @callsign-denmark @heidnspeak @stardusthuntress @lune-de-miel-au-paradis

@ivyyyyy @kashasenpai @followthepurrgil @littlemissmanga @littlemissbshine

@crosshairscrustysock @lamiliani @skellymom @burningnerdchild @galaxyofthoughts99

@sweeticedtea @starrylothcat @mxkyrie @reader6898 @eyecandyeoz

@trixie2023 @vrycurious @youreababboon @photogirl894 @subbing-for-clones

@yve-barr @salaminus @ezras-left-thumb @etod @dhawerdaverd

@techsgalaxy02 @shadowphantomreaper @violatiger8 @flowered-bicycles @nursekyra

@eternal-transcience @somewhere-on-kamino @plotlessvoid @morerandombullshit

Hunter appreciation post. 💕

Shatterpoint: A Mace Windu Musical Concept Chapter 1: Guide Us

A fun fact about me besides my love of Star Wars is that I love musicals. I have no musical talent whatsoever, but I still like the idea of writing musicals. And in the last few days I’ve had a rather silly idea of taking Revenge of the Sith and framing it as a musical, that idea eventually morphed into a musical set during the Clone Wars, but from the perspective of Mace Windu.

Mace is an often misunderstood character, especially from people who never read legends. And I thought this would be a fun idea for me to just have some fun with this. So, I got to writing an opening song for this, though as I said I’m not a songwriter by any means, but if anyone really wants me to continue let me know.

Link to song.

Chapter 2: A Leader

Chapter 3: A Daughter

Guide Us

[The musical begins, the sounds of blaster fire, vague battlefield orders heard, sounds of struggle as smoke fills the screen, intercut with lights of lightsabers and blasters. Three young padawans followed by clones enter. The padawans desperate and feeling overwhelmed sing].

Padawan #1 Come on my Jedi Can’t you see? We must hold the line For if we fall, the people die.

Padawan #2 There’s too many We’re surrounded

Padawan #3 There’s too many of them.

Padawan #1 Hold the line!

Padawan #2: We need another plan.

[Clones Fall and a Jedi does as well. A chorus begins to be heard humming. This chorus of Jedi will frequently return, they’ll act as a sort of Greek Chorus]

Jedi Chorus: So many fall So many die The young and brightest of our order In the name of peace and a republic That does not care.

Padawan #3

Retreat! We must retreat

Jedi Chorus: Untrained for war Untrained for this Meant for peace, but what is peace? Have we lost our way.

[A clone Commander appears, he runs to the eldest of the padawans.]

Clone Commander: The droids have broken our lines, Commander, what are your orders?

[The Padawan hesitates, and the clone grows more desperate.]

Clone Commander: What are your orders?!

[Suddenly a commanding voice sounds out.]

Mace Windu: Hold the line, Commander. Hold the line! (To the Padawans) Young ones, courage now—this is not the time to falter.

[The smoke clears slightly as Mace Windu strides into view, his purple lightsaber igniting with a resolute hum.]

Jedi Chorus: Master Windu, champion of the Jedi… Master Windu, where justice and courage lie… Master Windu, the shield against despair, Master Windu, a light in shadows’ lair.

Mace Windu:

Listen, young ones, the storm is here, But a Jedi stands, we do not fear. The galaxy turns in endless strife, Yet we are the shield, the blade of life.

Feel the Force, let it guide, Hold to the light, don’t run, don’t hide. Even in darkness, hope will rise, For the Jedi endure where chaos dies.

[The Padawans, emboldened by Mace’s presence, sing with renewed strength, echoing his confidence.]

Eldest Padawan: Come on, let’s do this!

Other Padawans: Master Windu, we follow— For the Republic, we fight, fight, fight!

Mace Windu (Inner Monologue): Meant to be a leader, meant to be a warrior, But they don’t see my doubts—my barrier. Could have ended this war before it began, Had my sword at the ready, but I had doubt… I’m just a man.

We must fight, change our role, But all of this war—it takes its toll. I see them fall, I see them die, My brothers, my sisters—hear their cry.

Jedi Chorus: Master Windu, guide us, lead us… Master Windu, hear us, teach us… Master Windu, show us what a Jedi can be, Master Windu, the strength of us is he.

[Mace Windu fights back, uses his lightsaber to lead and destroy battle droids as he gives orders the music grows quiet signifying that we are listening to his inner thoughts.]

Mace Windu: Jedi, follow my lead The republic will not fall, this is our creed Fight for the light, fight not for peace We fight for justice, this war will cease.

Padawans and Clones (chorus): Hold the line, hold the light, In the shadow of war, we fight, fight, fight! For justice, for hope, for the galaxy’s flame, We’ll endure, we’ll prevail, we’ll honor the name!

Master Windu, guide us, lead us… Master Windu, hear us, teach us… Master Windu, show us what a Jedi can be, Master Windu, the strength of us is he.

[The scene ends with Mace Windu standing strong, his purple lightsaber cutting through the haze, the battlefield momentarily stilled as the music fades into silence. The Jedi Chorus lingers as if carried on the wind.]

THIS IS SO COOL

ENJOY!

Merry Chaos!

New Star Wars reaction image just dropped

PEDRO PASCAL having a good time during Christmas 🎄