#Keep your words on ice and let your gaze light the fire...

[thelostgirl21]

The Little Prince & The Fox

(Part 1, Part 2)

-Quotes from "The Little Prince", Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

[honeyandruin]

Only in the Dark - DBF!Joel Miller x Reader

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Pairing: dbf!Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: Your dad’s best friend has been sneaking around with you for months. But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Age gap. Secret relationship. Unprotected pi/v. Praise & light degradation. Breeding kink. Sneaky sex. Overstimulation. Soft choking. Oral (f receiving, from behind). Rough sex. Conflicted feelings. Emotional tension. Guilt. Possessiveness. Slight angst.

Word count: 15.2k

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It starts like it always does.

You look too long. And he looks back.

Joel’s standing by the grill with your dad, one hand wrapped around a sweating beer bottle, the other resting on his hip like he’s already sick of standing still. The sun’s high, heavy on his back, catching on the salt-slick sweat at the base of his neck. His shirt—an old gray one with the Miller’s Construction logo faded across the chest—sticks damp to his shoulders, clinging in places your eyes have no business landing.

He talks like he’s distracted. Answers half-asked questions. Grunts through conversation. And every time you glance his way, there’s tension in the set of his mouth—like his jaw is wired shut, like every syllable tastes wrong.

You’re across the yard, curled into one of those plastic lawn chairs that sinks in the middle, one leg tucked under you. Your dress rides up a little more every time you shift. It’s nothing obscene. Nothing anyone would notice.

Except Joel.

You take a slow sip from your drink. Run your thumb along the rim of the cup. Pretend not to notice the way his eyes track the movement. You cross your legs, careless, slow. The hem slides up again—just a touch. Not enough for anyone else to care.

But enough for him to clench the bottle tighter in his hand.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even glance at you directly.

But his fingers twitch when he sets the beer down. His brows pull in when he thinks no one’s looking. And when he shifts his weight, the fabric of his jeans pulls tight across his thighs—and you catch yourself looking just a second too long.

That’s when his eyes find you.

Direct. Steady. Loaded.

You freeze, your glass halfway to your mouth.

The air pulls tight.

It’s not innocent. Not casual. Not a glance that glances and forgets.

He looks at you like he knows. Like he’s already punishing himself for wanting to look.

And still—he doesn’t look away.

Not for a long second. Not until your stomach flips and your skin burns and your thighs press tight together under your dress.

You’re the one who looks away. You always are.

You shift again in your chair. Run your fingers through your hair. Let it fall back behind your shoulder in a soft sweep that feels just a little too performative.

You laugh when someone calls your name from across the yard. Smile. Sip again.

And all the while, you can feel him watching.

Even when you don’t dare look up.

Joel is careful. He always has been. That’s what makes it worse—how quiet he is about the way he looks at you. How long he holds back before finally giving in. Like his restraint is some kind of mercy. Like not touching you is the best he can offer.

He talks to your dad. Drinks another beer—then a third. Paces around the grill like something’s burning under his skin and there’s no fire he can put out. You see the way his hand curls tight around the neck of the bottle, how his gaze keeps drifting your way only to snap back, like it betrays him every time.

You’re crouched beside the cooler now, fingers digging through the ice as you pretend to search for something buried deep. The hem of your dress rides up against the backs of your thighs, and for a moment, you don’t fix it. You let your back arch just a little. Let your fingers linger.

There are voices nearby. Your cousin. Maybe your dad–Michael, again. You’re surrounded on all sides. But still—you feel him.

Before he even steps onto the patio, before the wood creaks beneath his boots—you feel the air shift. Heavy. Loaded.

His shadow stretches across the cooler. You don’t turn.

“I told myself I wasn’t gonna come over here,” he mutters.

You straighten slowly, your fingers brushing water from your wrist, letting your movements stay slow. Intentional. You smooth your dress down like you don’t know he’s watching your every motion.

“You always say that,” you murmur into your glass.

His voice stays low. Measured. Already strained, like he’s been losing this argument with himself all day.

“You always make it hard.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, lashes low. Your voice soft. Sweet. Dangerous. “Me? I haven’t said a word to you all day.”

“Didn’t need to.”

He’s closer now. Not touching you, but close enough that the heat radiates off him, thick and unmistakable. Close enough that if someone rounded the corner, you’d have to step back. Laugh. Pretend this was nothing. That it’s always been nothing.

Joel lowers his voice, just for you. “That dress. No bra. Nothin’ under it, is there?”

You turn—slow and deliberate. Let your gaze drag up his body, past his chest, his throat, until your eyes find his.

You smile. Sweet. Sharp. Like a blade in honey.

“No.”

His expression cracks—just for a moment. Like it hurts. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it said aloud.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch you. He never does—not out here. Not with your family buzzing behind the hedges. Not with your father three yards away, beer in hand and none the wiser.

Still, you can feel the weight of his want. Pressing. Building.

“This is gonna kill me,” he says softly.

Your dad calls out from the patio then, voice casual but loud enough to carry.

“Hey, Joel—you mind givin’ her a hand with that old cabinet upstairs? Damn thing’s been wobblin’ again.”

Joel blinks. You watch his throat work as he swallows something down.

He hesitates. Just for a second.

You can see it—the flicker in his expression. That split second of panic, of restraint, of God, not now, but your dad’s already waving him off like it’s no big deal.

“She’s been complainin’ about it all week,” he adds, tipping his beer toward the house. “Should only take a minute.”

Joel shifts his weight, eyes skating toward you like it hurts. “Yeah,” he says, quiet. “Course.”

You smirk. Sweet as honey.

“Thanks,” you chirp. “It’s just the knob on the top drawer—it keeps sticking. Come on, I’ll show ya.” Your voice is softer than it needs to be. Your smile just a little too wide. Joel clocks it immediately. His jaw ticks.

And maybe your dad doesn’t notice, but you do.

Joel scratches the back of his neck. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Doesn’t say anything else as you lead the way into the house, your bare feet padding softly across the tile.

You don’t look back.

Not until the door clicks shut behind you—and the silence wraps tight around the two of you like a secret.

The house is cooler than it was outside, the air humming with the low whir of an old ceiling fan and the muffled sound of laughter spilling in from the patio. You lead him through the kitchen without a word, every step deliberate, measured. He trails a few feet behind you—just far enough to keep himself honest.

You open the door to the hallway and gesture toward your bedroom. “It’s just in here.”

Joel exhales slow, like he already regrets this. “Don’t know why your dad doesn’t just buy new furniture.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile coy. “Maybe he likes things that are broken.”

Joel huffs. Doesn’t answer.

You walk ahead, hips swaying gently beneath the soft cotton of your dress. You can feel him behind you—feel the weight of his gaze pressed against your back like a brand.

The room smells like your lotion and the faint trace of summer air drifting through a cracked window. Joel steps in behind you and pauses, hands on his hips, eyes scanning everything but you. You point toward the old cabinet tucked beside the window.

“There,” you say lightly. “Top drawer sticks. Thought maybe it just needed tightening or something.”

He walks over to it. Crouches down. Pulls the drawer halfway out, just to see how bad it really is.

And you?

You step in behind him–too close. Close enough that the hem of your dress brushes his shoulder. Close enough that he can smell your shampoo—feel the warmth of your bare legs, the hum of your breath when you lean just slightly over his shoulder to peek at the drawer.

“Think you can fix it?” You ask, voice soft. Sweet. Barely above a whisper.

Joel stiffens. His fingers pause on the handle. You can see the tension in his arms, the way his shoulders rise just slightly—like every inch of him is screaming don’t.

“Maybe,” he mutters. “Maybe not.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll owe you either way.”

He pulls the drawer out farther than he needs to. Not really looking at it now. Not really seeing anything at all. He’s gone still, like something inside him is locking up. Holding him back.

Your chest brushes his arm when you shift your weight. You lay your hand on the top of the dresser like it’s nothing, fingers splayed, pink polished nails catching the light. Joel’s eyes drop to them for half a second before he jerks his gaze away.

“You’re not making this easy,” he says, low. Rough. Almost like it hurts.

You blink, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

He rises slowly to his full height. Not touching you—but close enough to tower.

You tilt your head and smile. “I haven’t done anything.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex at his sides.

You turn back toward the dresser like you’re going to give him space, give him a chance to breathe—and that’s when he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, gentle but firm. “You really gonna keep pretendin’ this ain’t killin’ you too?”

His gaze drags over you slowly. Not like he’s trying to intimidate you—more like he’s trying to survive it. His eyes trace the outline of your parted lips, linger on the delicate curve of your chest, then fall to your thighs, pressed a little too tightly together in anticipation.

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Like amusement. Like disbelief that you’re really here—doing this to him again.

“You know what your problem is?” He murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

You swallow hard. Try to speak, but nothing comes.

Joel steps in close, his breath warm against your ear. “You look at me like that,” he says, a half-laugh tucked in behind the words. “Bat those fuckin’ eyes… all soft, all sweet. Like I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

You feel heat rise up your spine. Your stomach clenches.

“And this dress?” He goes on, mouth brushing just beneath your jaw. “No bra. No shame. Bein’ real generous with your thighs all afternoon. In front of everybody.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not harsh. He says it like he’s teasing you for getting away with it. Like he’s impressed. Like it’s killing him and he doesn’t even want you to stop.

You shift your weight, unsure if you’re trying to get away or lean into him.

He doesn’t let you do either.

Your lips part. You want to play innocent. Want to tease him back. But your voice catches somewhere behind your tongue.

Joel sees it—sees the flicker of doubt, of want, of that same ache carved between your ribs that’s been digging into his all damn day. He smiles then. Not smug. Not cruel. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying this weight for too long and finally stopped pretending he can.

He doesn’t rush.

One hand slips to your hip, the other flattening against your lower back, guiding you—not roughly, but firmly—until your thighs brush the edge of the bathroom counter. His touch is steady. Certain. The kind of sure that says this has been a long time coming.

Then he turns you.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his hand splays wide across your belly—warm and heavy, grounding you to the bathroom counter. Joel’s behind you, chest brushing your back, his mouth hovering over your shoulder like he can’t decide whether to kiss it or bite.

In the mirror, his eyes drag down your reflection—your parted lips, the tight grip you’ve got on the edge of the sink, the way your thighs press together like you’re trying to keep something in.

“Look at you,” he mutters, breath warm against your skin. “All worked up and I haven’t even fuckin’ touched you yet.”

You swallow hard. You’re soaked already. You know he can feel it—your heat bleeding through the thin cotton of your dress, your pulse fluttering just beneath his palm.

Joel’s hand slides up, slow and deliberate, over the slope of your ribs, the curve of your breast. He doesn't grope. He just holds—firm and steady, like he wants to feel the beat of your heart against his fingers.

You lean back into him, needy, aching.

He laughs—quiet, wrecked. “Knew this dress was gonna kill me. Knew the second I saw you sittin’ out there like you wanted to be dragged in here.”

You whimper, and he dips his head, nose brushing your jaw.

“Didn’t say a word all afternoon. Just sat there lettin’ that little thing ride up higher and higher—knowin’ damn well I was watchin’.”

His other hand slips lower—beneath the hem, over your thigh. His touch is light, maddening, fingers skimming until they brush the bare, soaking heat of you.

He hisses, teeth clenched. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“Joel—” you whisper, but it’s nothing. A sound. A breath.

His fingers slide between your folds, slow and obscene, slick spreading across your skin. His palm cups you from behind, fitting against your body like he was made for it.

“So wet,” he groans, pressing in just enough to make your knees buckle. “You like this that much? Me watchin’? Bein’ this fuckin’ filthy with your whole family sittin’ twenty feet away?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

His hand slides up your chest again—this time to your throat. Just resting. Not squeezing. But it makes your breath stutter anyway. Makes your knees tremble.

You nod—barely—and he smirks at your reflection.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then—

He drops to his knees behind you.

You gasp, hands tightening on the counter, heart pounding.

Joel grips your hips, pushes your thighs apart, and then presses a kiss—hot and open-mouthed—to the curve just beneath your ass.

“You’re drippin’,” he mutters, voice muffled by skin. “Fuck me.”

You whimper, try to look back, but he tugs your hips gently and says, “Eyes on the mirror. You watch what I do to you.”

You do.

You watch as he spreads you open with both hands, thumbs parting you gently, reverently. His breath hits your folds and you jerk, moaning into the air.

And then his mouth is on you.

His tongue licks a thick, wet stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circles back—slow and messy and devoted. Like he’s trying to memorize the way you taste. The way you shake. The way your body reacts to every drag of his tongue.

He groans against you, the sound low and guttural, like he’s the one losing control.

Your thighs quake. “Joel—oh my god—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and your vision blacks out for a second. Your hands scrabble for purchase on the counter.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” you cry, biting your lip so hard you taste blood.

“Yeah,” he pants against you. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear it.”

He eats like a man starved. Sloppy, relentless, nose buried in you, fingers digging into your thighs to keep you right where he wants you.

You’re shaking. Your knees nearly give out.

Joel notices.

He pulls back just long enough to rasp, “Don’t fall on me now—ain’t even fucked you yet.”

Then he’s back at it. This time with fingers.

He slides two inside you without warning—thick and rough, knuckles brushing your walls while his mouth stays on your clit.

You choke on a moan. “Joel—please—I’m gonna—”

He groans. “Come for me. Right now.”

You fall apart.

You come hard, gasping, legs trembling, one hand slapping against the mirror as your whole body locks up, your muscles clenching around his fingers.

Joel curses into your cunt. Keeps licking through it.

“Shh—it’s okay. Let me have it. Just like that. So fuckin’ good for me.”

You sob. Actually sob.

And he doesn't stop.

He lets you ride it out, lets you shake and pant, and then—he slides his fingers back in.

You jolt. “Too much—Joel—”

He hums. “I know. S’why I’m doin’ it.”

You cry out, forehead pressed to the mirror.

His free hand comes to the back of your calf—gentle again, grounding, petting, almost—and he nuzzles into the back of your thigh, licking soft and slow while he works you open all over again.

“You wanted this,” he breathes. “Wanted me wreckin’ you in your daddy’s house. Don’t go shy on me now.”

You moan. Loud. Messy.

“You’re mine, ain’t you?” His voice is a rasp now. Wrecked.

You nod.

He presses a kiss to your ass. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

He stands then. Fast. Pulls you back into him.

You can feel how hard he is—straining in his jeans. He fumbles with his zipper, breath ragged.

And when he pushes inside—

It’s blinding.

You both gasp. He grips your hips, steadying himself.

“Fuck—always so tight,” he growls. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

He thrusts slow at first. Long, deep strokes that make your eyes roll back. That make the mirror fog up.

Then faster. Rougher. Hands gripping you hard. Like he wants to leave bruises. Like he needs proof this happened.

Your cries are high-pitched now, desperate.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. So fuckin’ pretty like this—face all flushed, eyes tearin’ up.”

He thrusts deeper. “You’re gonna make a mess, ain’t you? Gonna come all over my cock like a good girl.”

You nod, mouth open, moaning.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Mine. All mine.”

And when you come again—when your whole body shakes and you scream his name against your own wrist—Joel fuckin’ loses it.

He groans your name, spills inside you, buries his face in your neck with a guttural curse that sounds like regret and worship tangled together.

And still, he doesn’t let go. Not right away.

His arms wrap around you, holding you close, hips still pressed to yours, his breath slowing against your skin.

The mirror’s fogged. Your thighs are soaked. The counter’s cold beneath your palms.

And Joel’s mouth is at your ear again, soft and real.

“You okay?” He whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. Yeah.”

He kisses your shoulder.

And you smile—wrecked and ruined and still so full of him.

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You show up just after lunch rush, a brown paper bag folded neatly in your arms, still warm against your chest. You’re wearing jeans and a loose shirt—something casual, safe. Your hair’s pulled back in a clip. No makeup. Nothing intentionally done to catch attention.

And still—he looks.

The construction site stretches out like a skeleton of something half-born. Steel bones. Exposed wood. Sawdust clings to the air like fog, and the sky above is sharp, cloudless, cruel.

You walk past the truck bays and toward the break area, boots crunching over gravel. A few guys nod as you pass. Most don’t.

You’re not here for them.

You spot your dad’s hard hat first—bright white with a strip of flaking duct tape across the front. He’s crouched beside a scaffolding rig, barking something at a worker below.

Joel’s standing a few feet off, one hand braced against the frame of the trailer office, his other wrapped tight around a water bottle like he’s trying to remember what it’s for. His shirt is stained at the collar. Dusty. Clings to his chest in places it shouldn’t. His pants hang low on his hips, a smear of something dark across his thigh.

He sees you before you call out. Sees you before you even mean to be seen.

The way his jaw locks—quick and brutal—tells you everything.

You wave at your dad. Lift the bag a little. “Brought lunch!”

He grins. “Jesus, you’re a lifesaver. That sandwich place?”

“Your usual.” You pass it to him and he gives your shoulder a quick squeeze before digging in like he hasn’t eaten in days. His attention shifts immediately back to the site, already barking out instructions between bites.

Joel still hasn’t moved.

You turn toward him slowly. Tilt your head. Smile like you don’t know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head once. A warning. A plea.

You ignore it.

“You eat yet?” You ask softly.

He glances around—quick, sharp, like he’s expecting eyes.

“Don’t,” he mutters under his breath. “Not here. Not—fuck, not now.”

But you’re already crossing the distance. Not enough to touch. Just enough for the scent of your shampoo to reach him.

Your voice stays low. “You looked hungry.”

His jaw twitches. He steps back. Barely. Like it physically hurts to put space between you.

“Your dad’s right there,” he hisses.

“And?”

Joel’s eyes darken. His throat works.

“And I just spent the last two hours tryin’ not to think about what I did to you in that fuckin’ bathroom.”

You smile.

Then—quietly, sweetly, so softly it barely counts as a sin: “You wanna do it again?”

His eyes snap to yours. He looks at you like you just spit holy water on him.

And still—he doesn’t say no.

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words, anyway.

Joel’s hand shoots out—rough, calloused, certain—and wraps around your wrist. He doesn’t pull hard. Doesn’t have to. You stumble forward easily, chest brushing his as he backs you toward the side of the trailer, behind the stacks of lumber and plywood. The break room door creaks open just as you disappear from sight.

Someone calls out a joke. You barely register it.

Joel slams the trailer door shut behind you and locks it without thinking.

Then he turns to you.

His chest rises hard under the fabric of his shirt. There’s sweat at his temples, clinging to the curls behind his ears. His fingers flex at his sides like he doesn’t trust them not to grab you again.

“You got no fuckin’ clue what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, stepping in so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Showin’ up like that. Smilin’ like you ain’t already got me on my knees.”

“I think you like it,” you whisper.

His eyes drop to your lips. His voice dips lower. Rougher.

“I think you like pushin’ me.”

You smile—barely—and Joel’s already moving.

He backs you against the trailer wall, one hand cupping your jaw, the other already sliding down your side, dragging over the curve of your ass with a low groan.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” he says, but his mouth is on yours before the sentence even finishes.

It’s not gentle. It never is with him.

His tongue sweeps into your mouth with a hunger that steals your breath, and he presses his hips hard against yours until you feel him—already thick and heavy through his jeans. You whimper into the kiss, fingers fisting the front of his shirt.

Outside, footsteps crunch over gravel. Laughter. Your dad’s voice, faint.

Joel curses and breaks the kiss, panting, forehead pressed against yours.

“We don’t have time,” he says.

“So don’t waste it,” you whisper.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are under your shirt in seconds—palms rough against your stomach as he drags the fabric up, exposing bare skin inch by inch. You reach for his belt, fumble with the buckle, but your hands are shaking too hard.

Joel growls low in his throat and does it for you.

He frees himself just as you tug your panties down, not bothering with anything else. The moment they hit your knees, Joel’s hands grip your hips and lift you—just enough to set you back on the edge of the supply table behind you, your ass barely balancing there.

The surface is cold. His body is hot. The air between you, electric.

You spread your thighs instinctively and Joel groans—deep and broken.

“Fuck, baby—already wet for me?” He runs two fingers through your slick, slow and deliberate, like he’s dragging it out on purpose. “You need me that bad?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Joel—please—”

That’s all he needs.

He lines himself up, grips your thighs hard, and pushes in—a slow, thick stretch that knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Joel swears, low and dangerous.

“Every time,” he growls, bottoming out. “Every fuckin’ time you feel better than I remembered.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust—he starts moving, thrusting into you with sharp, desperate rolls of his hips, the table creaking beneath your weight.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs locking around his waist.

“Gonna get us caught,” he mutters, teeth grazing your jaw. “You that needy for me, baby? Can’t even wait till I get off work?”

“You didn’t stop me,” you pant.

He laughs—wrecked, breathless. “Didn’t fuckin’ want to.”

His rhythm picks up—fast, brutal, unforgiving. His hands grip your thighs, your hips, your waist—like he can’t decide which part of you he needs more.

Your back arches. The table groans again.

Joel leans in, mouth against your ear.

“Y’know what I was thinkin’ about all mornin’? That mirror. That look on your face when you came all over my fuckin’ tongue. Thought about it till I was fuckin’ hard in the damn truck.”

You moan, loud.

He clamps a hand over your mouth. “Shhh—don’t you dare.”

Your eyes flutter. He slams into you again.

“You wanna get caught? You want your daddy to come lookin’ for you and see me buried in his little fuckin’ girl like this?”

You whimper against his palm.

He growls.

“God, you do.”

He lets go of your mouth just long enough for you to moan his name.

Then he grabs your throat.

Gentle. Steady. But enough to make you whine.

“Mine,” he whispers. “Say it.”

You’re barely holding on. “Yours. I’m yours.”

Joel loses it.

He fucks you hard, fast, reckless—his breath ragged, forehead against yours. You come with a cry, clenching around him so tight it nearly brings him to his knees.

“Ah, god damnit—” he gasps, thrusting deep once, twice—

And then he comes.

It’s raw. Guttural. He groans into your neck like he’s falling apart.

You stay like that for a second—just breathing. Just shaking. Just trying to remember where you are.

Then—

“Hey!” Your dad’s voice cuts through the open air like a gunshot. “You see my daughter? She wander off again?”

Joel jerks back, eyes wide.

“Shit—”

He pulls out, tucks himself away fast, grabbing for a rag off the table to clean you up with. You’re still gasping when he yanks your panties back into place, helps straighten your shirt.

Footsteps. Closer.

Joel grabs your jaw, kisses you once—fast and rough.

“Act normal.”

Then he’s out the door.

You follow a second later, cheeks flushed, fingers shaking as you tuck your hair behind your ear. You can’t help the grin that threatens to pull at your lips, still feeling Joel’s.

Your dad’s already turning the corner.

“Where the hell’d you go?”

You smile. “Bathroom,” you lie. “You good?”

He nods, takes another bite of his sandwich.

Joel doesn’t look at you.

But you can feel him still.

Burning through every inch of your skin.

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It’s already dark when you grab your keys.

Not late—not quite—but the kind of dusk that hums with quiet. The heat’s still clinging to the windows, thick and sticky, and every room in the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

You check the mirror again.

One last time.

Hair loose, brushed soft over your shoulders. A sundress—low-cut, thin-strapped, clinging in the summer heat. You told yourself it was nothing special. Just enough to keep cool. But the way you keep tugging at the hem, the neckline, the way you keep glancing at your reflection like it might betray you—

Yeah. You know who you’re dressing for.

You slide on a light sweater anyway, just to be safe. Something to keep things modest enough for your dad to glance at you and not look twice.

He’s still on the couch when you step into the living room, one hand nursing a half-empty beer, eyes glazed from the TV. He doesn’t look up right away.

“Where you headed?” He asks, voice rough from too many years and not enough sleep.

You slip your keys into your pocket. “Lisa’s. Just for a bit. Movie night.”

He grunts. “You drivin’?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Her place is further out now. New apartment.”

He doesn’t question it. Just nods, eyes still on the screen. “Be smart. Don’t drive back too late.”

“I won’t.”

Your voice is sweet. Normal. The way it always is.

“Alright. Love you, kid.”

You give him a smile—one that doesn’t tremble—and head for the door. “Love you too.” You call out over your shoulder, willing your voice to stay neutral.

The porch creaks under your feet. The air outside is cooler than inside, but not by much. You walk fast across the gravel, sweater tight around your waist now, already feeling the sweat bloom at the nape of your neck.

Your car sits in the driveway. Engine still warm from earlier.

You slide in, shut the door soft and start the ignition.

And when you pull away, your fingers are already shaking on the wheel.

Not from nerves. Not exactly.

From want. From anticipation. From knowing exactly where you’re headed.

There’s no Lisa. No movie night.

Just a field about fifteen minutes out past the highway, where Joel’s waiting in the back of his pickup, cooler packed, blankets laid out in the bed, headlights off.

No one for miles.

Just stars.

You park a little ways down the road from the pickup, engine ticking as it cools beneath the hood. Lights off. Windows cracked. The air outside hums with cicadas and the faint rush of night wind, warm against your bare skin where the hem of your sundress brushes your knees. You tug the cardigan tighter around your shoulders, heart beating too loud in your chest.

He’s already there.

You see the outline of his truck up ahead—just beyond the bend where the woods break open into a patch of field, stars spilling wide across the sky like they’ve been waiting all day just for this.

You sit for a second. Breathing.

It’s been weeks.

Too many hours spent pretending not to care. Dodging glances at family dinners. Playing dumb every time your dad mentioned him in passing. And now—you’re here. Heart caught in your throat. Thighs already pressed a little too tight together.

You grab your bag from the passenger seat. Slam the door quieter than you mean to.

Your sandals kick up dust along the roadside, gravel whispering beneath your steps. The sweater hangs off one shoulder. The sundress sways with every movement. And even though you’re alone, even though there’s no one to see—you feel watched.

Anticipated.

The moment you round the front of his truck, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Joel stands just behind it, leaning one shoulder against the frame. T-shirt stretched across his chest. Jeans slung low on his hips. Hair a little messy, like he ran his hands through it too many times waiting for you. His eyes catch the light from the dash and flash warm. Familiar. Wanting.

His mouth curves slow.

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your stomach drops. That voice. That look. That fucking pet name. It never fails—it gets you every time.

You smile, soft and breathless. “Hi.”

Joel watches you walk the last few steps like he’s soaking it in. Like you’re something he’s starved for. His gaze drags down over the dress, the sweater sliding off your shoulder, the bare stretch of thigh, the faint pink polish on your toes.

“You look…” he trails off, shaking his head. Doesn’t finish the thought.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“What?” You murmur, tipping your head.

He just looks at you.

And then—he sighs, stepping forward to wrap both arms around your waist, dragging you in against him like he doesn’t trust himself not to fall apart.

“Missed you,” he says into your hair. Quiet. Hoarse.

Your hands slide up his chest. You nod into his shoulder. “I missed you too.”

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your arms, over the sides of your waist, grounding himself.

Then he gestures toward the back of the truck. “Come on. Brought a blanket.”

You climb into the bed of the truck with him, the old metal groaning beneath your weight. It’s already spread out—a thick old quilt, fraying at the edges, familiar from a dozen other nights you weren’t supposed to share.

You sit cross-legged, facing the field. He sits beside you, knee brushing yours.

There’s no rush.

The stars stretch wide overhead, sharp and endless. The wind moves through the tall grass like it’s whispering secrets you’re not meant to hear. Everything smells like earth and woodsmoke and a hint of his aftershave.

He reaches for your hand.

You give it to him.

His thumb rubs slow along your knuckles, rough calluses dragging over soft skin. He doesn’t say anything for a while—just looks out at the dark. Like the silence is safer than whatever he’s feeling.

You lean your head on his shoulder.

He lets you. Presses a kiss into your hair.

Then—quiet, steady, honest—

“I think about you all the time.”

Your breath hitches. You sit up, just enough to look at him.

His jaw is tight. His brows pulled. Like it hurt to say. Like it hurts more to mean it. “I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “But I can’t stop.”

Your heart breaks a little.

Because it is fucked up. And neither of you have ever pretended otherwise. But this—this moment, this night, this feeling—it’s real. It’s been real.

“I think about you too,” you whisper.

He turns toward you then. Cupping your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing your jaw. His eyes search your face, like he’s looking for something he lost.

And then—barely audible, barely real— “I love you.”

You freeze.

Not from fear. Not from regret. But from how deeply it lands. How fast it settles into your bones.

Your lips part. You blink.

And you say it back.

Not loud. Not sure. But true.

“I love you too.”

Joel closes his eyes like he’s in pain. Pulls you in. Kisses you.

Slow. Reverent. Like he’s praying.

And when he lays you down on the blanket beneath the stars—he takes his time.

The quilt scratches softly beneath your spine, the summer air curling around your skin, and Joel’s body hovering above yours feels too heavy and too perfect all at once. His palm braces beside your head, the other smoothing along your thigh, pushing the fabric of your sundress higher until it bunches at your waist.

He’s already looking at you like he’s trying to memorize everything. Like the moment’s too big, too fragile to rush.

You reach for him—one hand curling around his wrist, the other brushing along the side of his neck, feeling the soft bristle of his beard beneath your palm.

Joel bends down slowly and kisses you again.

It’s different now.

Not just slow. Not just sweet. But intentional. Like every touch is something he means. Something he’s been waiting to give you.

When he pulls back, your lips are kiss-wet and parted, your breath catching as his fingers slide up beneath the hem of your dress, dragging the cotton-soft fabric higher until it’s no longer in the way. His touch lingers on the inside of your thigh—just enough to make you whimper.

“You sure?” He asks softly, voice low and rasping.

You nod, eyes wide.

But he doesn’t move—not until you say it.

“Please,” you whisper, so soft it barely makes it past your lips. “I want you.”

Joel exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days.

His hand shifts, fingertips brushing between your legs, finding you already soaked. He groans low in his throat, almost reverent.

“Goddamn.”

He sinks two fingers into you, slow and careful, watching your face. You gasp, your back arching, thighs twitching. His thumb brushes your clit once—light as a whisper—and you nearly come undone already.

“You’re so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, leaning in to press kisses down the side of your neck. “Didn’t even have to work for it, did I?”

You shake your head, panting. “Wanted you all day.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow and deep, curling them just right. “Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Tighter. “Thought about me?”

“All the time,” you breathe. “Joel—please—”

“Alright,” he says, kissing your cheek, your temple, your jaw. “Okay. I got you.”

He pulls his hand away just long enough to unbutton his jeans, shove them down past his hips. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already dripping for you. You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes still locked on your face.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs. “Laid out for me. Dress bunched up, legs spread, beggin’ for it.”

“Joel,” you gasp, squirming. “Please. I want you—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know. Gonna give it to you.”

He lines himself up, the head of his cock slipping through your slick folds, and he groans when he feels how wet you are—how ready.

Then—slowly—he pushes in.

You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he sinks deeper. It’s overwhelming—the stretch, the fullness, the intimacy of it.

Joel’s head drops to your shoulder. “Fuck—you’re so perfect—”

He doesn’t thrust. Not yet. Just stays there, buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, your breaths syncing in the heavy silence.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, your hands clinging to his shoulders, nails digging in.

Joel moves then.

Slow. Deep.

His hips roll into yours like waves—long, dragging strokes that have you gasping into the night air. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, every movement laced with something tender and breaking.

You whimper, arching into him. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

“Not gonna,” he pants, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “Not stoppin’—not ever.”

You come with a sob.

It builds like a storm, low and tight and aching—and then it snaps. Your body seizes around him, thighs squeezing, fingers clawing at his back. You cry out his name, helpless and wrecked, trembling beneath him.

Joel curses, barely holding on. “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—so good for me—so fuckin’ good—”

And then he’s chasing his own release, hips stuttering, breath hitching in your ear.

You feel it when he comes.

The way his whole body tenses. The way his arms tighten around you like he’s afraid to let go. The soft, broken sounds he makes into your hair—like he’s praying and falling apart all at once.

When it’s over, he doesn’t move. Just stays pressed against you, his cock still inside, one hand cradling the back of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

You kiss his shoulder. Whisper against his skin.

“I love you.”

Joel’s eyes are closed, his face tucked into your hair. “I love you too, baby.”

The stars stretch quiet and endless above you, the warm breeze rustling the grass around the truck bed.

And for once, neither of you say anything else.

Because you don’t need to.

You lie on your side, one leg slung over his, the weight of your body still settling from what just happened.

Joel’s hand rests on your thigh. His thumb moves slow, back and forth, the barest touch, like if he lets go you might vanish.

Neither of you have spoken in minutes.

Not since you curled into him, still trembling, breath catching from the last wave that rolled through you. Not since his lips brushed your hairline and stayed there, unmoving, like maybe he was afraid of what would slip out if he opened his mouth.

The night stretches wide above you—quiet, open, endless. The stars are the only witnesses.

You draw in a slow breath. The truck smells like him. Sweat and soap and heat.

“I hate this part,” you whisper finally.

Joel doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows.

“This is the part where everything starts to feel too real,” you murmur. “And then it gets quiet. And then I start thinking.”

He hums low in his throat, almost like a warning. “Don’t do that.”

“I have to,” you say. “One of us has to.”

Joel shifts beside you, the mattress rustling under his weight. He’s still not looking at you. “We’ve already talked about it.”

You blink up at the stars, throat tightening. “We said we’d wait. We never said when.”

“Back then it was still a maybe,” he says quietly. “Now it’s not.”

There’s a pause. Long. Heavy.

His hand is still moving on your thigh.

You swallow. “I don’t know how to tell him.”

Joel’s voice comes quieter than before. “You think I do?”

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. Not mocking. Just… understanding. “Me too.”

You press your face into his shoulder for a second. Breathe him in. Let your fingers drift across the inside of his forearm, the soft patch of skin that always feels too intimate to touch.

“I keep thinking about how it’ll sound,” you whisper. “Like—‘Hey, Dad, you remember your best friend? The one you’ve worked with for twenty years? Yeah, I’ve been sneaking around with him for months. He makes me scream his name and then drives me home like nothing happened.’”

Joel flinches. Not visibly—but you feel it, in the way his stomach tightens beneath your hand.

“I don’t feel proud of it,” you murmur. “Even though I… I care about you.”

Joel finally turns toward you then. Really turns. His hand stills on your leg.

“I never wanted you to feel ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed,” you say quickly. Too quickly. “I just—this isn’t what I expected.”

His brow pulls. “You mean us?”

You shake your head. “I mean how much it hurts.”

Joel doesn’t respond. He just watches you. Quiet. Intense. Like he’s trying to memorize every word without letting it show.

You trace a small circle against his arm. “You were supposed to be the one I couldn’t have. You know that?”

He exhales through his nose. “I was the one you couldn’t have.”

“And now I do,” you say softly.

Joel shifts. His hand slides from your thigh to your waist, curling there. Holding. Steady. He leans in until his forehead brushes yours.

“You don’t just have me,” he says quietly. “I’m yours.”

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

It’s been a few weeks since that night in the truck.

Since the stars and the slow touches and the whispered I love yous that neither of you could take back—even if you wanted to.

And you don’t. Not even a little.

Things haven’t cooled off since then. If anything, they’ve deepened—evolved into something even more dangerous. Even more fragile. You see him more now. More than ever. Little excuses. Stolen afternoons. Late-night drives that last until morning. Joel’s been sweet, too—so much sweeter than anyone would guess. Like saying it out loud cracked something open in him. Something he’d been holding back for a long, long time.

It’s made the hiding worse.

Harder.

And tonight… tonight will be the last time.

You’re standing in the doorway, sweater slung over one arm, keys dangling from your fingers. The sun’s dipping low, the light slanting soft through the living room windows. Your dad’s on the couch, half-watching a ballgame, a soda sweating in his hand.

“Hey, I’m headed out,” you say, casual.

He turns his head. “Another night with the girls?”

“Yeah,” you lie smoothly. “We’re doing that stupid wine and paint thing. Someone’s gonna end up crying over a sunflower again.”

Your dad huffs a laugh. “Sounds tragic.”

You grin. Shrug your sweater on.

But his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. Not suspicious—just soft. Curious. Thoughtful.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he says. “Smilin’ more, too.”

You pause in the act of tucking your phone into your bag. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” he says quickly. “Hell no. It’s a good thing. Just…” He tips his head a little. “What’s got you so happy these days?”

You freeze.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t notice—or at least he pretends not to. He takes another drink, smiles around the rim of the can.

“It a boy?” He teases gently. “Someone new?”

You laugh. It sounds almost normal. “What makes you think that?”

He shrugs. “You’ve got that look. That… light. Whoever he is, he must be a good one if he’s put it there.”

Your chest aches.

Your fingers tighten around your keys.

He doesn’t know. Not yet.

You step toward the door and force a smile over your shoulder. “Yeah. He’s a good one.”

You wave once before slipping into the driver’s seat, shutting the door quick, before he can see your hands shaking.

You sit for a second. Just breathe.

Then you pull out of the driveway and head down the road, stomach fluttering like it always does when you’re about to see him.

It’s not the first time you’ve pulled into Joel’s driveway.

The gravel crunches beneath your tires the same way it always does. The porch light glows soft and golden in the fading dusk, casting long shadows over the steps you’ve memorized by heart. You park behind his truck, cut the engine, and sit for just a moment—fingers loose on the steering wheel, stomach fluttering.

You’ve been here before. Countless times now. But tonight feels different.

Because it’s the last time you get to come here like this—sneaking away under a lie, knowing he’s waiting behind the door with that look in his eyes and his shoulders already easing the moment he sees you.

You step out, the hem of your sundress catching on the breeze, the sweater sleeves bunched at your elbows. Your shoes scuff against the walk as you make your way to the porch, and before your hand can even reach the door—

It opens.

“Hi, darlin’.”

He says it soft. Like a prayer. Like the sound of you on the gravel was enough to pull him out of the living room.

Your breath catches. Joel’s leaning in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. He looks like he’s been pacing. His hair’s a little tousled, like he’s been running his hand through it. There’s a crease in his brow that only softens when his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile—not fully—but there’s something close to it. Something warm. His eyes flick over you, quick and reverent. Sweater. Dress. Bare legs. Familiar.

But the way he looks at you? That part still makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” you say, breathless.

He steps back without a word, just enough to let you inside.

The door clicks softly behind you. The quiet of his house wraps around you like a blanket—low hum of the fridge, scent of laundry and sawdust and the faintest trace of his cologne still lingering in the air.

You drop your keys into the little dish by the door. Joel’s watching you like he always does—silent, heavy-lidded, like he’s drinking you in. Like he’s already wondering how he’s supposed to let this part go.

“You nervous?” You ask.

He huffs a breath, steps closer. “A little.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours like they’re meant to be there. His grip is warm. Steady.

Then finally, he murmurs, “Feels like this might be the last time it’s just us.”

You look up at him. “It won’t be.”

But even as you say it, your voice wavers.

Joel exhales through his nose. His thumb drags across your knuckles.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what your dad’s gonna say,” he mutters. “What he’s gonna do.”

You nod. “I know.”

His eyes find yours again—tired, worried, but still so soft.

“You still wanna tell him?” He asks.

You hesitate. Not because the answer isn’t yes. But because yes is terrifying.

And you both know it.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice quiet. “I do.”

Joel pulls you in slowly, arms sliding around your waist, his chin resting against the top of your head. The beat of his heart is steady beneath your cheek. Familiar. Safe.

“We’ll tell him together,” he says.

You close your eyes.

And hold on tight.

⁂

Joel makes dinner.

You offer to help—more than once—but he waves you off with a quiet go sit down, sweetheart, and the kind of stern look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. So you perch at his kitchen table instead, sweater sleeves tugged over your hands, watching him move around the small space like he’s done it a thousand times.

He’s good at it. Fast. Focused. Efficient without being rushed.

He cooks the same way he does everything else—with purpose. With care.

Chicken and vegetables. Roasted potatoes. Garlic bread that fills the kitchen with the warm, buttery smell of something that feels suspiciously close to home. He doesn’t talk much while he works, but you can tell he’s nervous by the way he wipes his hands on the same dishtowel over and over again, the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

When he finally sets the plate down in front of you, you laugh under your breath.

“What?” He grunts.

“This looks incredible,” you murmur. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Joel shrugs. “Wanted to.”

You both eat quietly for a while. There’s music playing softly from the old speaker in the corner—something with strings, low and meandering. Every now and then your knees bump under the table, and neither of you pulls away.

He watches you when you take your last bite. Quiet and full of something like pride. Or awe. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.

And when he clears the plates and turns back toward you, his expression shifts.

It’s subtle. But you know that look–you know what comes next.

The shower is steam and skin and whispered promises.

You laugh when he pulls you in, still half-dressed, your sweater hitting the floor before the bathroom door even clicks shut. His hands are slow on your skin, warm beneath the spray, and everything feels both too fast and too soft—like you’re holding onto something fleeting. Like the world might shift the moment you step out of this room.

His mouth finds your shoulder. Your neck. Lower.

You gasp.

He groans.

But this time—it doesn’t go further. It stays slow. Gentle. The kind of touch that says I love you without needing to say anything at all.

Later, when you’re curled beneath the sheets, your head tucked against his chest and his arm slung heavy over your waist, you feel the weight of it settle in your chest.

Hope.

Fear.

Everything in between.

Joel kisses your hair and doesn’t say a word.

You fall asleep with your fingers curled in his shirt and the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.

⁂

The sun is barely up when you wake.

Your clothes are folded at the foot of the bed. Joel’s already up, padding around the kitchen in quiet half-steps, trying not to make too much noise. You sit on the edge of the mattress, staring down at your hands. Everything in your body feels slow. Floaty. Like you’re walking through someone else’s dream.

This is it.

You dress in silence. Joel helps you with your sweater like it’s a ceremony. And then you both stand in the doorway, keys in hand, looking at each other like there’s too much left unsaid.

“You sure?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel reaches for your hand. Holds it just long enough to make your chest ache.

Then you both step outside.

Together.

The walk to the house is slow.

You’d driven separately, like always. Parked down the street like always. But this morning—there’s no space between you. Joel walks close. His hand brushes yours once, then again, until you finally lace your fingers through his and hold tight.

You both know you shouldn’t be touching.

Not here. Not now.

But it’s your last chance to do this before everything changes, and you can’t let go. Not when your chest is aching. Not when your palms are sweating. Not when every step feels heavier than the one before it.

Joel’s quiet beside you.

His face is set. Determined. But the muscle in his jaw ticks, and he keeps flexing his free hand like he can’t stop fidgeting. Like if he doesn’t move, he’ll explode.

When you reach the porch, you both pause.

The house is still. Quiet. You hear the creak of a chair on the back deck, the faint clink of a mug being set down. Your dad’s up. Probably halfway through his first coffee. Probably has no idea his entire world is about to tilt sideways.

You glance up at Joel.

He’s looking straight ahead. His jaw clenches.

You squeeze his hand. “You sure?”

His eyes drop to yours—warm, steady, terrified.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. Swallow hard. And knock.

Your dad answers the door with a smile already forming—slow and a little tired, like it’s too early for anything heavy. He’s barefoot, still in his T-shirt and sleep pants, a mug of coffee in one hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm.

His eyes flick between you and Joel. The smile falters, just a hair.

“Joel?” He says, blinking. Then back to you. “You’re with her?”

Joel nods once. Quiet. “Hey, Mike.”

Your dad hesitates—but only for a breath. Then he steps back slowly, still watching the two of you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with only half the pieces. He waves you in anyway.

“Come on in. Coffee’s fresh.”

The door clicks shut behind you with a final-sounding thud.

You follow him inside, every footstep sounding louder than it should. Joel stays close behind, his hand brushing yours like he can’t help it—even now, even here. You don’t look at him. Not yet.

You step into the living room like it’s the last time you’ll ever see it exactly this way—unchanged, safe, familiar. The couch you grew up on. The crooked photos in the hall. The faint scent of laundry detergent and leftover coffee and something warmer you can’t name.

Joel hovers behind you, quiet. Not fidgeting, not nervous—but held still by something heavier. He hasn’t said a word.

Your dad moves into the kitchen, setting his mug down with a clink before turning slightly, watching the two of you over his shoulder.

“You two carpoolin’ now or somethin’?” he asks, trying for light, but there’s a thread of confusion woven through it.

You can’t lie. Not today.

You shake your head once. “We came to talk.”

That gets his attention.

He straightens, blinking at you both like he’s waiting for the punchline. “Everything okay?”

Joel’s voice is quiet. Steady. “We just need a few minutes of your time.”

Your dad narrows his eyes—not angry, not yet. Just… off-balance. Guarded. “Alright…” He jerks his chin toward the living room. “Let’s sit.”

He walks first. You follow second. Joel follows last.

Already, you feel it—that subtle shift in the air. Like the house knows something you haven’t said yet. Like the walls are listening.

He shuffles toward the kitchen again, calling over his shoulder as he moves, “You guys eat yet?”

You glance at Joel—at the man who still hasn’t said a word since you stepped inside—and then call out, “We’re good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Suit yourselves.”

He’s humming now. Something soft and tuneless. You hear the cabinet open, the scrape of his mug being set down again, the clink of the coffee pot. Everything is so normal. So painfully, dreadfully normal.

Joel shifts beside you, leans close enough to murmur, “You wanna wait, or…?”

Your stomach flips.

“No,” you whisper. “We tell him. Just… let him sit down first.”

Joel gives a tight nod, his fingers brushing yours again, quick and fleeting.

Your dad returns a minute later, fresh coffee in hand, newspaper folded beneath his arm. He sinks into his usual chair—the one that groans under his weight, the one no one else dares sit in—and leans back with a sigh.

He looks at you first.

Then Joel.

Then back again.

“What’s got you both lookin’ like you just ran over somebody’s dog?”

You try to laugh. It comes out too sharp, too thin.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s goin’ on?”

Then his face hardens—not with understanding, but with something more hesitant. More off.

“Didn’t think you two spent much time together,” he says slowly. His voice is still casual, but there’s something behind it now—something cautious. “Figured it was one of your friends makin’ you sneak out all the time.”

He chuckles once. It’s dry. Strained. “Sure as hell didn’t think it was Joel.”

Silence.

Thick. Heavy. Choking.

Your dad’s eyes narrow just slightly. He looks at Joel now—really looks at him. And you can see the pieces beginning to shift behind his eyes. One by one. Every memory. Every absence. Every little thing he didn’t question before.

He laughs again. But it’s empty this time.

“No,” he says flatly. “No, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Dad—”

“No.” His voice is louder now. Sharper. “You’re tellin’ me this’s been goin’ on behind my back? You and him?”

You flinch. Joel stays still. Tense. Silent.

Your father stands, coffee forgotten on the side table, paper sliding off his lap.

“You’ve been lyin’ to me. Both of you.” He looks at Joel, betrayal breaking clean across his face. “You were supposed to be my friend.”

You open your mouth. Try to speak.

But Joel steps in first—just a little. Not enough to crowd. Not enough to scare.

But enough to stand beside you. Steady. Certain. “Mike,” he says, low and careful. “Let us explain.”

Your dad stares at Joel like he doesn’t recognize him. Like the man standing in front of him—the one he’s known for years, trusted with goddamn everything—is a stranger wearing Joel’s face.

“Explain?” He repeats, voice low and tight. “You want to explain?”

Joel doesn’t flinch. “We didn’t plan it this way.”

“Plan it?” Your dad’s voice breaks, somewhere between disbelief and rising anger. “Jesus Christ, Joel, she’s my daughter. You think that justifies it? That you didn’t plan it?”

You step forward, heart pounding. “It’s not what you think—”

He cuts his hand through the air, eyes blazing. “Don’t. Don’t tell me this is anything but betrayal. From both of you.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”

Your dad rounds on him. “Then how was it? Huh?” His voice is raw now, sharp. “You just woke up one day and thought, yeah, let me fuck around with Mike’s daughter behind his back? Sneak around like some goddamn teenager?”

“Hey.” Joel’s voice finally cracks through, firmer. “That’s not what this is. I care about her. You know I do.”

Your dad laughs once. Bitter. Disbelieving. “You care? That’s what you’re going with?”

You can barely breathe. You feel the shame hot on your skin, the panic twisting deep in your chest.

“Dad, please—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “You think this doesn’t gut me? You think I don’t sit here feelin’ like an idiot? My best friend and my kid—”

Joel steps forward, tone even. “I would never hurt her, and I sure as hell don’t wanna hurt you.”

“That’s the fuckin’ point, Joel!” Your dad yells. “You already did! You both did.”

Silence falls—heavy and vibrating with tension.

Your dad turns his back. Paces. Runs a hand through his hair. And then, quieter, voice cracking: “I trusted you. Both of you.”

Joel doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

You do.

You step forward, voice soft but steady. “It wasn’t meant to happen like this. But it’s not a fling. It’s not a mistake. I love him.”

Your dad’s shoulders tighten.

Joel breathes in deep, like the words settle in his bones.

And when your dad turns again, there’s no disbelief left—just hurt. Real and bare. “I need some time,” he says finally. “I need you both to go.”

The words hang in the air like smoke.

I need you both to go.

You freeze, mouth half open. “Dad—”

“Go.”

He doesn’t yell this time. Doesn’t bark or snap. But it’s worse that way. Worse because it’s flat. Final. Said with the kind of hollow certainty that doesn’t need to be loud to be devastating.

Joel shifts beside you. “Mike…”

Your dad doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t look at either of you.

He stares at a spot just left of the couch, like if he keeps his eyes on anything else—anything but you—he might be able to keep from breaking.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

And for a second—just a breath—you almost fight. Almost tell him that you’re not a child anymore, that you don’t need permission to feel the way you do. That you’re happy, maybe for the first time in your life.

But you don’t.

Because he’s still your dad.

Because he’s right.

You lied to him. Both of you did.

Joel’s voice is quiet when he says, “Come on.”

You don’t look back as you follow him to the door. Your feet feel numb. Your heart feels worse.

The silence stretches behind you like a wound.

You step onto the porch. Joel shuts the door gently behind you, like closing it soft might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

Not even close.

The morning air is too bright, too clean. The world feels wrong in the way it keeps moving—birds singing, cars passing on the street, nothing stopping just because your chest feels split wide open.

Joel walks you to the truck, but he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

Once you’re inside, seatbelt fastened with shaking hands, he exhales slowly—like he’s been holding his breath since the moment your dad opened the door.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Your voice is small. Barely there. “I shouldn’t have—”

Joel cuts you off, not harsh, just firm.

“No,” he says. “Don’t.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

He’s pale. Sweating. His hand trembles faintly against the steering wheel like it hurts to keep still. But his jaw is set. His eyes are dark with something deeper than guilt.

“He’ll come around,” Joel murmurs, though you can’t tell if he believes it or if he just needs you to.

You nod. Because you have to.

Because the only thing worse than what just happened… is the thought that it could undo all of this.

━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━━━━━━✵━

The first two weeks were good.

Not perfect. Not easy. But good in a way that made you start to believe maybe it could last.

You stayed with Joel. Slept in his bed, wore his old shirts, woke up with his hand already on your waist like his body didn’t know how to let go. He made you coffee every morning, cooked dinner every night—real meals, too. Not just quick shit. The man slow-roasted vegetables. Seared steak like he’d been born doing it. He kissed your shoulder while you washed your hair. Held your hand on the couch. Smiled more.

It wasn’t always soft—sometimes it was messy, sometimes quiet—but he tried. Harder than he ever had before. Like he was making up for all the time you’d spent hiding. All the guilt. All the fear. You could feel him working at it, even when he didn’t say much.

And for a while, it worked.

You laughed. Ate better. Stopped checking your phone every time it buzzed, afraid it was your dad, saying the worst had finally come.

But then Joel started to pull away.

It was subtle at first. Long pauses between conversations. Nights where he’d sit out on the porch too long with a beer, staring at nothing. You’d touch his arm and he’d flinch—not away from you, but like he was startled. Like he’d forgotten you were there. Like he’d been somewhere else entirely.

When you asked what was wrong, he said nothing.

When you asked again, he kissed you too hard and pressed you into the mattress like he could convince you with his body instead of his words.

You should’ve known.

He picked the fight the next morning.

Over something small—something about the dishes, maybe, or you staying past the weekend. Something dumb enough that you almost laughed. But Joel didn’t laugh. He didn’t even look at you. Just stood by the kitchen counter with his jaw clenched, arms crossed, saying words that didn’t sound like his.

He said maybe you should take a break.

Said maybe you needed time to patch things up with your dad.

Said maybe he’d made a mistake.

But you saw it—clear as day. In his face. In the way he stood like he was bracing for something awful. He was lying. Not about how he felt—but about why. He thought pushing you away would fix it. That if you hated him, maybe your dad would forgive you. Maybe things could go back to normal.

So you left.

Packed what little you had, still crying, too angry to speak. Joel didn’t stop you. Didn’t follow you. Just stood there with his hands in his pockets, watching the door like it was some punishment he deserved.

You went home.

Your dad didn’t ask questions when he opened the door. Didn’t yell, didn’t gloat. Just stepped aside and let you in. You walked past him, dropped your bag in the hallway, and shut yourself in your room without a word.

He didn’t come in. Not that night. Not the next one either.

He let you stay.

That was all.

⁂

Time passed.

Not quickly. Not gently. But it passed.

You stopped texting Joel. Stopped checking to see if he had texted you back. At first out of pride. Then out of pain. Then because you couldn’t bring yourself to open the thread. Couldn’t stand to see his name sitting there, untouched, like a bruise you kept pressing just to prove it still hurt.

Your dad didn’t bring him up. Not once. Not even when you passed each other in the hallway. Not when he made dinner for two but only ate one plate. Not when you sat beside him on the couch but didn’t speak, didn’t laugh, didn’t look like the daughter he knew.

He didn’t ask if you were okay, but he also didn’t ignore it.

Not really.

He started to notice things.

The way you didn’t go out anymore. Didn’t see your friends. The way you pushed food around on your plate and took your dishes to the sink half-full. How you stayed curled up on the couch long after the TV had gone dark, long after he’d gone to bed.

He noticed the crying, too.

You tried to be quiet. Covered your mouth, turned your face into the pillow. But the walls weren’t that thick. And the silence between you had become a living thing—heavy, breathing, always listening.

One night, he stopped in the hallway. You didn’t hear him at first—just felt the way the floorboards creaked under his weight, how the air shifted near your door. He didn’t knock. Didn’t open it.

But he stood there for a long time.

Just stood there, while you bit your lip and let the tears roll silently down your cheek, hoping the weight of him outside the room meant something was still left between you. That he still cared. That maybe he just didn’t know how to fix it.

Neither did you.

⁂

It starts small, deliberate.

A mug set down beside yours at the table. A fork pushed toward you with a quiet, “Eat.”

He doesn’t say much at first. Doesn’t press.

You pick at your food like always—slow, mechanical, dragging your fork through syrup that’s already gone cold. He watches you across the table, hands wrapped around his own mug like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

“I was thinkin’ about takin’ the boat out this weekend,” he says casually, eyes on his coffee. “Could use the company. Not as fun drinkin’ beer alone on the water.”

You don’t look up. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t push–just nods. Swallows it down.

The silence stretches. Long and uncomfortable. You stare at your plate like it might swallow you back if you sit still long enough.

Then he tries again. “You sleep okay?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. You both know it. But he nods anyway, pretending to accept it—pretending he didn’t hear you crying last night. Or the night before that. Or every night since.

“You been talkin’ to anyone?” He asks gently. “Your friends? That girl with the red Jeep—what’s her name?”

“Jess.”

“Yeah. Jess.”

You shake your head. “Haven’t really felt like it.”

Your dad shifts in his chair. Rubs a hand over his jaw. Looks older today. Tired. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You finally glance up.

The look in his eyes nearly breaks you. Not angry. Not disappointed.

Just… lost.

“I’m fine,” you say. It comes out flat. Unconvincing, but he nods anyway.

“Alright.”

He doesn’t believe you. He’s trying not to let it show. Trying to reach you without making you run.

But when he stands to clear the plates, you see the weight in his shoulders. The way he pauses at the sink—quiet, thoughtful—like he’s already halfway to making a decision he hasn’t told you about yet.

⁂

You’re outside when it happens.

Wrapped in a sweatshirt too big for you—one that still smells like sawdust and cedar and Joel’s damn soap. You shouldn’t be wearing it. Should’ve stuffed it in the bottom of your drawer the moment he left. But it’s the only thing that’s felt warm these past few weeks, the only thing that hasn’t asked you to explain.

You’re curled up in the corner of the porch swing, knees tucked into your chest, eyes unfocused as the late afternoon light drapes gold across the yard.

You don’t hear the truck. Don’t notice the front door open, or the footsteps across the porch boards. Not until—

“Hi, darlin’.”

Your heart stutters.

You look up too fast.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jeans, boots scuffed like he never stopped moving after that night. There’s a hollow behind his eyes. His face is drawn, unshaven. He looks like he hasn’t been sleeping either.

Like he hasn’t been breathing right without you.

You don’t speak.

The porch swing groans beneath your weight, the night air thick with humidity and the distant hum of crickets. You keep your legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around your knees, drowning in the oversized, faded navy sweatshirt that was soft from too many washes.

Joel sits beside you. Not too close. Not far either. Elbows on his knees, hands clenched, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Neither of you says anything.

The silence stretches. Long. Awkward. Familiar in the worst kind of way.

You keep your eyes forward. On the edge of the yard. On the dark tree line beyond it. On anything but him.

He doesn’t look at you either.

And still—you feel him. The weight of him next to you. The guilt rolling off his shoulders like smoke.

You break first.

“You didn’t even fight me on it.”

Your voice is quiet. Flat.

Joel’s jaw flexes.

“You made me think you didn’t care.”

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

Didn’t have to. You can feel the ache moving through him, the same ache that’s been living in your chest since that night. The one that cracked open when he raised his voice. When he said maybe you should go. When he didn’t come after you once you turned your back.

Joel’s voice is low when he finally speaks. Rough. Like it costs him.

“I thought it’d be better for you.”

You laugh. Bitter and tired. “You thought pushing me out would help?”

“I thought maybe if I was the one to break it,” he says, eyes still on the floorboards, “maybe you and your dad could put it back together.”

That’s what shatters you.

Not the fight. Not even the silence after.

But that.

Because even now—even now—he’s still trying to save you from the mess he made.

You blink hard.

“Joel—”

He cuts you off gently. Finally meets your eyes. “I’m sorry, darlin’.”

The words aren’t pretty. Not dressed up. Just true.

And they ruin you.

⁂

Your dad doesn’t say much at first.

Not after Joel showed up that night, standing on the porch like the weight of the world had finally broken him down. Not after you folded the second he said “Hi, darlin’”—barely more than a whisper—and collapsed into his arms right there on the steps. Not after he sat beside you without speaking, just staying, like that was the only way he knew how to ask for forgiveness.

And not after your dad let him.

Because he didn’t say much then, either.

Now, days later, the worst of it has passed—but only in the way a storm moves through. There’s still water pooled in the aftermath. Still wreckage in the corners.

You’re already on the porch when your dad steps outside. The sun’s low, brushing amber against the grass, and the old hoodie hanging from your frame is one of Joel’s—left behind in a moment of weakness or maybe given on purpose. You haven’t taken it off.

He settles next to you with a quiet groan, the boards creaking under his weight. There’s a pause. He doesn’t speak, just exhales hard through his nose, like he’s been carrying something for too long and still doesn’t know how to set it down.

Then he says, not looking at you, not even really to you—just out into the yard:

“Y’know I was gonna ask him to help with that busted drawer again this week.”

Your heart jumps.

He doesn’t need to say Joel’s name. Doesn’t need to explain who him is. The meaning is already in the silence between his words.

He taps his thumb against his coffee mug. “Could still use the help.”

You don’t answer right away. Don’t even know if he’s really saying it to you. But your hands are clenched around your knees, and you can feel the pulse rising to your throat.

So you just nod. Barely.

Your dad shifts beside you, takes a sip, then mutters, “He looked like shit when he showed up.”

You let out a breath. Almost a laugh. “He wasn’t the only one.”

“Yeah,” he says, almost softer than the breeze. “I know.”

For a while, you just sit there. No big resolution. No sweeping, emotional reunion. But something loosens in your chest, anyway. Something tired and hopeful and trying.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it’s a start.

[jose996c]

A Flame in the Cold

Summery: In a post-apocalyptic world, you’ve always kept your distance—tough, independent, and untouched. As a patrol scout in Jackson, you’ve never allowed yourself to be vulnerable. But when a storm traps you and Joel Miller in a cabin during a routine patrol, everything changes, and the walls you’ve both built begin to crack.

Warnings: Virginity, first time, post apocalypse, fluff, age-gap (reader is in her 30's), romance, smut, unprotected PIV, one shot, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving).

Paring: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word count: 4k

It’s been months like this. You and him. Patrol partners. The steady kind of quiet that grows into comfort. Or something close to it.

“Gonna be a storm,” he mutters, more to the trees than to you.

You glance at the sky. “You always say that.”

“‘Cause I’m always right.”

You snort, but there’s warmth under it. The kind that only comes from repetition — same trail, same partner, same rhythm. You’ve come to rely on it more than you should.

And maybe he has too.

You catch him watching you sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking. His gaze lingers too long when you roll up your sleeves, stretch your neck, wipe sweat from your brow. He always looks away first — jaw tight, hands flexing like he’s holding something back.

You pretend not to notice. But it’s harder now, this time, like you’re both waiting for something to shift.

The wind picks up fast — sharp and biting — and the sky darkens in a way that does feel different.

Joel stops at the ridge, eyes scanning the trees. “Cabin’s not far. We’ll wait it out.”

You nod. You know the place. Been there before. It’s small and cold and drafty, but it’s better than being caught in whiteout hell.

The snow comes down harder as you walk, stinging your face, settling on your hair. Joel’s shoulder brushes yours as you move in step, and neither of you pulls away. The cabin is a beacon in the white, a promise of warmth and shelter.

Inside, it’s not much better. The fireplace is cold, the room stale with the scent of unused space. But there’s a pile of firewood in the corner, a relic from before the world went to hell. Joel’s eyes light up with something like hope, and he says, “Looks like we can keep warm tonight.”

You help him get a fire going, the sound of crackling wood and the smell of smoke bringing a semblance of life to the cabin. The warmth spreads out, chasing the cold from your fingertips and toes. You sit across from each other, the flickering light playing over your faces.

You peel off your gloves, rubbing your hands together, feeling the heat seep into your skin. His eyes follow the movement, and you realize you’re shaking. He notices. “You cold?”

“A little,” you admit, looking away, focusing on the fire.

“You should warm up,” Joel says gruffly, his eyes not leaving your shivering hands. He reaches into his pack and pulls out a flask, uncaps it, and takes a swig. “Here.” He holds it out to you.

You look at it, then at him. The whiskey glints in the firelight, and the warmth of his hand is almost as inviting as the liquid inside. You take it and let the amber fire slide down your throat. It burns, but in a good way. The kind that thaws the ice you didn’t realize was there.

“Thanks,” you murmur, handing it back.

He takes a swig, and for a moment, you let the quiet settle around you, the whiskey warming your chest. The storm outside seems to crescendo with every beat of your heart.

After a while, the silence grows thick, and your mind drifts to places you’ve been avoiding. You shift in your seat, restless, your fingers absently tracing the edge of your mug. There’s something about tonight, the storm, the fire, the way the cabin is small and intimate. You’ve never really allowed yourself to acknowledge it before, but the feeling — the need — is undeniable now.

You glance at Joel, watching the fire with that far-off look in his eyes, his body still and rigid in that way he always gets when he’s lost in thought. You wonder if he’s thinking about it too. About how things have been different lately. About the way the tension between you has been growing, thicker with every shared patrol, every passing glance.

Your breath hitches. You need to say it. You can’t keep pretending this silence is all there is.

“Joel,” you say softly. His head turns toward you almost immediately, his expression guarded, but his eyes are sharper than usual. “I’m tired of being… alone.”

He stays quiet, watching you as if waiting for you to explain.

“I’ve never…” You pause, words stuck in your throat, but the warmth from the whiskey helps to loosen you up, helps to give you the courage you need. “I’ve never been with anyone. And I don’t want to keep pretending like I’m okay with it anymore.”

There’s a long silence. You see his jaw tighten, his hands flex slightly as if he’s holding something back. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you, and you can’t read him, not completely. But the air between you is heavy, charged. You can feel it now, more than ever. The space between you feels too small, the flickering firelight casting shadows that make everything seem too close, too real.

“I mean...” you continue, your voice a little shakier now, “I just—I don’t want to be like this anymore. Alone. I’ve been holding onto this for so long, and maybe it’s just the storm or... or maybe it’s just me, but I can’t keep pretending like it’s not there.”

Joel’s eyes soften slightly, his posture stiffening, like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t. Instead, he looks down at his hands, the flask still gripped between his fingers. His expression is conflicted, but you can see the desire there too, hidden behind that mask of control. And that’s what makes your heart race even harder — you can see it in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s trying to decide if he can let go.

You can’t keep holding back. Not anymore.

“I’m not asking for anything to change,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m just... telling you how I feel. I want to be with someone. You.”

Joel’s gaze flickers with something you can’t quite name. The flicker of recognition, of longing, that matches what you’ve been feeling all this time.

His voice is low when he speaks, rougher than before, but there’s no denying the desire there. “Are you sure? 'Cause once we step over this line, there ain't no going back.”

You nod, feeling the heat rush through you. You’re sure. You’re tired of being cautious, of keeping the wall between you both. You want this — you want him.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, stepping closer to him. Your heart is pounding in your chest, but there’s a calmness that settles over you as you close the distance between you. “I’ve been sure for a long time.”

Joel watches you, his eyes dark and full of something raw, something real. Slowly, he reaches for you, his hand warm against your cheek as he pulls you in. You don’t fight it. You let him, your lips meeting his in a kiss that starts slow, hesitant, but quickly deepens. It’s the first kiss you’ve had in years, and it’s everything you never knew you needed. It’s gentle but firm, a promise of warmth in a cold world.

The whiskey has left a sweet, smoky taste on your tongue, and you can feel his breath, feel his need, his hesitation. You want to tell him it’s okay, that you’re ready, but the words are lost in the kiss. Instead, you let your hands find his shoulders, gripping tight, as if to say you’re not going anywhere.

The kiss deepens, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, holding you closer. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, this desperation wrapped in tenderness, this fierce protection wrapped in desire. Joel’s other hand rests on your waist, his thumb tracing small circles that make you shiver. It’s not just the fire warming you now.

You pull away slightly, catching your breath. “I want this, Joel,” you murmur.

He searches your eyes, looking for the truth in your words, and when he finds it, his own eyes flicker with something that resembles relief. He leans in again, kissing you more urgently now, his hand sliding down to your hip, tugging you closer. The heat from his body is a stark contrast to the chill outside, and you find yourself craving more of it, more of him.

The fire crackles in the background, a gentle soundtrack to the storm outside. You let the warmth of his kiss spread through your body, let the whiskey warm your blood. His hands are steady, sure, as they explore you, as if he’s been waiting for this moment too. You realize you’re trembling, not just from the cold anymore, but from the anticipation, from the fear of what comes next.

Joel’s hands slide up your arms, leaving a trail of heat. His thumbs trace the line of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. His eyes are a storm of their own, full of unspoken things, full of questions. You nod, the smallest movement, but enough to tell him yes. Yes, you want this. Yes, you’re ready.

He takes your hand, leading you to the only bed in the cabin. It’s small and looks like it'll fall apart any moment, but for now it’ll have to do. You sit down, your heart racing, your breath coming in quick pants. He takes off his coat, then yours, laying them out like a barrier against the cold floorboards. He’s trying to be gentle, but his eyes are hungry.

When you move to unbuckle his belt, his hand stops you, his grip firm but gentle. “We don’t have to rush,” he says, his voice gruff. “It’s your first time. We’ll take it slow, make it good for you.”

Surprise flits through your eyes, and he sighs, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You don’t know much, do you?” His voice is softer now, and it makes your heart ache.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Let me show you,” Joel says, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room.

He sits beside you, his hands moving to your hips, his eyes never leaving yours. With a gentle nudge, he urges you to lay down, and you do, feeling the mattress dip under your weight. You watch as he unbuckles your boots setting them aside with care. Then, his calloused hands skate up your legs, unbuttoning your pants with a deliberate slowness that makes you squirm.

"Relax," Joel murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. He eases your pants off, leaving you in just your shirt, bra, and underwear. You're so cold you can feel your teeth chatter, but the heat from his body is a comfort. He leans over you, his hands framing your face, and kisses you again, deep and slow, until your tremors subside, and you melt into him.

His hands slide down your body, his eyes never leaving yours. You're hyperaware of every touch, every movement. His thumb traces the line of your panties, and with a gentle tug, Joel pulls your underwear down, exposing you to the warmth of the cabin. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, and for a moment, you feel self-conscious. But then his mouth is on yours again, reassuring, as his hand moves between your legs. He’s so gentle, his fingers exploring, pressing, until you’re gasping into his mouth.

You feel his breath on your skin as he kisses his way down, his eyes never leaving yours, like he’s asking for permission with every touch. And when his mouth finally meets your core, you realize what he meant. Your eyes roll back in your head as pleasure blooms through you, and you grip the blanket tightly.

The storm outside is a distant roar now, the only sounds in the cabin are the crackle of the fire and the soft noises you make as Joel’s mouth and hands work in harmony. You’ve never felt this before — the intensity, the connection, the feeling of being cherished in this way.

His tongue is warm, insistent, and you can’t help but arch into him. You’re not sure if it’s the whiskey or the warmth or the sheer need that’s building, but your body responds in a way that’s both new and exhilarating. His fingers slide in, filling you up, and your hips jerk in response.

He keeps going, his touch sure, his eyes on yours, and you find yourself letting go of all the fears and the worries. You trust him. You trust this moment. And when you finally do, when you finally let yourself feel, it’s like a dam breaking — a shock of pleasure that leaves you breathless and trembling.

Joel’s eyes are soft as he watches you come down from the high, his fingers still inside you, stroking gently. He kisses your thighs, his stubble a delicious abrasion on your sensitive skin. You feel boneless, like you could melt into the bed and never get back up again.

For a moment, he just holds you, giving you time to breathe, to process. The storm outside is a distant rumble, the only competition to the thunder of your racing heart. You're pulled out of your post orgasm bliss, when you feel Joel pulling away - You’re not ready for this to end. You want more of him — all of him.

You reach for him, your hand curling around the back of his neck, and you pull him up to kiss you. The kiss is hungry, demanding. It’s like you’re saying with your body what you can’t with words: you’re ready. You want him.

Joel seems to understand. He kisses you back, deep and slow, before he pulls away, his eyes searching yours. He reaches for the hem of your shirt, and you lift your arms, letting him pull it off. The chilly air kisses your bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat in Joel’s gaze. He runs his hands over your torso, his thumbs circling your breasts before he leans in to kiss them.

You gasp at the sensation, your body responding to his touch like it’s been starved for it. His mouth is hot, his tongue teasing your nipples until they peak, and your back arches off the bed. His hands slide up your body, holding you in place as he worships you with his mouth, and you realize you’ve never felt so alive.

As he kisses his way up your torso, you can feel his arousal pressing against you, and the urgency in his touch is a mirror of what you’re feeling. You want to explore him, to feel the hard planes of his body against your softness. You want to know what it’s like to have him inside you, to feel the weight of him above you, the safety of his arms around you.

You reach for him, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to touch him, to feel his skin against yours. Joel pauses, his eyes meeting yours, and there’s something in his gaze that makes you pause — a question, a silent request for consent. You nod, your cheeks flushing with a mix of nerves and desire. He helps you, his movements careful as he slides the shirt off his shoulders, revealing the muscular expanse of his chest. The sight of him like this, vulnerable and open, sends a jolt of excitement through you.

His hands are trembling as he undoes your bra, his eyes never leaving yours. The cold air of the cabin is a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as it meets his, and you can feel your heart pounding in your ears. He kisses you again, his tongue delving into your mouth with a new urgency that matches the storm outside. His hands explore your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples, and you moan into his mouth.

You’re both shivering now, not from the cold but from the anticipation. Joel pulls back, his eyes searching yours, and you can see the war raging in them. He’s fighting himself, trying to be gentle, to be the kind of man you deserve. But the fire between you is too strong to be contained. You reach up, your hands fisting in his shirt, and you pull him back down, your mouth hungry for his.

You kiss him like you’re trying to devour him, and he responds in kind. His hands are everywhere, memorizing the curve of your hips, the softness of your skin, the dip of your waist. You’re a canvas of sensation, and he’s the artist, painting you with his touch. His mouth trails down your neck, leaving a wake of fire in its path. You feel him undo his belt, the sound of it hitting the floor like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Joel’s hand slides down your stomach, and you lift your hips, urging him closer. He pauses, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you sure about this?” His voice is a whispered thunder, full of his own need and hesitation.

“Yes,” you breathe, the word a desperate plea. You can feel your body begging for him, for this connection that you’ve been craving.

Joel’s eyes search yours for one last moment of certainty before his hand slides down, his fingertips brushing against the wetness that’s pooled between your legs.

He groans, low and needy, as he positions himself, his cock pressing against your entrance. You feel a mix of excitement and fear, the reality of what’s about to happen crashing over you like a wave. He’s so much larger than you expected, and you tense up, unsure if you can handle it. But he notices, his hand coming up to stroke your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that’s slipped down your face.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispers, his voice a soothing rumble. “We’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

With a nod, you give him the okay, your eyes fluttering shut as you focus on the feeling of him against you. Joel’s hands are everywhere, holding you, soothing you, as he pushes in inch by agonizing inch. You feel stretched, filled, and the pain is sharp, but it’s not unwelcome.

He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, his voice a balm that eases the ache as he pushes further, his cock breaching your untouched depths. You grip the blankets, your body taut with tension, and when he’s buried to the hilt, he stills, giving you a moment to adjust to the feeling.

Then, he starts to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that you instinctively match. Your bodies find a harmony that’s been years in the making, a dance of trust and desire that unfolds in the flickering firelight. His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign of pain, any reason to stop, but all he finds is an all-consuming need that mirrors his own.

You gasp as he fills you, the sensation overwhelming in its intensity. Each thrust is a promise, each withdrawal a sweet agony that makes you ache for more. You feel him everywhere, his heat seeping into your bones, his strength a comfort against the harshness of the world outside. And with every movement, the pain fades, replaced by a blossoming pleasure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours, his expression a mix of concentration and wonder. His strokes are deep, but measured, each one pushing you closer to the edge of something you’ve never felt before. You can feel your walls tighten around him, your body learning the rhythm of this new dance, this claiming that feels both primal and sacred.

As he moves, his hand slowly making it's way down, his thumb finding your clit and starting to rub it in slow, deliberate circles. It’s a gentle pressure, a sweet torment that builds alongside the ache of his cock moving inside you. You whimper, your eyes fluttering shut, as the sensations coil in your belly.

The cabin walls seem to close in around you, the only world that exists is the warmth of the fire, the sound of the storm, and the feeling of Joel’s body against yours. His hand on your clit is a steady beat, a reminder of the pleasure that’s growing, swelling with every stroke. You start to move with him, your hips rising to meet his, your body finding a rhythm that feels as old as time itself.

Joel’s breathing changes, gets heavier, and you know he’s close. His eyes are dark with lust, his mouth open in a silent groan, his body taut with the effort to hold back. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he’s fighting to keep it slow, to make sure you’re okay.

And then he’s not holding back anymore. His movements become more urgent, his hips snapping into you with a force that steals your breath. His hand on your clit moves faster, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge of something so big, so intense, it feels like it could swallow you whole.

Joel’s sounds are guttural, almost animalistic, a stark contrast to the tender whispers from before. His breathing is ragged, his face a mask of concentration and passion. His eyes are locked on yours, watching you, making sure you’re still with him, making sure you’re still okay.

You are more than okay. The sensations are overwhelming, but it’s a good kind of overwhelming, a kind that you never knew existed. Your body responds to his touch, his movements, like it’s been waiting for this all along. You feel yourself building up, climbing higher and higher, the pressure inside you growing, demanding release.

“Come for me, baby,” Joel murmurs, his voice thick with need. And it’s like the words are a key, unlocking something deep within you. Your body responds, your muscles tightening around him as pleasure crashes over you like a wave. Your back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his back. The world narrows to just the two of you, the storm outside a distant memory.

You come with a cry that’s muffled by his mouth, the taste of him on your tongue. He groans, his hips stuttering, and you feel his warmth fill you, his release a counterpoint to the cold outside. Your bodies are slick with sweat and passion, the fire casting flickering shadows across your skin.

Joel holds you tightly, his breath hot against your neck as he slows, his cock still buried deep inside you. His arms are like steel bands around your waist, his heart hammering against your chest. You can feel the tremors in his body, the aftershocks of his release.

For a moment, you both just lie there, breathing hard, the storm outside forgotten. Then, with a shiver, you realize how cold the room has become. Joel must sense it too, because he pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice rough with concern.

You nod, still feeling the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your veins. He reaches over, grabbing the discarded blanket and draping it over both of you, tucking you into his side. His arms come around you, holding you close, and you snuggle into him, feeling more alive than you have in years.

Dividers by @strangergraphics

[rafecameronssl4t]

Playing with fire || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

Summary: inspired by a scene in one tree hill when Lindsey confronts Peyton asking her if she called her a bitch 😛

Warnings: bitchy!kook!reader

Word count: 1,153

MASTERLIST

The golden hour settles over the country club terrace, bathing the manicured lawns in a soft, amber light. You’re seated at the usual table, legs crossed elegantly, one hand wrapped around the stem of your cocktail glass while the other rests on your lap. The ice cubes in your drink clink softly as you swirl them, but you’re only half-paying attention.

Kelce is in the middle of recounting some ridiculous story, one that has Topper throwing his head back with laughter. Rafe sits beside you, slouched comfortably in his chair, his phone resting on the table with Sofia’s name occasionally lighting up the screen. You glance at it briefly, your stomach twisting in annoyance.

She’s not here yet, thankfully. You can enjoy the moment while it lasts—Rafe relaxed, laughing softly at Kelce’s story, his blue eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. He looks so good it’s almost infuriating. Every time you glance at him, the ache in your chest sharpens. Best friends. That’s all you are. But lately, it’s been harder to keep that title from feeling like a curse.

The problem isn’t just Rafe. It’s Sofia. Sweet, doe-eyed Sofia, who’s too soft-spoken and out of place to ever truly belong on Figure 8. You’d made that perfectly clear the other day over drinks with your friends, letting your thoughts spill with a sharp tongue and a sense of superiority that came as naturally to you as breathing.

You thought it was harmless, just blowing off steam. But apparently, Sofia heard. The sound of heels clicking against the terrace pulls you from your thoughts. Your eyes shift to the figure approaching your table, and your heart sinks just a little. Speak of the devil. Sofia’s making her way toward you, her expression set in a determined glare. She’s wearing a sundress—simple, feminine, and so very her.

Her gaze flickers briefly to Rafe, who hasn’t noticed her yet, then zeroes in on you. She stops at the edge of the table, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Did you call me a bitch?” she asks, her voice trembling but clear enough to cut through the chatter around you. The conversation at your table dies instantly.

Kelce and Topper glance at each other, their amusement shifting into intrigue. Rafe looks up slowly, his brows furrowing as his attention shifts from his phone to Sofia. You, however, stay perfectly composed. “Bitch?” you echo, letting the word roll off your tongue as if it’s foreign to you. A soft chuckle escapes your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

“No.” You shake your head slowly, feigning innocence. “No, I didn’t call you a bitch.” Relief flickers across her face for a brief moment before you lean forward, resting your elbows on the table. “I said I didn’t like you,” you continue smoothly, your voice dropping to a low, saccharine tone as a small smile curves your lips.

Her throat bobs as she gulps, and you catch the faintest flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. It’s satisfying in a way that makes your blood sing. The corners of your smile lift just a little higher. Sofia shifts uncomfortably, clearly flustered but unwilling to back down. “Why?” she asks, her voice cracking as she forces the word out.

You tilt your head, considering her for a moment. The silence is palpable now, stretching taut across the table. Kelce leans back in his chair, his gaze darting between the two of you, while Topper watches the scene unfold with poorly concealed glee. Rafe, on the other hand, sits stone-faced, his expression unreadable.

“Why don’t I like you?” you echo, tilting your head like you’re genuinely considering the question. “Where do I start?” Your tone is sharp but playful, as if you’re enjoying every second of her discomfort. Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She glances at Rafe, her eyes silently pleading with him to intervene, to defend her, but he doesn’t. He just watches, his hand idly turning the glass of water in front of him.

You take her silence as permission to continue. “Look, Sofia, you’re sweet. I’ll give you that. But you’re exhausting,” you say, your words sharp but delivered with an almost playful air. “This isn’t you. You don’t fit here, no matter how hard you try. It’s like…watching someone play dress-up. Cute, but a little pathetic.”

Her face flushes bright red, her composure slipping as her nails dig into her palms. “You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps, her voice trembling. “Maybe not,” you admit with a casual shrug, leaning back in your chair. “But I know enough to see through the act. You’re trying too hard, Sofia. And honestly?” You glance at Rafe, just long enough to make her notice, before turning your gaze back to her.

“It’s painful to watch.” The tension at the table is unbearable now. Sofia’s breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling as she struggles to hold herself together. “Rafe,” she says finally, her voice breaking as she looks at him again. “Are you really not going to say anything?” Rafe exhales slowly, his gaze flicking to you before settling on her. “Sofia, I don’t think this is the place—”

“No,” she interrupts, her voice rising. “She’s your best friend, and she’s sitting here humiliating me, and you’re just going to let her?” The frustration and hurt in her voice make something twist in your chest, but you bury it deep, keeping your expression carefully neutral. Rafe’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

Her eyes well with tears, but she blinks them back, taking a shaky step away from the table. “You know what?” she says, her voice trembling but still sharp enough to cut. “You two deserve each other.” She turns on her heel and walks away, leaving the table in heavy silence. Kelce clears his throat awkwardly, muttering something under his breath to Topper, who smirks but says nothing.

Rafe remains silent, his eyes fixed on the spot where Sofia had been standing. You pick up your glass, swirling the liquid lazily as you glance at him. “You okay, Cameron?” you ask lightly, your voice breaking the tension. His eyes snap to you, and for a moment, you think he might actually say something. Call you out, maybe. Defend her now that she’s gone. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shakes his head. “You’re a bitch, you know that?” You grin, raising your glass in a mock toast. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

[beloveds-embrace]

NORTHERN DUKE KÖNIG STEALING DUCHESS PRICE PT 2 !! Where he finally puts his plans into action and maybe gets a moment alone with the duchess and confesses his feelings and maybe she tells him she's been wanting an escape because she's been trapped in a loveless marriage and has lost hope on John ever loving her so she's 100% on board with his plan. Maybe König even tells her that he doesn't believe in the rumors of her being barren, that he thinks it's John whose infertile only for the duchess to reveal she hasn't slept with John at all and idk maybe Konig becomes angry with how neglected she's been and makes an intense vow to never leave her unsatisfied.. mentally, emotionally, physically 😏.

The garden was silent beneath the heavy cloak of snow, save for the crunch of your boots as you followed Duke König down the winding path. Lanterns lit the walkway, their golden glow casting long shadows against the frost-kissed hedges and frozen roses.

It was beautiful. Quiet. Safe.

But your pulse pounded in your ears. König hadn’t spoken since he’d asked you to walk with him, and the weight of his silence filled the space between you like smoke.

You stopped beside a stone bench, your breath curling in the cold air. “Your Grace?”

He turned sharply at the sound of your voice, his pale blue eyes catching the light and glowing like ice under a full moon. For the first time, you saw something raw there- uncertainty, vulnerability, and something far more dangerous simmering beneath the surface.

“I cannot keep this to myself any longer, Duchess,” He said, voice low and rough.

Your lips parted, but he stepped closer, towering over you with a presence that stole your breath.

“I have tried to resist it,” König continued. “To be honorable, to keep my distance- but it is impossible when every moment apart from you feels like torment.” His gloved hand brushed your cheek, hesitant and reverent, as though he thought you might disappear if he touched you too firmly.

You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity in his gaze.

“Your Grace…”

“Tell me I am not mad,” he pleaded, soft and fervent. “Tell me I am not imagining this connection between us.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, and your throat tightened. “You’re not.” You whispered.

Relief washed over him like a crashing wave, but it didn’t temper the fire in his eyes. He cupped your face with both hands, his calloused thumbs brushing over your skin as if memorizing the very shape of you.

“Then come with me,” he said fiercely. “Let me take you away from all of this.”

Your breath hitched, eyes wide. “You mean… leave John?”

His lips curled in frustration. “A man who does not deserve you,” he snapped. “Who parades you around as a trophy while the world whispers lies about you. Who neglects you so cruelly that you-” He stopped, exhaling sharply as if the thought pained him. “You deserve more.”

You swallowed, your voice trembling. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t hold back the next words that poured out. How many nights have you spent in the aching loneliness of your bedroom, aware that your husband merely tolerated you out of necessity and nothing else?

“I know.”

König froze, searching your face. “You… know?”

You nodded, tears finally spilling down your cheeks. “I’ve wanted to escape for so long. I just… I didn’t think anyone would ever care enough to take me away.”

His expression twisted, anguished and furious. “Care enough?” he repeated, dangerous. “I would burn kingdoms for you.”

A sob broke from your throat, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned into him, letting him pull you into the warmth of his embrace. His arms wrapped around you tightly, as if he could shield you from the world. There was something so delightful, so safe, in the way he held you so wholly- hiding you in his arms from all the world.

“But what if the rumors are true?” you whispered against his chest, saying aloud the doubts that have started to take root in your mind from hearing all the rumors swirling about you. “What if I can’t give you the future you want? What if I can’t give you children?”

König pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands bracketing your face. “I don’t believe the rumors,” he said firmly. “Not for a second. It is Price who is unworthy- he is the one who has failed you, mein Liebe, not the other way around.”

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping you. “He hasn’t failed me because we’ve never even tried.”

König stilled, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

You looked away, ashamed. “We’ve never lain together. Not once.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

König’s hands dropped to his sides, his shoulders trembling with barely contained rage. “Not once?”

You flinched at the venom in his tone, but when you looked back at him, there was no anger directed at you- only heartbreak.

“He’s treated you like this?” König growled. “As though you are unworthy of his attention, his affection? Like a possession to be displayed but never cherished?”

The tears were freely flowing now, and no verbal confirmation was needed.

A guttural sound rumbled in König’s chest, his fury barely leashed. “He has neglected you. Deprived you.” His voice dropped, dangerously soft. “I swear to you, I will never make that mistake.”

You blinked up at him, startled.

He stepped closer, his presence alone overwhelming. “I will never leave you unsatisfied- mentally, emotionally, or physically.” His voice was a vow, sharp and unyielding, not allowing any space for doubt. “You will never have to wonder if you are loved, worshiped.”

The heat in his words sent a shiver down your spine, but you didn’t step away. If anything, you leaned closer, tearful eyes wide.

“Say you’ll come with me,” König urged, his thumb brushing away your tears. “Say you’ll let me take you away from this emptiness and give you the life you deserve. Be my Duchess.”

Your breath caught. This was a horrible decision- you couldn’t imagine what would be said about you, about König, what your parents might do, what John might do-

“Yes.”

König didn’t wait. His lips crashed against yours, fierce and desperate, as though he’d been holding himself back for far too long. You melted into him, clutching at his coat as he deepened the kiss, claiming you with every stroke and sigh.

When he finally pulled away, his breath was ragged, and his eyes burned with promise.

“Two days from now,” he said. “I will send that Narr your divorce papers, and I will take you away from this nightmare.”

And for the first time in years, hope bloomed in your chest.

[moonlight-joy]

Protector's Fury

Fandom: Kraven the hunter

Summary: The fire crackled softly as Sergei Kravinoff’s imposing presence filled the room, his fierce devotion radiating from every fiber of his being. After chasing off a would-be threat with deadly precision, Sergei’s sharp, unyielding exterior melted as he turned to you, his concern replacing fury. His protective nature shone through in every word and touch, a vow of unwavering loyalty and strength. In his embrace, as the danger faded into the shadows, you realized that no force in the world could ever rival Sergei’s fierce love and resolve to keep you safe—always.

Pairing: Reader/Sergei Kravinoff

The fire crackled in the hearth as Sergei loomed over you, his broad frame casting a shadow that danced with the flickering light. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, bore into yours, the intensity in them unmistakable. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the challenge in his stance, and you knew better than to underestimate the moment. Sergei Kravinoff didn’t play games lightly, and when he did, the stakes were always high.

“Don’t you dare lay a finger on her!” Sergei’s voice thundered, cutting through the tense air like a knife. His tone was sharp, commanding, and left no room for negotiation.

Your heart raced as you turned to face him, his presence filling the room like a storm. He stood at the door, shoulders squared, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The firelight highlighted the hard set of his jaw, the dangerous glint in his eyes that promised swift retribution. His gaze flickered to you, softening for the briefest moment before shifting back to the intruder, colder than ice.

The man standing opposite Sergei—a rogue hunter, one of many who foolishly sought to challenge him—froze in place, his hand halfway to the knife at his belt. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that pressed against your chest and made it hard to breathe.

“This has nothing to do with you, Kravinoff,” the rogue sneered, though his voice lacked conviction. His eyes darted nervously to Sergei, then back to you. “Stay out of it.”

Sergei’s laugh was low and menacing, devoid of humor. He took a step forward, the weight of his presence bearing down on everyone in the room. “Everything that concerns her has to do with me,” he said, his voice a growl. “And you, my foolish friend, have made a grave mistake.”

The rogue hesitated, and in that moment, Sergei struck. With the speed and precision of a predator, he closed the distance between them, his hand snapping out to grab the man by the collar. Sergei’s strength was on full display as he lifted the rogue off his feet, pinning him against the wall with effortless force.

“You thought you could threaten her?” Sergei snarled, his face inches from the rogue’s. “Did you truly believe you’d walk away unscathed?”

The rogue’s breath hitched, his bravado crumbling under Sergei’s relentless glare. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” he stammered, but Sergei silenced him with a dangerous squeeze.

“Enough,” Sergei said, his voice low and venomous. “Your cowardice disgusts me. Leave, now, and pray I don’t decide to hunt you down.”

He released the rogue, letting him crumple to the floor in a heap. The man scrambled to his feet, casting one last terrified glance at Sergei before bolting out the door. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fire.

Sergei turned to you, his expression softening as he closed the distance between you. His hands, still warm from the heat of his anger, cupped your face gently. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern.

You shook your head, though your heart was still pounding. “No,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

His eyes searched yours, as if confirming your words for himself. Finally, he exhaled, pulling you into his arms. The tension in his body slowly melted away as he held you, his chin resting atop your head. “I won’t let anyone harm you,” he murmured, his voice a vow. “Not now. Not ever.”

You clung to him, the safety of his embrace a balm to your frayed nerves. Sergei was many things—a hunter, a warrior, a man of unyielding intensity—but in that moment, he was your protector, your anchor in the storm.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his chest, your voice trembling with emotion. “For coming for me.”

He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I will always come for you,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “No one lays a finger on what is mine.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, not from fear but from the weight of his devotion. Sergei wasn’t a man who loved lightly; his feelings burned as fiercely as the fire in the hearth. And in that moment, you knew—no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together.

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[yourmomsawh0r3]

Dog Pawrents

pairing: post apocalyptic joel x wife reader

The snow had started falling just past noon, light flakes dusting the pine trees as you and Joel rode the patrol route north of Jackson. You were both bundled up in thick jackets, scarves tucked high, rifles strapped to your backs. The wind had teeth, but your horse, Daisy, kept a steady pace through the woods.

You looked over your shoulder and grinned. “You cold, old man?”

Joel snorted, tugging his scarf up. “I’m fine. You’re the one with ice in your damn eyelashes.”

“Adds to the look.”

He rolled his eyes but you caught the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.

You’d been riding in comfortable silence for a while when a faint whimper broke through the sound of the wind.

Joel’s hand immediately went to the rifle strapped across his back, and you followed his lead, dismounting quietly and crouching beside him.

The whimper came again higher pitched this time, closer.

“Could be a trap,” he murmured.

You nodded, raising your rifle and stepping carefully toward the trees.

There, tangled in a patch of fallen branches, was a dog.

A scrappy, medium-sized mutt, matted fur dusted in snow. She was stuck her back leg caught between branches, paw twisted, tail curled between her legs.

You exhaled softly. “She’s hurt.”

Joel eyed the woods. “Could draw infected.”

“We’re far out. Quiet zone.” You stepped forward.

He sighed. “Y/N—”

“I’m not leaving her.”

He muttered something under his breath, but you could already hear him giving in. He always did, when it came to you.

You knelt beside the dog, murmuring softly, and she stilled, eyes wide and scared. You gently pried the branches off her leg, careful not to tug too hard, and Joel came up beside you with a strip of cloth from his saddlebag.

Once she was free, she limped straight into your arms, trembling.

You looked up at Joel with pleading eyes.

“We can’t just leave her.”

Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “We don’t even know if she’s got anything could be sick, could have fleas—”

“Then we clean her up. I’ll do it. Just… she needs a warm place, Joel.”

He met your eyes. Long pause. Deep sigh.

“Fine.”

Two weeks later, the mutt now named maggie was curled up in front of the fire at your cabin, wearing a knit sweater Ellie insisted on making for her.

Maggie had become a permanent fixture.

Joel pretended to hate it.

“She sheds everywhere,” he’d grumble, brushing dog hair off his flannel.

“She ate half my jerky.”

“She won’t stop followin’ me around.”

But every time you turned around, Joel was sneaking her extra bites of meat at dinner or rubbing behind her ears when he thought you weren’t looking.

One morning, you caught them both napping in his armchair maggie curled in his lap, Joel’s hand resting on her side.

You didn’t say a word. Just smiled to yourself and went back to boiling water for tea.

One night, after you fed maggie and tossed another log on the fire, you settled beside Joel on the couch, your legs draped over his lap.

“She loves you, y’know,” you said, sipping from your mug.

Joel snorted. “She loves whoever feeds her.”

“She follows you even when I’m the one holding the treats.”

He shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “She’s a good dog. Doesn’t bark much. Stays close. Smart.”

You tilted your head. “You’re soft for her.”

Joel grunted. “I’m soft for you. That’s the damn problem.”

Your heart swelled.

He reached over and rested his hand on your thigh, calloused fingers tracing idle shapes. Maggie snored softly by the hearth, and the snow tapped gently against the windowpane.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For letting me keep her.”

Joel looked at you, eyes warm.

“You could’ve brought home a baby goat, and I’d have found a way to make it work.”

You snorted. “Don’t tempt me.”

He leaned over and kissed your temple. “You keep savin’ things. Dogs. Me. Guess I gotta just keep lettin’ you.”

You smiled and curled into his side, heart full.

Outside, the world was still broken, dangerous.

But in your little cabin with Joel and your scruffy new companion, things finally felt like home.

The moment you scooped the injured dog into your arms on patrol, Joel knew you were going to try and keep it.

Snow dusted your lashes, your breath puffing in the cold air, and the scrappy little mutt whimpered once, then buried her head under your chin like she belonged there.

Joel sighed loudly behind you. “Y/N, c’mon.”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept holding her close, tucking her against your jacket. “She’s freezing. Her paw’s bleeding. I’m not leaving her out here, Joel.”

He muttered something under his breath something that sounded suspiciously like “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me”but he was already pulling off his glove to help wrap the dog’s paw.

“You’re gonna carry her the whole way back to Jackson?” he asked as you gently passed the mutt into his arms while you mounted your horse.

“Yup.”

“And when she pisses all over the couch?”

“She’s a good girl. She won’t.”

“She’s got fleas, I can see her scratchin’ already—”

“We’ll give her a bath.”

“She better not touch my flannel.”

“She’s literally bleeding and you’re worried about a damn shirt?”

He grunted. “That’s my good shirt.”

You rolled your eyes. “You have two shirts, Joel.”

“Exactly. That’s half my wardrobe.”

Back in Jackson, it didn’t take long for Maggie to settle in.

Joel looked at you like you were deranged. “Beans? That’s what you’re callin’ her?”

“It fits. Look at her.”

“I’m lookin’, and I’m seein’ a walking pile of fur that’s gonna destroy my peace.”

But you saw the way he crouched next to her quietly the next morning, offering a few pieces of jerky while muttering, “You better not pee on my boots.”

Maggie loved him immediately.

She followed you, sure but she shadowed Joel. Sat by his side at dinner. Slept curled up outside the bathroom door when he showered. Waited by the window when he went on solo patrol.

You couldn’t help but smile whenever you saw them together.

One week later, you came home from your greenhouse shift to find Joel on the front porch, sitting on the steps with Maggie curled up beside him. His hand was resting on her head, thumb stroking just behind her ear in slow, easy circles.

You crossed your arms with a smirk. “You sure you don’t like her?”

Joel looked up, deadpan. “She ain’t my dog.”

“She literally follows you to the outhouse.”

“She’s your responsibility,” he grumbled, standing. “You better brush her, clean up after her, keep her outta my socks”

“Uh huh,” you interrupted, grinning. “But who gave her a bite of his sandwich today?”

“She was starin’ at me like I kicked her damn puppy.”

“She is the puppy.”

He huffed.

“Say it,” you teased.

“Say what?”

“You like her.”

“I tolerate her.”

“You love her.”

He narrowed his eyes, stepping close. “I love you, sweetheart. That dog? Jury’s still out.”

But then Maggie trotted up beside him, bumping her head against his leg, and he reached down without thinking to scratch behind her ears.

You caught it the barely-audible murmur as he looked down at her:

“There’s my girl.”

You gasped. “Joel Miller!”

“What?” he barked, already flustered.

“You do love her!”

“I was talkin’ to you,” he said gruffly, stepping around you to head inside.

You followed him in, laughing.

“You weren’t!”

“I was. You’re my girl.”

Maggie trotted after him, tail wagging.

“Then what does that make her?” you teased.

He turned, arching an eyebrow with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. She’s my girl too. You happy now?”

You stood in the kitchen doorway, smiling like sunshine. “The happiest.”

Joel looked at the two of you one sunshine-faced, the other scruffy and wagging and shook his head with the softest smile.

“God help me,” he muttered, pulling you into his arms. “I’m outnumbered.”

“You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Guess I wouldn’t.”

Later that night, Maggie snored softly at the foot of your bed. Joel was brushing your hair out of your face with calloused fingers, eyes already heavy with sleep.

“Love you,” you murmured.

His hand paused for a second before resuming.

“Love you more, darlin’. You and your damn dog.”

You grinned.

His damn dog, now.

[noirscript]

heaven's leash

Pairing/s: Yandere!Archangel x Angel!Reader Description: You gave up your wings to save Lila—but Azriel came to remind you that even fallen angels stay leashed to him. Warning/s: Fallen Angel Themes | Yandere | Obsessive Possession | Emotional Manipulation | Dubious Consent | Power Imbalance | Intense Jealousy | Territorial Claiming | Explicit Sexual Content | Psychological Intensity | Volatile Behavior | Non-Consensual Touch | Angelic Corruption | Sacrificial Love Note/s: Hi anon! Thank you for requesting this last year! Enjoy reading! Last one for the day. Also, I'm open for commission. Ordered commission will be sent within the day (GMT+8) no matter the length (or at least, max 5k wc?). Further details here. warning tags will be added tomorrow. i'm too sleepy T^T Check out our discord server! Let's hangout, okay? Also, check the announcement channel~

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You never thought you’d see Azriel again.

Not here, not now—certainly not in the mortal realm where your wings have long since been folded away like a secret you no longer dared keep.

But there he is, standing at your doorstep, as impossible and terrifying as the dark storm that heralds the end of the world. His presence rips through the fragile veil of your human life, tearing at your heart with every step he takes forward.

The porch light flickers, barely illuminating his towering frame. He is everything you remember—and more.

Azriel’s skin is pale, almost translucent, like polished marble dusted with shadows. His hair falls like a curtain of midnight silk, framing a face so beautiful it could birth despair.

His eyes—silver and cold—burn through you like twin stars of wrath and obsession. The obsidian wings folded behind him are impossibly large, each feather edged with a ghostly iridescence that seems to absorb the dim light. There is a cruel majesty to him, a predator cloaked in divinity.

Your breath hitches. You clutch the doorframe to steady yourself, the cold wood grounding you to a world you almost believe is real.

“You really thought you could hide,” Azriel says softly, voice like velvet dripping with poison. “That by shedding your wings, by choosing this pathetic human existence, you’d escape me?”

His words cut deeper than any blade. You wanted to protect her—your human, your charge, your reason for falling.

Her name is Lila.

Lila, with her soft smile and fierce heart, who doesn’t know the angels and demons circling just beyond her sight.

You watch her every day from the shadows, walk beside her, shield her from the darkness that lurks in corners, from the cruelty of fate itself.

You gave up your divinity for her, rewound time with forbidden power—twisting the fabric of existence to snatch her from death’s cold grip.

It was your greatest sin, your greatest sacrifice.

In doing so, you lost your wings, your grace, and everything that made you an angel. You became human—fragile, vulnerable, yet utterly devoted.

Azriel’s gaze falls on you, the cold fire in his eyes igniting something fierce and broken inside. “You broke the laws of the heavens to save her. To save her.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “She’s everything to me.”

“Exactly.” His voice drops low, a cruel edge sharpening every word. “And now she’s the leash binding you to me.”

You want to deny it, scream that your love for Lila is pure and not a chain—but Azriel’s fingers close around your wrist, squeezing with a power that makes your bones ache. His touch is ice and fire, cold and burning all at once.

“Your freedom was never yours to choose,” he says, dragging you forward. “You’re mine. Every breath you take, every step you make, leads back to me.”

You want to pull away, but the strength leaks from your limbs. He’s overwhelming—divine power unrestrained by mortal limits. Your head spins, a dizzying storm of fear and desire.

His wings unfurl suddenly, surrounding you like a shroud, drowning out the world. His mouth is on yours, demanding and fierce, claiming with possession. The taste of him—dark, intoxicating—pulls you under. Your body responds, betraying your mind, craving the control he exerts. His hands roam boldly beneath your thin clothes, tracing every curve as if memorizing what was once celestial and is now wholly flesh.

You shiver, torn between terror and the raw need to be consumed. Azriel’s dominance is absolute, every touch, every kiss, a promise and a threat.

He leans into you, his breath hot against your ear. “You will learn, darling angel, that resistance only prolongs your suffering.”

His voice wraps around your soul like chains. “I will protect you—and her—whether you want it or not.”

You remember Lila’s face—the way her eyes light up when she laughs, how she confides in you, her soft hands resting trustingly in yours. She’s unaware of the celestial wars raging just beyond the veil, unaware that her guardian’s wings have been clipped. The thought of losing her again twists your gut, fueling the desperation clutching your heart.

“I won’t lose her,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Not again.”

Azriel’s smile is a dark victory. “No. You won’t. Because I’ll never let you.”

His hands slide lower, exploring, claiming, igniting a fire deep inside you that frightens and thrills. You know this is a trap—a cage gilded with desire and power—but the need to survive, to keep Lila safe, warps every thought. Your body betrays your mind, melting into his dominance, a slow surrender fueled by equal parts fear and yearning.

He bends you backward gently, wings folding tighter around you, sealing you from the world. His lips leave a trail of fire down your neck, over your collarbone, marking you with his dark signature.

You gasp, heart hammering—not just from his touch, but from the terrifying truth behind it: you are his—now and forever.

His voice drops to a growl, rough and possessive. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine.”

Your breath trembles, eyes wide and filled with a dangerous mixture of dread and something darker. You want to scream, to run, to fight—but you only manage, “I’m yours.”

He presses his mouth to yours again, deeper and claiming, as if sealing the words with fire and shadow. The intensity of his touch floods your senses, burning away doubt, fear, and pain. You lose yourself in the moment—the exquisite ache of submission, the terrible beauty of surrender.

And yet, beneath it all, a fragile thread of defiance remains.

I protect her. I will protect Lila. Even if it costs me my soul.

Azriel pulls back slightly, his silver eyes boring into yours. “Good. Because this is only the beginning.”

His wings spread wide, dark as a storm, and the night seems to shudder under the weight of his power. You are caught—trapped between two worlds, bound by love, sacrifice, and a dominance you cannot escape.

The mortal realm is no longer your refuge. It is a battlefield, and Azriel holds the strings.

You clutch the doorframe, your body trembling, heart shattering and rebuilding in shards of fear and desire.

“Remember this,” Azriel murmurs, voice low and fierce as his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing the tear you don’t realize you’re shedding. “No matter how far you run, no matter how deeply you hide, I will find you. Because you belong to me. And I will never let you go.”

The final shiver of his touch lingers long after he fades into the night, leaving you standing alone, the cold air biting at your skin—but inside, a storm rages.

Your sacrifice to save Lila was meant to be your salvation. Instead, it was your downfall.

You had defied heaven to protect the one you loved... and in doing so, had handed yourself over to something far crueler than fate.

Azriel hadn’t come to claim you—he’d come to unmake you, piece by piece, until you remembered who you belonged to.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya @yandereaficionado @pinksaiyans @ivantillenthusiast @missybabes

[emmcfrxst]

logan howlett x reader

word count: 1.6K

warnings: smut! nasty filthy smut! afab reader who gets called a girl one (1) time because i didn’t know what nickname to use, MINORS DNI YOU WILL BE BLOCKED! i literally dreamt of this specific scenario last night and it was so vivid i decided to write it LMAO as always feedback is welcomed and appreciated <3

Being sent on a mission up north with Logan and as you’re scouting the area around a frozen lake after setting up in an abandoned cabin, the ice shatters underneath you, your body getting quickly engulfed by the icy water.

Logan doesn’t have to think twice before diving after you, retrieving your trembling body from the depths of the lake and bringing you back to the cabin. You’re shivering the whole time, clinging onto him; despite the fact that he also went in the water, his body naturally runs at a higher temperature, which makes him far less cold than you are— and he gently puts you down on a pile of blankets in front of the fireplace before lighting up a fire, turning to you with concern in his eyes.

“Gonna have to get these off of you, bub.” he mumbles hesitantly, gently tugging at your soaked clothing. You nod your consent, lifting your arms to allow him to take off your shirt and bra, hips lifting to aid him in sliding your pants and panties down your legs afterwards. He keeps his eyes on yours out of politeness, clearing his throat awkwardly and letting out a rough sounding “Right.” when you remind him that he should take his off, too. Once you’re both naked, he hesitates again before sitting next to you, offering his palm in invitation.

“It would… Be quicker… If we shared body heat.” he sounds just as awkward as he feels, cringing internally at himself, goosebumps spreading over his skin when you tentatively push on his torso to make him lie down, joining him right after and curling your body against his. Logan takes it as a silent permission to start rubbing up and down your arm and leg from where you’re laid on your side against him, one of your hands coming up to rest on his bare chest. He tries to ignore the way your heartbeat is pounding in his ears, focusing on getting you warm enough to avoid any injuries. The process happens in comfortable silence despite the sexual tension reigning between the two of you, your body finally relaxing when your temperature comes back up to normal. He’s still trying to be polite, only glancing down at your face, body tensing up from the feeling of your bare breasts against his ribs, laid down flat on his back. Noticing his restrained expression, you run your hand down his chest lightly, stopping at his abdomen.

“You saved my life.” your voice is soft, making him turn to meet your fond gaze, heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“It’s nothin’, bub.” he assures you hoarsely, squeezing your arm affectionately.

“You would’ve done the same for me.” you smile at his comment, shaking your head affectionately and running your hand back up his chest.

“That's beside the point.” you protest gently, moving to press the entire length of your body into his side, making his eyes flutter shut and his breath hitch.

“How can I repay you?” you ask, lips slowly trailing down his shoulder, making him tense up again.

“You don’t have to do anything, bub.” he assures, a large, roughened palm coming up to cup the side of your face to make you look at him, concern flashing in his eyes once again.

“I want to. I've wanted to for a long time.” you reply, making him inhale sharply. He looks into your eyes for any sign of hesitation, thumb caressing your cheekbone before he exhales shakily, eyebrows furrowing.

“Are you sure?” he rasps out, finally allowing his desire to show. You nod, kissing his shoulder again, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes when he grasps your chin in his hand.

“I need to hear you say it, pretty thing.” he mumbles, voice serious. You only smile, moving your head to kiss his hand, holding his gaze steadily.

“I am sure. I want you, Logan." The words make him groan low in his chest, eyes searching yours for half a moment before finally giving in and shifting your bodies so you’re laying underneath him.

“Been wanting you for so long.” he confesses, the gravelly tone in his voice making you press your thighs together. The smell of your arousal hits his nose a second later, making his eyes roll back into his head, a moan leaving his lips. He wastes no time to kiss you, groaning softly at the sheer enthusiasm with which you kiss him back, mewling into his mouth. His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, tangling with yours when you part your lips in invitation. Pulling away for air, you gasp softly, arching your back to meet his chest when he grasps one of your thighs and spreads them, sliding between them in one fluid movement. The action causes his hips to fit right against yours, hard cock pressing against the slickness of your cunt. Moaning into each other’s mouths, you start swiveling your hips, causing his cock to nudge your swollen clit. Pulling away again, you feel your walls fluttering around nothing when you notice the trail of spit connecting the two of you— one that Logan has no shame licking away from your chin once it breaks off.

“Fuck, Logan, I need you.” you whine, making his cock throb. Gripping your thigh, he spreads you open even further, nestling his cock between your folds and grinding slowly.

“Gotta prep you first bub, don’t wanna hurt you.” he sounds far away, pupils swallowing the rich brown of his irises, but even then, he still worries about you; a fact that only seems to make you wetter. Despite your arousal, you still gasp out loud when he slides two fingers inside your cunt, your eyes fluttering shut at the delicious stretch his thick fingers provide. His eyes watch you carefully for any sign of discomfort as he starts to stretch you out, your body jolting upwards to meet his when a calloused thumb circles over your clit.

“You look so fuckin’ pretty like this, bub. Gonna take such good care of you.” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it before— tone almost dangerous— causing goosebumps to bloom across your skin. Your orgasm is building up quickly, mewls mixing with the loud, slick sound of Logan’s fingers drilling inside of you. Without warning, your thighs tense up and you let out a soft squeal, gushing around him. You can hear his depraved moan even through the deafening beating of your heart in your ears, teary eyes moving up to meet his as he brings his hand up to his face— his palm absolutely fucking soaked. You watch as he licks a stripe up his hand, his eyes rolling back into his head at the taste of you, cock twitching hard from where it’s pressed against your thigh. He inhales deeply, stomach tensing up for a brief moment before he finally regains control of his body, dark, hungry eyes landing on your fucked up form.

“Fuuuck, could come just from that.” his words have you aching again, a desperate tear running down your cheek— one he kisses away, humming lowly. You tangle your fingers in his hair as he starts kissing down your body, heart pounding in anticipation. Getting up on your elbows, you watch as he makes his way between your legs, feeling warmth creep up your neck and down your chest when he breathes you in loudly, groaning in the back of his throat. You try to push his head away timidly but he grasps your wrist with one hand, pinning it down and away from him.

“Let me have my moment. Been dreamin’ of having you like this for fucking ever.” the lust in his voice causes butterflies to erupt in your tummy, still shy from the shamelessness of his desire. Nodding your head, you sit back on your elbows, gently kicking him in retaliation when he gives you a cocky little grin and a hoarse mumble of “That’s it, good girl.”

Your amusement is, however, cut short by Logan burying his face between your thigh and licking a stripe from your hole to your clit, moaning against your cunt at the taste. Crying out loudly, you move again to tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling in encouragement as he practically makes out with your pussy, his eyes closing in ecstasy. He switches from thrusting his tongue inside you to sucking your clit between his lips, making you whine out his name. Through the thick fog of pleasure that overcomes your body, you notice the floorboards creaking under Logan’s weight— he’s driving his hips into the blankets, trying to alleviate some of the tension in his body. The sight makes you gush a second time without warning, your fingers pulling at his hair harshly and nails digging into his scalp as you come on his tongue. The moan he gives you in response makes you clench around nothing, feeling his body tense up and his hips stutter against the blanket before he relaxes, face still shoved into the meat of your leg. Oh.

“Did you just—“ you cut yourself off suddenly, feeling a delicious twist in your gut at the thought of Logan coming untouched simply from eating you out. Your lover picks his head back up with a dazed look in his eye, beard glistening with your slick. He’s still hard.

“Yeah. But I’m not done with you yet.” the promise in his voice makes you tremble, warmth coursing through your body— the mission could wait.

[gratelove]

Take Me

Jon Snow x Reader

In a secret rendezvous, Jon Snow and his lifelong friend confess their love, struggling with the societal barriers that keep them apart. Faced with Jon's impending departure to the Night's Watch, they decide to give themselves to one another, stealing a moment from the world, a moment that was theirs and theirs alone.

Warnings: 18+, p in v, virginity, fluff, smut

The dim glow of the fire was the only light in the room, casting shadows on the stone walls of Jon Snow’s bedroom. The flames danced and crackled, filling the silence with their rhythmic song. The winter wind howled outside, its icy fingers clawing at the castle’s sturdy walls. But inside, beneath a thick pile of furs, warmth reigned supreme.

Jon lay on his back, his bare chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. His dark hair spilled over the pillow, framing his face in a mess of curls. You lay beside him, propped up on your elbow, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest. You watched your own movements, the way his skin felt warm and smooth under your fingertips, like silk stretched over steel.

“Remember that time you tried to ride Ghost like a horse?” Jon asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice was soft, as if he were afraid of breaking the tranquility of the moment.

You chuckled, your hand pausing mid-circle. “I was sloshed, Jon. I thought he was big enough to carry me.” Your eyes glinted with the memory, the corners of your mouth curling up into a smile. “To be fair, he didn’t seem to mind until you came running out, screaming like I was trying to kill him.”

Jon shook his head, his smile widening. “You could have broken your neck. Ghost may be big, but he’s no horse.”

You laughed softly, the sound a melody against the crackling of the fire. “And who taught him to knock me off with a nudge of his head, hmm? You spent weeks training him to do that, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. “Maybe. I couldn’t let my best friend go around thinking direwolves were for riding. What kind of man would that make me?”

“A smart one,” you teased, leaning down to rest your head against his shoulder. Your finger resumed its lazy path over his chest, tracing the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin. “You’ve always been a better man than you gave yourself credit for.”

Jon’s expression softened, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s a lot I don’t know. So many things I’ve done… mistakes I’ve made.”

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. “We all make mistakes, Jon. It’s what we do after that matters.” Your hand moved to cup his cheek, thumb brushing against his stubble. “You’re a good man, Jon Snow.”

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the truth in your words. Finally, he sighed and nodded, his gaze softening. “Thank you,” he said simply, and the warmth in his voice matched the fire’s glow.

You fell into a comfortable silence, the firelight flickering over your faces. Outside, the wind howled again, a reminder of the harsh winter beyond the walls. But here, in this room, you were safe, wrapped in warmth and the familiarity of each other.

“Do you remember the day we first met?” you asked, breaking the quiet. Your voice was low, tinged with nostalgia. “You were what, ten? And you were trying to shoot an arrow straight into the heart of that practice dummy.”

Jon chuckled, nodding. “I missed every shot that day. I was so nervous.” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes sparkling with the memory. “You were there with your father. He introduced us, and you didn’t even say a word. Just stared at me with those big eyes of yours.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I was so shy back then. You were the one who broke the ice. You said I looked like a lost pup.”

Jon grinned. “And you kicked me in the shin for it.”

“And you deserved it,” you said, giggling. “I was not a lost pup.”

“No,” Jon agreed, pulling you closer under the furs. “You were always stronger than you looked.” He paused, his expression turning serious. “And you still are. You’ve been with me through everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. Jon’s arm tightened around you, his thumb stroking your shoulder in a gentle rhythm. The action caused a shiver to rush down your spine. His fingers were like fire on your skin, burning hot with each touch.

You turned your head to look at him, your eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, softened in the glow of the firelight. Jon’s eyes were closed, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His features were relaxed, more at peace than you had seen him in a long time. Your heart ached with the love you felt for him, a love that had always been there, growing silently until it could no longer be denied.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

He opened his eyes, turning his head to meet your gaze. “Hmm?”

You smiled, your hand reaching out to touch his face. Your fingers brushed over his cheek, down to his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your fingertips. “I love you,” you said softly, the words hanging in the air between you.

Jon’s expression softened, his eyes darkening with emotion. He turned his head to kiss the inside of your wrist, his lips warm against your skin. “I love you too,” he replied, his voice a low murmur. He peppered kisses down your arm and the sensation caused you to squeeze your thighs together at the ache it created in your core.

The look in his eyes sent a shiver through you, a longing you had been trying to suppress rising to the surface. You shifted closer, your body pressing against his, your hand moving from his face to his chest, once again. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, the heat of his skin as your hand traveled lower.

“Jon,” you whispered again, your voice trembling. Your hand moved farther, finding the hem of his trousers. “I want to be with you,” you said, your eyes locked on his. “All of you.”

Jon stiffened at your words, his eyes searching yours. “Y/N, we can’t,” he said quietly, his voice strained.

You bit your lip, your eyes filling with a mixture of sadness and desperation. “But you’re leaving soon,” you said, your voice breaking. “To join the Night’s Watch. Once you take the black, you’ll be sworn to celibacy. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll ever see you again. I want to be with you, Jon. Before you go. I want you to be my first.”

Jon sat up, his face tightening with conflict. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes filled with pain. “I can’t,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re a lady of the North, and I’m a bastard. If we did this… if anyone found out…”

“No one will find out,” you interrupted, sitting up as well, your voice trembling. “I don’t care what people think. I don’t care about titles. I care about you. I want you, Jon. I want my first time to be with someone I love. With you.”

Jon looked away, his jaw clenched. “If I did that,” he said quietly, “I’d be taking something from you. Something that can’t be given back. If you lost your maidenhead to me, it would ruin your chances of finding a husband. A good man who can give you a life, a home, a family. You deserve that.”

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “What if I don’t want that?” You asked softly. “What if I don’t want some lord, or a life that means nothing to me? What if all I want is you?”

Jon turned back to you, his eyes filled with sorrow. “You think that now,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “But what about in the future? What about when you want children, a real home? I can’t give you those things. Not openly. I’d always be a secret. You’d always be living a half-life, hiding in the shadows.”

“I don’t care,” you insisted, your voice rising with desperation. “I don’t care about the future, or what might happen. I care about now. About this moment. I don’t want to look back and regret not being with you when I had the chance. Please, Jon. Just this once.”

Jon’s face softened, his eyes filled with love and sadness. He reached out, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to fall. “I love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “More than anything. But I can’t let you ruin your life for me. I can’t be the reason you lose everything.”

“You’re not ruining my life,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You’re the only thing that makes me happy. If you leave, and we never… If we don’t share this moment, I’ll always regret it. I’ll always wonder what it would have been like.”

Jon closed his eyes, his own tears threatening to fall. He knew the truth, even if he wished it were different. In the eyes of the world, he was nothing more than a bastard, a stain on the Stark family name. He had no lands, no title, no claim to any future. The best he could hope for was to join the Night’s Watch, to live out his days in service on the Wall. He had nothing to offer you but a life of secrecy, of stolen moments and hidden love.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t do that to you. I won’t. If you regret this later, I’d never forgive myself.”

You looked at him, your eyes pleading. “But I love you,” you said, your voice cracking. “And you love me. Isn’t that enough?”

Jon pulled you into his arms, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head. “It is enough,” he whispered. “It has to be enough. Because I can’t lose you, and I can’t be the one to take away your choices. I won’t be the reason you’re unhappy.”

“I am a woman that is capable of making my own decisions. You do not decide for me. I decide for myself. I get to choose what I will regret and what I won’t. I get to choose the life I lead and burdens I carry. And I choose you, Jon. You, and no other. Let me be sullied. Let me be stripped of maidenhead, as long as it is by your hand. Take me, Jon. Take me before we never get the chance again. Take me before you leave me. You owe me that much.” Your eyes burned with determination as Jon sat in silence for a long moment. The air between you was thick with anticipation. You could see Jon’s resolve beginning to crumble at your words. He reached out, his hand trembling as he cupped your cheek.

“What if I do this and I can’t let you go?” He whispered, his voice barely audible. “What if I need this too?”

Your eyes softened, and you moved closer, your face only inches from his. “Then don’t let me go,” you whispered back. “Be with me, Jon. Here. Now. Forget the world outside, even if just for tonight.”

Jon’s breath hitched, his heart in his chest. He knew what he was about to do had consequences, but in this moment, he couldn’t find a reason to care. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. This kiss was filled with years of unspoken feelings and hidden desires.

The kiss deepened, your bodies pressing together as the heat between you grew. Jon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, needing to feel you against him. You responded in kind, your hands sliding to the hem of his trousers, hooking into the band, then ran your nails up his abs. Your touch sent shivers down his spine as he groaned into your mouth at the pleasure and the pain.

You broke apart and your small hands found the bottom of your slip. He watched you pull it over your head and throw it to the ground. The firelight cast the shadow of your, now bare, silhouette against the stone walls. While the fire was warm, the cool winter breeze floated through the window to send bumps up your skin. Jon licked his lips as he drank in every inch of you. He lifted his hand, but stopped before his fingers could reach your exposed breasts. You looked down to see his hand trembling, his breathing shallow. He was just as nervous as you were. This was his first time as well. You grabbed his wrist, moving his hand until it rested on your chest. You sucked in a breath at the sensation of his warm palm against your nipple. Slowly, his hand ran across your sternum, up and over your collarbone, and down to your other breast. It moved down the curve of your waist and down your abdomen, mapping out every inch of your exposed skin. Your hand gripped his shoulder as he pulled you onto his lap.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked, his voice rough with desire and restraint. You could feel his bulge pressed against your core as you straddled him. He needed to hear you say you were sure, needed to know this is what you truly wanted.

“Yes,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him. A pool was forming in between your thighs. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

With a groan, Jon captured your lips, flipping and lowering you both onto the bed. He moved slowly, reverently, as if you were something precious and fragile. You wrapped your legs around his wait, pulling him hard into you. You needed to feel him now. You had dreamt about this moment for too long, and now that it was happening, you couldn’t contain the need. He ground against you, earning a moan, in between kisses. He pushed his cock against your exposed center again, making you buck your hips. You felt Jon smile into your lips and you had to pull away for air.

Jon took the opportunity to rid himself of his trousers, leaving him fully exposed. You propped yourself on your elbows, eyes traveling down the v that was perfectly chiseled into him as it led straight to his hard length. He was large and the idea made you nervous. You were told it would hurt, but were worried he may not fit. He ran his hand through his black curls to give him better vision of you gaping at him. A devilish smile made its way to his beautiful face. He crawled on top of you, placing his hands on your shoulders to gently push you against the mattress.

“Are you nervous?” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth at his question. Your eyes went from his, to his length, and back up to meet his gaze.

“Yes. It’s going to hurt,” you said, trying to swallow to bring moisture back to your dry throat.

“I’ll go slow, my love. As slow as you need.” You nodded, taking a deep breath. You braced your hands on his shoulders and watched as he used one hand to align himself with your entrance, the other next to your head. You felt the pressure as his tip struggled to enter your tight core. You clenched your teeth at the pain and sensation. You shut your eyes and squeezed his shoulders. The further he stretched you, the harder you squeezed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. You winced as his full length entered you. You felt a large hand caress your cheek and you opened your eyes. You met a worried gaze, as he searched your face. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m ready.” You nodded and he hesitated for a moment, then slowly began to pull out. He slid back in and your back arched at the pain and pleasure that filled your belly. His thrusts became even as you adjusted to his size. Jon moaned in pleasure when your nails ran down his back. His cock filled you whole. Your legs wrapped right around his waist, pushing him in as far as you could. You wanted to feel all of him, take all of him.

“Y/N,” he growled your name in your ear, his hot breath hitting your exposed skin. He kissed and sucked on the nape of your neck, causing a loud moan to escape your lips.

“Oh gods, Jon,” you whimpered, feeling a ball of sensation being to grow in your lower belly. The pleasure started to feel so overwhelming, you didn’t know if you could take it. Your hands pushed against his chest, not able to bear the sensation. Jon grabbed your wrists, softly pinning them to the bed, one of either side of your head. He picked up pace, you almost screamed at the pressure threatening to burst.

“Hearing you moan my name is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.” His words made your toes curls and your back arch.

“Jon,” you moaned louder, wanting to say it over and over. He groaned, his grip on your wrists getting tighter.

“Say it again.” Your lip quivered with over stimulation. Your head was swimming in a mix of pleasure, not able to form any other thought than his name. He thrust into you harder than before, pushing the deepest he could. This won a scream of his name from your lips. Your eyes met his and they were full of passion and desire. His curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. “You’re so beautiful.” Those words sent you to your undoing. You felt yourself finally burst, waves of pleasure and shivers rushing up your body all the nerves in you going limp from stimulation. Only a few moments later, Jon pulled out, releasing onto your bare stomach.

Your eyes were closed, but you felt warm fabric brush over your skin. You opened them to see Jon cleaning his mess off of you. Once he was done, he left a trail off kisses from your bellybutton down to your bundle of nerves. You squeezed your thighs, not being able to handle any more. He smirked and collapsed next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him.

In this moment, nothing else mattered but the two of you, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing a love that defied the rules of your world. You clung to each other, as if trying to imprint this moment into your memories, knowing that it would be all you had when the morning came.

Jon’s fingers gently stroked your hair, his heart still racing. Peace washed over you as your head rested on his chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice filled with emotion. “For giving me this. For being with me.”

Jon kissed the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “I’ll always be with you,” he said softly. “No matter where I am. No matter what happens. You are a part of me.”

“And you, me,” you replied. You smiled against his chest, your heart filling with love. You had stolen a moment from the world, a moment that was yours and yours alone. Though the future was uncertain, and the outside world may never understand, you had this night. And for now, that had to be enough. It was enough.

[bellesaisonn]

i light the fire

is this even long enough to be considered a fic? idk but it's about alex being your friend's hot dad

chapter one | series masterlist

contents: age gap (reader is around 19 and he's 38), dad!alex, blowjob, cockwarming

word count: 1.1k

You're spending a few summer days at your best friend's place. Sun, quiet, the pool. Exactly, what you needed after a grueling semester at uni.

What you didn't expect was him.

Her dad.

At first, you barely notice his eyes on you. But slowly, it starts. The glances that linger a beat too long. The way his head turns slightly when you walk by in your tiny bikini, book in hand. He’s always by the pool now, stretched out in a lounge chair with his sunglasses on and a book he never seems to be reading.

You can’t see his eyes, but you feel the heat of his gaze on you.

You notice how the pool is suddenly always clean, the water just right. “Gotta make sure you enjoy it,” he says with a knowing smile.

Sometimes, he asks you to help him with sunscreen. “I burn easy,” he says, shrugging off his shirt like it’s nothing. You pretend it is too, dutifully applying sunscreen to his back, his arms, his chest... your knuckles graze the cool metal of his chain, and the contrast of chilled gold against his warm skin sends a shiver down your spine.

After, he always offers to return the favor.

So you stretch out on your stomach, heart racing, letting his strong hands glide along your body. The only thing keeping him apart from you is the tiny fabric of your bikini bottoms.

His touch is careful, thorough. He doesn't miss a spot. It feels more like a massage than sunscreen application, but you don't mind. You love the feel of his hands sliding up your thighs. His fingertips are rough, calloused from years of gripping guitar strings. You feel the texture of them, the contrast against your soft skin, and you find yourself holding your breath.

The sauna’s always ready now, too. He stands in the doorway, eyes drifting over you as you step inside, towel barely holding on, skin flushed from the heat.

“It’s good for the muscles,” he mutters, but his gaze tells you something else. You can feel it, the way he looks at you like he wants to devour you, lingering on your damp skin, your disheveled hair.

Later, he offers to teach you how to play tennis. He’s behind you, his hand firm on your waist, adjusting your form. His breath is hot in your ear. “Call me Alex,” he murmurs, voice low. You feel the shape of him hot against your back, you try to ignore it, but you can feel your underwear get slick with your own arousal.

Still you don't act on it.

Your friend notices it too. "He's not usually around this much," she says, the tone of surprise in her voice. "It's weird. I'm used to him being gone more often. But this summer..."

You try not to think about it. But it's impossible to ignore.

He starts showing up everywhere.

Mornings, he's already in the kitchen when you come down. Shirtless, making coffee, acting casual. He always pours you a cup without asking.

"You sleep okay?" he asks, eyes flicking to your legs.

You say yes. Try to act normal. But the air between you feels charged, like something waiting to spark.

Most nights, he sits outside by the patio, smoking. He asks if you'll keep him company. Hands you a drink. The ice clinks. His hand brush yours when you take it.

The tension builds quietly. No one says it. No one moves. But it's there.

Later that week, you head downstairs for water and on your way back, you notice a faint light coming from the living room.

Alex is there, sitting at his piano, notebook open. The only light in the room is from a tiny lampshade.

He doesn't startle when he sees you. Just lifts his gaze and says, "Can't sleep either?"

You nod and you can feel his eyes roaming over your body. You're wearing a tiny sheer dress, and you're sure he can see your nipples.

"Had this idea for a song stuck in my head for days," he murmurs.

You step closer, voice teasing. "That sounds awful. Wish I could help..."

He watches you approach, gaze fixed. He turns fully toward you on the bench, legs parted slightly. You stop between his legs. His hand slides up your thigh.

He tilts his head, voice low. "You already are."

You place a hand on his shoulder. He's solid, tense. His other hand moves, slow and sure, tracing the edge of your dress where it meets your thigh.

"You should go back to bed," he murmurs.

"Should I?" you whisper, leaning in, your lips just inches from his.

Then he's kissing you, mouth open and hungry, tasting like cigarettes and something uniquely him. You gasp into him as his tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath you.

But he pulls back with a shake of his head, "No, no... I'm working, love."

You frown, unsure. "But you kissed me."

He glances down, and you follow his gaze. He's hard, straining against his sweatpants. "I want you to warm me up."

You don't wait for him to say more.

Sliding down off his lap, you kneel between his legs. His eyes follow you, watching with a kind of quiet hunger as you hook your fingers under the waistband and ease his cock free. You breathe him in, and his scent is heady.

His hand rests at the back of your neck, silently urging you to take him in. You lean forward wrapping your tougue around the head of his cock and sucking lightly.

"This is gonna be too distracting," he mutters.

"Sorry," you murmur, pulling back slightly to glance up at him through your lashes, feigning innocence.

You lower your head again, this time taking him in deeper. Inch by slow inch, until your lips are flush with the base and your throat tightens around him. You breathe through your nose, fighting the urge to gag, trying to stay quiet so you don't wake anyone.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Just like that."

His praise washes over you like warmth. Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, aching. But this isn't about you, it's about helping him work. So you keep going.

He shifts slightly, fingers brushing over the keys, scribbling something in the notebook with his free hand.

Once in a while he reaches down, pets your hair and tells you how good you're making him feel, how much he likes having your pretty little lips wrapped around his cock.

You moan softly in response, and his breath hitches.

He shifts just slightly, cock twitching inside your mouth, reminding you he's still hard, still aching.

But he's focused. And you stay quiet. Warm. Wrapped around him.

You close your eyes and stay where you are.

Just full of him.

Exactly where he wants you.

[ceoofyearning]

Say Yes to Heaven - Lucien

Pairing: Lucien × Reader

Summary: You find the bed empty upon waking up. Bundled in your blanket, you head out to find Lucien and demand that he warm you up.

Tags & Warnings: Fluff, suggestive but nothing explicit (if i miss anything, let me know)

Word Count: 1077

Links: Masterlist

Sunight creeps languidly through the heavy drapes, heralding the persistent call of the waking world. The day has come, and in minutes, the entire room is bathed in golden light. You’re forced to relinquish the last dregs of sleep clinging to you. You roll over expecting to find Lucien beside you, only to see that his side of the bed is empty. You run your palm over the sheets and find them still warm.

With one last stretch, you pull yourself out of the bed and onto your feet. You wrap the blanket tightly around your shoulders, not ready to give up their warm embrace just yet. The manor is deathly quiet as you pad through the hallways as if the rest of the world is as reluctant to wake too. The persistent chill of winter remains in the air, the tiles as cool as ice beneath your feet. The blanket trails on the floor behind you, and you can already imagine the legendary scolding Jurian would give you if he were to catch you. You imagine Vassa would only laugh at you, if she wasn't too busy being a bird.

Thankfully, no such altercations occur, and you find Lucien sitting in the library, busy reading what you assume are reports from Prythian. He’s lounging by the fire, clad only in his rumpled, unbuttoned tunic and plain trousers. His legs are carelessly spread, his cheek resting on his hand - the picture of relaxed nonchalance. Lucien wears finery like a fine suit of armor, his bravado like a sword secured at his hip, and it’s rare to see him so unguarded, so candid. When he spots you, all bundled up, by the door, a bemused expression makes its way across his face.

“You left,” you sniff indignantly.

His only response to your complaint is a smirk. So you pad deeper into the room until you're standing in between his legs. The smug look on his face only seems to grow at the increased proximity.

“Why?” He asks. “Did you miss me?” Lucien’s eyes trail down your body with deliberate slowness, stalling over your exposed thighs. His hand comes up to grasp the side of your hip, a movement made instinctually, naturally, as though his existence only makes sense when you’re there, with him.

You don’t deign to respond, but you let him pull you onto his lap. He wraps his arms around you, tucking you under his chin as he continues to read. You sink onto him, enjoying the heat that perpetually radiates off his body. He’s basically a sentient furnace, your love. Your hands trail beneath his shirt and he jolts the moment your cold hands make contact with his skin.

“Mother’s tits, you’re freezing.” He exclaims, wiggling in his seat.

“Because you left,” you retort, running your hands languidly over his back. Goosebumps rise in the wake of your touch. “This is your doing, miscreant.”

Lucien cackles but recovers. “Apologies, my lady,” Lucien says with exaggerated gravity, his hand over his chest. “I’m adequately chastised. I’ll be sure never to abandon you in bed again.”

“You better,” you threaten, trying to fight the smile from emerging on your lips. “Or else I’ll find someone else to warm my bed.”

Lucien stiffens, holding you tighter against him as if readying to fight off anyone who dares to draw near. With his hand on your chin, he lifts your head to meet his gaze.

“What was that?” He speaks, something dangerous lingering in the depths of his words.

You raise your brow in challenge. “I said, if you keep leaving me I’ll find-“

He shuts you up with his lips on yours, but it’s a soft fragile thing. His lips move against yours like the back and forth of a waltz. Lucien pulls you tighter into his embrace, enveloping you in the scent of sandalwood, cinnamon, and smoke. You melt against him and think that you could stay like this forever, as long as you’re with him. You want to lay here even as the world cracks and burns around you, until the both of you are covered in ivy, moss, and memory.

As if sensing the direction of your thoughts, Lucien deepens the kiss. Your lips willingly part for him and he licks into your mouth, eager for a taste. His hands are molten against your skin, kneading the pliant flesh of your hips from where your nightgown has ridden up. You can feel his chest expand as he inhales your scent as if reminding himself that you’re with him, in this moment, and there you will remain until your body gives out from the force of loving him.

Eventually, the two of you have to break the kiss. Just there, his forehead on yours, breathing the other in. Idly, you tap your finger over the freckles on his chest, parsing them like constellations in the night sky. You wonder what prophecies you’d be able to divine in the shapes they take. You press a kiss on the freckle over his beating heart, and Lucien shudders beneath your touch.

You move to the wealth of freckles spread across his cheek, over his nose, then on his chin. Lucien pretends to be preoccupied with the reports, but it’s a losing battle. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, and you plant a soft, chaste kiss at the upturned corner. You kiss him like he’s an object of worship, and only your heart, your body, your whole being would be a worthy sacrifice.

“Is that the only thanks I get for being your sentient, walking furnace?” He teases, brow arched, but not unkindly. “Threats and a few kisses?” Beams of sunlight hit his face like a lattice of amber, accentuating his sharp features, and setting his russet eye ablaze. And it strikes you just how damn pretty he is, scars and all.

“I’d prefer it if my sentient furnace did not walk away at all,” you retort, raising your brow in turn.

“Ungrateful,” he teases, even as he begins to trail tender kisses over your neck. “You’re lucky I adore you, dearly.”

You huff, pretending his words haven’t set you aflame in a way only he can.

“I suppose,” you begin, tapping your finger over your chin. “I could be persuaded to thank you properly if you go back to bed with me.”

Lucien glances at the report and pretends to consider it for three whole seconds, before setting it down the table with finality. He smiles, as bright as the sun, beautiful, blinding, yours.

“Let's go then,” he says, as he easily carries you back to your room.

AN:

Hello! I’m new to this fandom & I’d love to hear your thoughts. 💙

i’ve been so obsessed with Lucien recently. I made art of him and I love how people kept mentioning his freckles so here is we are. + I hate the cold and had the thought that Lucien would be the perfect person to cuddle up to in winter.

[risuola]

LOOKS LIKE WE'RE SNOWED IN FOR THE NIGHT — F. READER x KAMO CHOSO, with whom you got stuck in a cabin

A fireplace, a nice blanket, a bunch of snow and the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree… for some it might sound like a perfect way to spend the night during the festive season, but not when you’re stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with your biggest enemy. And it’s cold.

cw: smut, enemies to lovers, oral (f. receiving), angst-ish vibe, death mentioned (I put it as a warning, but honestly, if you're into jjk you're probably used to it, just sayin'), reader discretion is advised — 2,9k words

kissmas masterlist

“Looks like we’re snowed in for the night,” Choso pointed, making few futile attempts to push the doors open. “I can force the way out but I doubt you’re gonna survive it.” He added, venomous tone evident in his otherwise calm and low voice.

You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose. This is horrible, you thought, it couldn’t possibly get worse than that. The cabin, secluded and nestled deep in the woods, once a welcoming refuge from the cold, was now a claustrophobic cage trapping you and Choso inside. The doors, blocked by the snow piled high behind them were impossible to open and the windows – old and grime-stained – covered with ice, offered no escape. The interiors, now cleared out of the cursed spirit that resided in here scaring the owners away, were as cozy as they could be with warm colors of the creaking wooden floors and the twinkling lights on the Christmas tree, that funny enough was the only thing that still was working inside. The furniture was faded and worn-down by the humid air, the cobwebs decorating every corner.

The task at hand was simple enough – get in, exorcise, get out – but the snow and the cold were making everything more difficult, not to mention the man you had to share the experience with. It was a part of introducing the Death Painting into the jujutsu society and a silent attempt to make the two of you fonder of each other, but the result proved itself to be starkly different, when you got stuck with him for the night, or god knows how long.

“Damn,” you groaned finally, realizing there’s nothing you can do to make the situation better. No escape, no signal, not even a goddamn kettle that would work.

“Looks like you’re really screwed, huh?” Choso mocked you, a smirk twisting his features because he knew – he just knew that you’re not gonna make it through the night and though he enjoyed the idea of watching you freeze to death, he involuntarily threw some more wood into the fire to keep it alive.

“I’m perfectly fine, fuck you,” you snapped, glaring at his stupid handsome face from your place across the room, hoping silently that maybe once in this world a glare could kill.

You and Choso had always been on opposite sides. Your fights always end up in blood, there was little to no respect between you two, and though in a fight you two were able to work together, outside of it, it was a much different story. You just couldn’t stand each other, you could never put a finger on the reason why, but you just never clicked. Always having different opinions, always too stubborn to let go and not even once agreeing on a plan of work. You trusted him just enough to know he will most likely not kill you in your sleep.

Now, as the sound of the howling wind outside was constantly reminding you on the dire situation, the storm outside showing no signs of letting up, the pressure between you and him seemed to reach a breaking point. At first, you moved through the cabin, walking back and forth, avoiding each other’s gaze and trying to ignore the fact you were trapped together. “Sit quiet and stop being annoying,” you growled at him, hating the way he was sprawled comfortably on the little sofa while you were feeling more and more cold as the hours were passing by. Kamo and his damn temperature regulation.

You had been fighting constantly since you arrived, each blaming the other for the predicament you were in. You argued and hurled insults at each other, both trying to assert dominance over the other. You were constantly on the edge, you bickered until both of you were that close to exploding. You fought about everything, from the mission to the tiny space you were forced to share. You could barely stand the sound of each other’s breathing, much less the sight of each other’s faces and the constant, near proximity. It was only a matter of time one of you snapped.

It felt claustrophobic, nearly – the way only four walls were surrounding you and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t quite navigate yourself through the treacherous environment. You had no idea what exactly was oh-so wrong with this place. A desolate cabin with nothing but cold air and the palpable tension between you and Choso was slowly taking a toll on you. Harsh winter wind howled outside and it was clear that your spirits matched its bitterness. The twinkling, colorful lights adorning the mismatched Christmas tree in the corner did nothing to warm up the bleakness of the place.

Hours passed and you got tired of the banter. Choso noticed how slowly you became, quiet, less talkative. It became easier and easier to outsmart you as the cold was taking a toll on your body. Your retorts were less sharp, a little delayed as the temperature went even lower along with the night progressing.

“You’re gonna die in here?” He asked, his tone as nonchalant as ever, but it was getting to him that you might actually die that night. It was fun while it lasted and you did an excellent job in making him believe that you’re gonna survive the night, that you’re fine. He allowed his eyes, that up until that point were closed as he was resting on the sofa, to look at your form. You were shivering, seated on the furry carpet near the fireplace and though you were as close to the heat as it was possible, it didn’t do much to help you. Your breath was visible and you were constantly rubbing your hands together in hopes to stop them from going numb.

“I’m fine,” you said again, your voice much punier than you intended it to be and Kamo found it amusing how you forced yourself to sound strong, when in reality, you were so small and weak and vulnerable.

“Oh, are you?” The question had mocking qualities that Choso couldn’t hold back. “You know, all it takes is for you to ask nicely and I might consider warming you up.”

“Fuck you.” Oh, you were so stubborn. He shrugged and kept observing you.

The cabin fell quiet. The air was thick with tension and the only sounds were the occasional drip of water from the ceiling, crackling of fire in the fireplace and the soft tickling of a clock. The rattling of the windows in the wind accompanied the cacophony.

“Isn’t the big, strong sorceress now uncharacteristically quiet?” He joked once again, and you could have sworn that even in the freezing cold, he had an ability to make your blood boil. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I miss the times when paintings were not talking,” you retorted, wrapping yourself tighter in the imitation of a blanket you found laying around. “You have no idea how much I’d love to exorcise your half-cursed ass.”

“As if you were ever gonna be strong enough to put a harm onto me,” he said, pushing himself up from the couch. “Besides, you might wanna pick your words carefully. You’re at my mercy right now.”

“I’d rather be eaten by a polar bear than be at your mercy.”

“Oh, that would be a cool death, right?” He laughed, a taunting tone piercing the air and your soul, it seemed. “Or a curse. It would sound much better in the report later if I told your friends that you lost your life in battle, with bravery and strength, yeah? For sure it’s more appealing than a lame reason like freezing to death.”

“Oh, shut up…” you sighed, leaning your cheek on one of your knees. You kept them tightly pressed to your chest, a desperate attempt of storing any leftover heat along your torso, but it did little to nothing. “Come on, get your ass over there.”

“I already told you, you have to ask me nicely.”

“That’s as nice as I’m gonna get.”

“So that’s as close as you’re gonna get me,” he smirked, teasing you beyond decency, well aware of how delicate was a situation you were now in. To him, cold was nothing more than an inconvenience. In all honesty, he could break the doors open and just go through the snow during night and he would be just fine, but you… it was a different story and truth is that he stayed in the cabin only because of you.

“Choso, please, don’t be a dick, I’m freezing to death, literally,” you whined, forgetting about your pride and prioritizing the survival. “Please?”

“Much better,” Choso chuckled and moved from the sofa to the floor, sitting behind you with his legs on both sides of your frame. “Loosen up a little,” he ordered, throwing away your blanket and as his arm sneaked around your waist, he pulled you into himself, your back now pressed against his chest.

“Oh god…” you whimpered, shifting your position and wrapping yourself around him. He was hot and it felt like the heat was emitting from him, seeping onto you the moment you made contact with his muscular frame. You pushed your face against his neck, nuzzling your cold nose into his warm skin.

“Aren’t you a greedy little thing?” He commented, putting on an indifferent, snarky mask but inside, he was feeling things. It was odd, it was new. He wasn’t exactly an expert in romantic situations, in fact besides few really brief adventures with women, it was the first time he was actually somewhat intimate. Choso’s mind was in a limbo, trying to fight the thoughts of his body which were going crazy. The way your frame fit so closely to his, the way you turned your face and melted into him… it was almost too much. Thoughts raced around his head a mile a minute.

“Aren’t you a scrooge for letting me freeze while you’re that hot?”

“Well, I’m your partner on the job, not your personal heater,” he shrugged, allowing his hand to run along the curves of your waist and hip. “Also, I’d assume that the low temperature is a natural habitat for a cold bitch like you.”

“Ouch,” you acted hurt but couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “I have a great idea, why don’t you shut up?”

“Oh, did that sting you, princess?”

„I’m serious, you should shut the hell up,” it was a mumble, an unharmful one, but Choso must have gotten a different impression.

It was a flash. It took you few seconds to even register what just happened and once you did, you were already helpless beneath him. The soft, furry carpet now tickling you in the face as Choso kept you, chest down and pinned to the ground. It annoyed you how easily one of his hands kept both of your wrists pushed up above your head. You felt his weight on top of your thighs, his crotch pressed tightly to your ass and his other hand supporting his weight on the wooden floor.

“Now, if you’re gonna act like a brat, I’m gonna treat you as one,” he said, his voice low and close to your ear as he leaned down and gathered some of your hair to the side to uncover your face to his eyes. Your hopeless pulls and wriggles did nothing to loosen up his hold. If anything, his fingers only tightened their grip around your wrists.

“Get off me,” you groaned, trying to find your way out of the situation, but the movements of your body seemed to make it worse. The man hummed darkly, aiming a mean slap at your ass.

“Stop wiggling,” he warned, smirking at the way your body tensed for a moment. He couldn’t tell what’s gotten him into such a playful mood. Maybe it was all the thick air between you two finally exposing its true colors – something once filled with anger and hostility, now crackled with an undeniable sexual tension.

“Did you just slap me?” You couldn’t believe it, but you’d sooner be dead than you’ll admit out loud that it somehow felt good.

“I did,” he said nonchalantly. “You whined you’re cold, huh? Well, guess I’ll have to warm you up for real,” Choso added, now grinning mischievously. “Be a good girl, I know you can do it. Now I’ll let go of your hands and you’ll turn around, yeah?”

You hummed in response, not really sure what’s gotten into him but you were far from minding it so you flipped to your back as soon as he gave you a chance. Still on top of you, Choso kept a controlling grip over your hip, his touch burning your bare skin over there.

The fire crackled and flickered, casting warm, dancing shadows on the two of you but you couldn’t tell if the sparkle in his eyes was a reflection of it or just pure lust. The latter, you thought, catching his gaze as it scanned your form, paying a little more attention to your lips, chest and the little strip of skin that showed from underneath your blouse.

Kamo was enticed by you, fascinated even, by the way his body was suddenly yearning for you. The unusual desire overflown his senses and he found himself inching closer and closer, until he was just one, mere breath away from your mouth. He could feel you gasp, see the look of your eyes and if he wouldn’t know better he would be convinced there was lust in them too.

“Nervous?” He whispered, with a slight shadow of teasing painted all over his stupidly handsome features. His nose, now brushing against yours initiated the touch, a prelude of sorts to what was going to come and Choso chuckled at the lack of response from you. It was, in a way, an opening for you to push him away, to set a boundary, to lay down the consent but you made no effort to do any of that. Instead, you let your fingers to find his hair and once you pulled at them, there was no going back.

His lips pressed into yours. The kiss and the heat from your bodies warmed the cold air around you, melting the icy tension that lingered between you as you, too, melted below him. The time seemed to slow down and the melody of howling wind and fire was now a white noise to the soft sounds and whimpers you were making. Your mouth parted and Choso took the invitation eagerly, running his tongue along your lower lip and reaching yours. They twirled and twisted, danced and explored each other and you swore at the moment that the world around you had fallen away.

It didn’t take long since you were bare, completely exposed underneath his muscular body; the cold air around you a stark contrast to the extreme heat that was coming off of Choso. He was all around you, exploring your shapes with touches so tender, you couldn’t help but feel worshipped. The way he touched you, the way he kissed and drank every inch of your skin made your heart rumble against your ribcage. He went down, tracing the ups and downs of your figure with wet, sloppy stamps of his lips until he reached your thighs – both of which he kissed with as much attention.

It was intoxicating. Kamo felt as if everything around him twirled and he was drowning in the soft feeling of your plush skin. The curves of you filled every bit of his mind. Addicting, you were, so addicting he couldn’t find a strength to pull back and before he knew it, his tongue was already lapping at your clit. The beautiful melody of your moans filling his ears as he worked his mouth over the puffy bud, sucking and licking simultaneously. Waves and waves of pleasure you felt, spreading from your core and reaching every part of you. It was hot, it was like nothing else you’ve ever experienced.

“Oh god, Choso~” you were whining, a surprise to you cause up until this time you would swear you’re not the one to make such lewd noises during sex. All of that went out the window when it came to the man between your legs. He was flicking his tongue, twirling it and pressing it flat; every movement centered and focused, sharing one objective – to abuse the most sensitive, sweet spot on your body. He took his time, it was wet and sloppy, it was messy. The silky sensation of his tongue, warm and soft… oh, man has a talent.

Your breath was stuttering, hands grabbing the fluffy fibers of the carpet as your thighs were trembling and the urge to squeeze them over Choso’s head was slowly becoming irresistible. The way he was making out with your clit drove you insane, it brought you to the edge and pushed you over. You came undone and you came hard. He wasn’t stopping, just slowing down and leading you through the high as if it was his job and the very core of his existence.

“Feeling warmer?” He asked, once slowly coming back up above you. His face was now a real painting, covered with your essence and his lips, swollen and wet, stretched into a grin of satisfaction as he was taking in the sight of your breathless form. You nodded, barely registering the subtle teasing undertone he had in his voice. “Good. But I’m going to make you even hotter.”

[jane-the-good]

Wander In Wonder: CALEB

WORD COUNT: 3.7 K

SUMMARY: Fantasy AU! You escape the confines of your life in search of one that is your own choosing. Caleb finds you along the path he was destined to keep and offers to guide you to live a life of safety and peace

AN: Caleb wasn’t here for Wander in Wonder, so I made it happen ◡̈ I love piecing the tiny details of the Caleb we know and love into things like this. I really wish this was real for him!!

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut, oral sex, mentions of explosions, combat fighting, death ♡

AO3 caleb masterlist

The cold is a living thing, curling around your skin, creeping into your bones, burrowing deep. It does not simply cling, it seeps, sinking past flesh and sinew, winding itself through your ribs with roots breaking through it’s cracked stone. You press your back against the rough bark of a tree, but there is no shelter here, no warmth. The wind howls through the trees, a mournful, unrelenting thing, whispering through the hollows of your ears, stealing what little breath you have left.

Your limbs are leaden, heavy with exhaustion, your breath thin as if the air itself refuses to fill your lungs. Every step that brought you here was a battle, against the waves, against the cold, against the weight of your own survival. You left the island behind, the place you once called a sanctuary. Now, with distance stretching with you and that lonely shore, you see it for what it truly was.

Not a refuge, but a cage.

Not safety, but solitude.

In the vast, endless dark of this unfamiliar land, you wonder which was worse.

The night presses close, the wind a whispering thing, threading through the trees. You clutch at your chest, fingers digging into the skin above your heart. The sacred gem pulses beneath your ribs, its light faint against the cold that has turned your body to ice. Someone is coming. Someone who will carve it from your flesh, who will steal its power and leave your corpse in the dirt.

Your vision wavers, your eyelids too heavy to hold open. The cold is a tide, dragging you under. You let it take you.

Firelight flickers, carving shapes into the dark. Warmth surrounds you, strange yet soothing, pressing against the cold that had seeped into your bones. The scent of burning wood curls through the air, and the dull ache in your limbs is softened by a heat that is not your own. You shift, barely, and realize, your body is pressed against bare skin.

Your eyes snap open. A man sits beside you, his chest bare, his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to the present with his warmth. His grip is steady, his touch so careful. He does not flinch when you meet his gaze. He only watches, calm and unreadable, his dark eyes deep as an ocean.

“You were close to death,” he says, voice low releasing embers still holding heat. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, not pity, not fear, but understanding.

You do not fear him. There is no greed in his expression, no shadow of the hunger that has chased you across land and sea. The gift within your heart reveals truths, and in him, you see something rare, something safe.

“Who are you?”

He exhales through his nose, as if already tired of the question. “My title is Protector of the Sacred Path.” The words come out stiff, almost begrudging, in a role he never truly chose, “But my name is Caleb.” His voice softens, as if that’s the part that actually matters. “And you?”

You hesitate. The question shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. You’ve spent so long being something to someone else, a runaway, a target, a vessel for the thing inside you, that you never stopped to consider who you might be if given the choice.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit.

Caleb studies you, and for a moment, you think he might press further. But he smiles, small, understanding. “Fair enough.”

A silence settles, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire. He speaks again.

“If you’re running from something, you’ll always have an eye looking over your shoulder.”

You let out a breath. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

His expression flickers in thought but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods. “Okay. I’ll help where I can.” His voice carries a quiet certainty, holding a promise he doesn’t expect gratitude for.

Gentler, “Where can I take you?”

You swallow, feeling the weight of your answer. You are exhausted, frayed at the edges. Your entire life has been spent fleeing, surviving. Safety has always been an illusion, a concept dangled just out of reach.

And yet, when you look at him, the thought doesn’t feel so impossible.

“To safety,” you whisper at last.

His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, something knowing in his eyes. He nods.

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips, not mocking, not dismissive, just quiet, understanding exactly what you mean. "I know the perfect place. A place to live a life. one that’s yours.”

You study him, searching for deception, but there is none. Only patience. Only quiet resolve. The fire crackles, warmth reaching into the empty spaces you had long stopped trying to fill.

“And what do you call this place?" you ask, tilting your head slightly.

His smile deepens, though it still holds something wistful, something you cannot yet name. "You'll see."

A beat of silence stretches, but it is not uncomfortable. It is something else entirely, something fragile, gasping for the first breath after nearly drowning. Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you have to.

Instead, he stands. A pause, a breath, a choice. He offers you a hand, and you take it.

Through tangled forests and winding roads. Through ruined cities swallowed by ivy and the bones of bridges long since collapsed. He moves as a shadow at your side, constant and unwavering. He is sharp edges and quiet loyalty, a presence carved in heartbeats. He does not ask for explanations. He does not flinch from the weight you carry. When danger rises, he meets it with steel and certainty. When the cold creeps in, he presses closer. He is a promise of warmth.

At first, it is survival. A necessary truce. Two souls moving in the same direction simply because neither has anywhere else to go. But the road is long, and silence is a fragile thing. It breaks in small, stolen moments.

Awoken so thirsty in the middle of the, you feel him shuffle from beside you. The cold winds slipping through the gaps of what was, just a moment ago, guarded by his chest. He hands you your shared vessel of water. “There’s not very much left, but it’s warm.” Your fingers brush his as you take it. You both still, as if waiting for something unspoken to surface. But it does not. Not yet.

A day beneath a sky stretched wide and endless, the hush of wind through empty fields. He finds an overgrown orchard and plucks a piece of fruit, tossing it to you with a half-smile. “They taste ancient, in a really bad way.” You take a bite. It tastes like dust. He was right. But it also tastes like laughter held too long behind teeth.

A moment at dusk, when the world is painted in shades of dying light. The fire flickers low, casting long shadows, stretching time thin. You remember the first moment you saw him. The silence is not heavy, but fragile glass on the verge of breaking.

You feel his gaze before you meet it, a pull as inevitable as the tide drawn to the shore. He’s watching you, not like a question, but like an answer he hasn’t yet learned how to say.

“Didn’t know you hummed,” he says, voice quiet, rough from the long day of hiking.

You blink, caught off guard. “I didn’t either.”

His lips twitch, almost in a smile, but something softer. “Why?”

You hesitate, fingers curling around the worn fabric of your stolen cloak. “I think…” You exhale, shaking your head. “Maybe , for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to be quiet.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let you fold into yourself the way you usually do when words feel like too much. Instead, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the short depth between you shrinking with each breath.

“I really like it,” he murmurs.

The words settle deep, an unexpected warmth blooming in your chest. It’s terrifying, how easily he gets past your walls, how his presence has become something steady, something certain, and necessary.

The fire crackles. The wind stirs the trees. And still, neither of you move.

When he reaches out, you’re not surprised, you know he isn’t either, yet he is still slow and careful, as if giving you time to pull away. He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, tracing a path so light it could be mistaken for hesitation. But there is no hesitation. Only the unbearable tension of something long overdue.

You tilt your head. His eyes search yours, and you don’t know if he’s asking for permission or waiting for you to break first.

You break.

The moment your lips meet, the world exhales. It is not desperate, not rushed. It is quiet, steady, the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand, but simply is. His fingers tighten against your skin, as if grounding himself, as if making sure you’re real. You thread your hand into his shirt, holding onto him using the weight of the moment as an anchor.

When you part, the absence is almost unbearable. He lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath unsteady.

“Seizing what’s yours looks gorgeous on you.” He speaks without even thinking about processing his words. “I’m so proud.”

You climb on to his lap, to make him more proud. Enjoying how the sounds of the leaves fade when his mouth is on yours. His arms hold you with treasure and care, not wanting to let you go but giving you the freedom to move as your please. The rock under your bent knees scrapes each time you grind on his lap, but he will take of any wounds later.

You pull away from his lips to better worship is jaw and his neck and his collarbone and his chest.

“It was very kind of you to save me that day.” Your hands caress the sides of his torso with care before you guide his blouse over his head. “I thanked you many times, but I don’t really know if you felt it yet”

You pull at the laces on his pants.

He exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s something raw in his expression, something that flickers. restraint and surrender. “Should we slow down?” he asks, and there’s no reluctance in his voice, only care. One of his hands finds yours, stopping your movements with a featherlight touch.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I really don’t want to.”

You both know how hard he is, the inevitability of it, the way you’ve been circling each other for so long that stopping now would feel like denying gravity.

“We don’t have to go to the stars,” you murmur. “We can just explore the path.”

You shift his hand from yours, guiding it to rest at the crown of your head, before resuming the deliberate task of unlacing his pants.

His fingers curl at the nape of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I can never deny you,” he breathes.

The sound that escapes him when he’s finally freed from the constraint of his pants is nothing short of beautiful, raw, helpless, edged with relief and want. It ripples through you, sinking deep, settling low. And in that moment, you understand, this must be how he felt when he told you he liked your humming. Like hearing something so unexpectedly intimate, so undeniably yours, that it becomes a song he never wants to forget.

You gently grasp his base with both of your hands so you can kitten lick the tip, trying to discover what he likes the best. You lift your gaze to meet his eyes, searching for a flicker of reaction. He stands frozen, caught in disbelief and awe. You slide one long lick along the underside of the base before wrapping your lips around him.

“Darling, you are an other worldly treasure.” His head falls back.

You hum in response while sliding him in and out of your mouth. His hand on your hair tightens when you swirl your tounge around his tip. His moan settles between your thighs and climbs up your spine.

You glide one hand to cradle his balls and he involuntarily thrusts forward, sending him to the back of your throat, forcing you choke.

“I’m sorry, love, are you alright?” And when he pulls away just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing against your cheek, his voice is nothing but devotion.

You swirl your tongue again and his head leans forward in blissed defeat. His breathing picks up and you feel him pulse against your tongue. His moans are so encouraging, you feel them in your own core. He is so close.

and just when you think you have him in the palm of your hand,

His hand pulls, swift, sure, from your hair to your shoulder, guiding you away with a touch that is both careful and desperate. And then he is on you, over you, pressing you down beneath him. The tide pulling the shore into its depths.

His lips find yours in a hunger that has been simmering beneath the surface, now set free. It is not a question. It is not hesitation. It is the inevitability of gravity, of two bodies drawn together, of something too long restrained finally breaking loose.

“I have never actually thanked you, for falling into my life” He grinds against you

His hand slides up your thigh, a slow, deliberate ascent, before guiding your leg around his back, anchoring you to him, as if you could ever drift away. His mouth maps its way down, pressing reverence into fabric, into skin, through your breaths. And when he finally stops, his breath is warm against your pulse, against the place where need and anticipation blur into something electric. Your leg drapes over his shoulder in a claim.

His voice is barely a whisper, but it hums through you like a vow.

“Please, let me make it up to you.”

You would do anything for him.

“Anything you desire.”

His mouth finds you almost instantly, a breath, a press, a kiss through fabric that leaves you unraveling beneath him. The sensation is so consuming, you barely register the hand ghosting up your hip, the slow, practiced tug of your underwear slipping lower, lower. Only when he pulls back do you realize, he’s peeling them from your legs, his gaze dark, reverent. Drawn by instinct alone, he lifts them to his nose, breathing you in like something sacred before leaning down once more, intent on finishing what he started.

You already knew his tongue is divine at teasing you with words, this is so different.

“Caleb.” You arch in bliss.

One hand finds your clit, teasing, circling, setting you alight, while the other wraps around himself, stroking in time with the rhythm he’s building. His moans are a melody against your skin, low and reverent, vibrating through you until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. When you breathe, it barely feels like breathing at all, just a sharp, shattered thing, like air tangled with want and oblivion.

“Come with me darling.” He is desperate and demanding.

You see the stars, but not just the ones you expected. There are infinitely more, stretching vast and endless, and for the first time, you’re not just looking at them. You’re feeling them. You’re part of them. And the only thing more breathtaking than their glow is the quiet, steady presence of him with you.

You return to earth in gasping breaths, your body still singing with the echoes of him. He shifts, gathering you into his arms, pressing you, cherishing how precious and irreplaceable he has known you to be.

“I’m so grateful for you,” he murmurs, his voice rugged with something deeper than exhaustion.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He hums, pulling you onto him, wrapping the cloak from beneath you around both of your bodies, cocooning you in warmth. His hand moves in slow, absent strokes along your back, grounding you, soothing you. The weight of the day settles over you both, but for once, it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels safe. Because you are here. Because he is holding you.

It would be easier to call this survival. Easier to blame the loneliness, the way time and distance have frayed you both down to something raw, and searching. But the thought lingers, soft and certain words. Was it not someplace I left for, and instead someone? What if it was always meant to be this?

You do not know the answer. Perhaps you never will. But as you walk beside him, step for step, heartbeat for heartbeat, you know this: you are not alone. Not anymore. And for the first time in a long, long time, maybe never again.

The sanctuary is within reach when they come for you.

They strike as wraiths in the dark, wrenching you from Caleb’s grasp before you can scream. His warmth vanishes in an instant, replaced by the crushing grip of your captors. Rough hands pin you down, the cold press of steel against your chest. Then, pain. White-hot, searing, as they carve toward the gem buried within you. You thrash, but their hold is unyielding. Your own screams rip through the night, swallowed by the clash of steel, the guttural cries of men falling, falling to him.

Caleb fights as a man possessed. His voice cuts through the chaos, raw with fury, desperation, his only focus is you. He carves a path through them, reaching for you. He’s almost there. Just a little more, just a moment longer, 

Then, an explosion. The world tilts. A shockwave tears through the field, slamming into you in a tidal wave. Sound collapses into a void. The night turns to ruin.

When your vision clears, the world is unrecognizable. Ash hangs in the air, thick as fog. The ground is littered with bodies, lifeless. Your stomach twists as you search for him. The second you see his body, the breath is stolen from your lungs.

Caleb.

He lies amidst the fallen, a broken thing in a world still reeling from battle. His body, too still. His arm, mangled, ruined, the ruin of it staining the earth beneath him. No, no, no,  The word thrums through you, a desperate, useless plea. Your limbs barely obey as you pull yourself toward him, the ground unsteady, your breath shattering in your chest. Your hands find his face, trembling violently, as if trying to will him back, as if trying to anchor him here, here, with you.

"Caleb," you whisper, in a voice that is barely there.

His skin is so cold. You didn’t know that was even possible for him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were so close. For the first time in centuries, you let yourself believe, truly, foolishly believe, that you could have something safe, something real. That you could be more than a shadow passing through time. Caleb made you feel like a person, like you could live, not just endure. Like you deserved to. And now, now he’s slipping away.

The cruelest part is that you can’t follow.

And now he’s gone.

Tears blur your vision as you clutch him. You should have been the one to fall. You should have saved him. But you weren’t given that choice. You were cursed to endure, to outlast everyone, no matter how much it destroyed you.

A sob rips from your chest as you press your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper. "Please, don’t leave me."

But the night gives no answer.

“No,” you whisper. “Not you. Not after everything.”

Your vision wavers, grief turning the world to nothing but shadow and ruin. You press your forehead to his, breath unsteady, heart aching in a way no magic, no curse, no wound has ever made it ache before. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words fractured, breaking apart as they leave you. “For everything. I never would have have experienced what living could be, without you.”

A sob tears through you more jagged than his broken dagger. Only one regret lingers, one thing left undone before fate rips him away. Your hands shake as they cradle his face, as you press your lips to his, soft and lingering, a farewell etched in sorrow.

Your heart clenches.

And then, it beats.

Once. Twice.

A pulse tears through your chest, light, warmth, and something else. Something ancient. Something eternal. The gem hums, its vibrations spilling outward, threading into his skin like tendrils of life. They wrap around his still form, caressing, binding, as if pulling him from the abyss with unseen hands that have always known him.

A gasp shatters the silence.

Caleb jerks upright, breath torn from his lungs as though ripped back from the brink. His fingers dig into your arms, grounding himself in the shock of existence. His eyes, wild, disoriented, lock onto yours.

"Why are you crying?" Are you hurt?” he asks, voice thick, oblivious.

A breathless laugh shakes through you, disbelief and relief tangling in your ribs. He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t realize he was gone. That you are the reason for his living.

Your heart beats again, but this time, not just for survival.

This time, it beats for him.

He pulls you into his arms, as if to shield you from a danger already past. Concern flickers in his gaze, as if the tears in your eyes are the only thing that matters..

The protector of the sacred path was destined to protect this path that you walked upon to seek understanding.

The power within you, the eternal blessing of the gem, was never meant to be stolen. Never meant to be wielded through blood and sacrifice.

Amplifying the reason it beats through unwavering, selfless, boundless, tender and unconditional devotion.

A heart cannot be ripped out, and divided to be shared.

It can only be given freely.

[kittenan]

In Your Arms

Pairing: CEO!Taehyung x Bold!Reader Genre: Smut, Fluff, Angst, Power Play, Reunion Rating: 18+ (MINORS DNI) Warnings: Explicit sexual content, strong language, power dynamics, unprotected sex, dirty talk, desk sex, oral (f. receiving), light dom/sub vibes, rough sex, mentions of past heartbreak, alcohol mention. Word Count: ~7k

The Seoul skyline sparkled like a field of stars, its glowing lights shining through the huge windows of Vante Luxe’s penthouse office. Kim Taehyung, thirty, sat behind his glass desk, the epitome of cold charisma. His black suit was tailored to perfection, the top button of his white shirt undone, revealing a tantalizing sliver of tanned collarbone. Dark hair swept back, a single strand falling over eyes that could command empires. As CEO of a luxury fashion conglomerate, he was untouchable—a king in a glass castle.

His assistant, a sharp-eyed woman in her forties, knocked lightly on the doorframe. “Mr. Kim, the last candidate for the creative director position is here.”

Taehyung glanced up from his tablet, his expression unreadable. “Send her in.”

The door opened, and you stepped inside. At twenty-five, you were a vision of confidence—crimson blazer and pencil skirt hugging your curves, heels clicking against the marble floor like a war drum. Your hair cascaded in loose waves, lips painted a bold red that matched your fire. New to Seoul, you’d left Busan behind, chasing ambition in a city that felt too big, too cold. You clutched a leather portfolio, ready to claim your place at VanTae Luxe.

Then you saw him.

Your breath caught, your heart slamming against your ribs. Kim Taehyung. The man who’d haunted your dreams for seven years. The one you’d claimed in a reckless, fiery summer fling in Busan. You hadn’t known he was the CEO—you’d applied blindly, expecting some faceless executive, not him.

“Miss Y/n,” Taehyung said, voice smooth as velvet, betraying none of the shock rippling through him. He recognized you instantly, the memory of your touch searing his skin. But his face remained a mask, his eyes locking onto yours with calculated calm. “Please, sit.”

You swallowed, forcing your legs to move despite the tremor in your knees. You slid into the leather chair across his desk, crossing your legs slowly, the hem of your skirt riding up just enough to make his jaw tick. “Mr. Kim,” you said, your voice steady despite the chaos in your chest. “It’s… been a while.”

His brow arched, fingers steepling as he leaned back, exuding control. “Is that so? I meet many people, Miss Y/n. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Your lips twitched, a spark of defiance flaring. He was playing coy, but you saw the flicker in his eyes—the recognition, the heat. You leaned forward, blouse dipping slightly, your smile teasing but professional. “I’m sure you do. I’m not so easy to forget.”

Taehyung’s lips quirked, the barest hint of amusement breaking through his icy facade. “Let’s see if you can prove that. Why VanTae Luxe?”

You met his challenge head-on, your voice firm. “Because you’re the best, and I’m here to take it to the next level. Your brand is perfect, but it plays it safe. I’d make it bold, iconic. I don’t follow trends—I create them.” Your eyes held his, a silent dare. “Think you can keep up with me?”

The air crackled, his gaze darkening. He knew the game you were playing, and damn if he didn’t want to play back. “Bold words,” he said, voice low, almost dangerous. “But I don’t hire on promises. Show me results.”

And so, the interview kicked off—a battle of wits, a game of who’s in charge.

Seven years ago, Busan was a fever dream of salt air and untamed desire. Taehyung, twenty-three, was a college student on a rare break, his sharp jaw and glowing eyes making him a magnet for trouble. You were eighteen, a hurricane in human form, pouring coffee at a beachside café by day and ruling the night with a wildness that burned. When he spilled his iced latte, you didn’t just hand him a napkin—you leaned over the counter, smirking, and whispered, “Careful, city boy. You’re playing with fire.” He was hooked, and you were gasoline.

Three days. That’s all you had. Three days of raw, feral passion that left you both scorched. Taehyung was in control, his dominance a dark current that pulled you under, but you matched him, stride for stride, your wildness fueling his fire. You both loved it rough, thriving on the edge of chaos.

The first night, he followed you to your cramped apartment, his hands on you before the door slammed shut. He pinned you against the wall, his lips crashing into yours, all teeth and hunger, his grip bruising your wrists as he held them above your head. “You want this?” he growled, his voice low, dangerous. You smirked, biting his lip hard enough to draw a hiss. “Fuck me like you mean it,” you shot back, already tugging his shirt off, nails raking down his chest. He didn’t hold back—ripping your shorts down, he lifted you, your legs wrapping around him as he thrust into you, hard and deep, the wall shaking with every slam. You moaned, loud and unashamed, clawing his back, urging him faster. “Harder, Tae,” you demanded, and he obliged, fucking you until the neighbors pounded on the wall, your screams drowning them out.

The second day, you barely left your bed, a tangle of sweat and sheets. Taehyung was relentless, his hands everywhere, his mouth claiming you like territory. He’d pin you down, tying your wrists with his belt, his tongue teasing your clit until you were writhing, begging for release. “Not yet,” he’d murmur, smirking against your skin, drawing it out until you were a trembling mess. But you gave as good as you got—flipping him over, you straddled him, sinking onto his cock with a moan that echoed, riding him rough, your nails digging into his shoulders. “You think you’re in charge?” you taunted, slamming your hips down, making him groan. “I’ll break you first.” He gripped your hips, thrusting up to meet you, the headboard cracking against the wall as you both pushed each other to the brink. When he went down on you again, you didn’t let him tease—you fisted his hair, grinding against his mouth, coming so hard you saw stars. “Fuck, you’re wild,” he panted, and you just grinned, pulling him into you again.

The third night, you led him to the beach, a blanket under a sky ablaze with fireworks. The crowd was distant, but you didn’t care who saw. Taehyung pulled you onto his lap, his hands under your dress, tearing your panties aside. “You’re mine tonight,” he growled, his voice rough with need, and you laughed, pushing him down, straddling him. “Prove it,” you challenged, sinking onto him, the ocean swallowing your moans as you rode him, rough and unrelenting, your nails carving lines down his chest. He matched your pace, his thrusts deep, bruising, his hands gripping your thighs like he’d never let go. “I’m falling for you,” he whispered, raw and vulnerable, his eyes searching yours. You kissed him, deep and desperate, your heart cracking. You hadn’t known your mother’s illness would steal you away. You thought you had time.

The next morning, your phone rang. Your mother’s voice, frail and urgent: “Cancer. Stage four. Come home, Y/n. I am afraid.” Daegu was hours away, and panic clawed at you. You packed in a daze, tears falling. You and Taehyung hadn’t exchanged numbers—your fling was meant to be a fleeting inferno, no strings, no future. You’d planned to find him at the café, to explain, but there was no time. You left, his absence a wound you carried for years.

Taehyung woke to cold sheets, your jasmine perfume fading. He searched for you, haunted by your fire, but Busan gave him nothing. For seven years, you were a ghost, a flame he couldn’t extinguish.

The interview was a warzone of wit and will. Taehyung’s questions were sharp, designed to test your intellect and nerve. You countered with precision, your answers laced with sass and confidence, refusing to let him intimidate you.

“What’s your approach to innovation?” he asked, leaning forward, eyes boring into yours like he could see your soul.

You mirrored him, elbows on the desk, closing the distance. “I break things—rules, trends, egos. Then I rebuild them better. Your brand’s perfect, but it’s predictable. I’d make it dangerous.” Your lips curved, teasing but controlled. “Unless you’re afraid of a little chaos.”

His jaw tightened, a flicker of heat in his gaze. “Afraid? No. But I don’t bet on unproven talent.”

“Then test me,” you shot back, uncrossing your legs, the slow movement drawing his eye for a heartbeat. “Give me a challenge. I’ll make you regret doubting me.”

He smirked, the first real crack in his cold facade. “Careful, Miss Y/n. I play to win.”

“So do I,” you whispered, voice low, a promise wrapped in velvet.

The questions grew fiercer, the banter sharper. You challenged his authority, he pushed your limits. Every word was foreplay, every glance a spark. The room shrank, skyline fading until it was just you and him, two flames burning too close.

Then came the final question.

He leaned back, voice low, intimate. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

You stood, bracing your hands on the desk, your face inches from his. Your eyes locked, the air electric. “In your arms,” you said, voice soft but unwavering, a dare that cut through the pretense.

Taehyung froze, his breath hitching. His cheeks flushed, the first sign of vulnerability you’d seen. For a moment, he was twenty-three again, lost in you. Then, his voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Maybe with one baby, too.”

Your heart raced, heat flooding your core. You leaned closer, lips brushing his ear, your whisper a secret for yourself alone. “Maybe two… if you beg.”

The world stopped.

Taehyung was around the desk in three strides, his hands on your waist, pushing you back against the glass. Papers scattered, your portfolio crashed to the floor, but you didn’t care. His body pinned yours, hard and hot, his thigh pressing between your legs, sending a jolt through you.

“You’re still a fucking trouble,” he growled, lips hovering over yours, teasing, torturing.

You tilted your chin, defiant. “And you’re still starving for it.” Your fingers yanked his tie, pulling him closer. “Kiss me, Taehyung. Or are you still pretending you don’t know me?”

His mouth crashed into yours, a kiss that was all hunger and heat, seven years of longing poured into every bruising press. Your lips parted, his tongue sweeping in, claiming you with a groan that vibrated through you. Your hands slid under his jacket, nails raking down his back, urging him closer.

He broke away, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you challenged, voice breathy, eyes blazing.

His hands slid to your thighs, hiking your skirt up until it bunched at your hips. Crimson lace panties peeked out, and he cursed, fingers brushing the damp fabric. “Fuck, Y/n. You’re dripping for me.”

You smirked, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him flush against you. “What are you waiting for?”

His control shattered. He yanked your blouse open, buttons flying, revealing a crimson bra that made him growl. His lips attacked your neck, sucking marks into your skin, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples through the lace. You moaned, arching into him, fingers fumbling with his belt.

“Impatient,” he teased, but his hands shook as he slid your panties down, tossing them aside. His fingers found you, slick and ready, circling your clit with maddening precision. “So fucking wet.”

“Taehyung,” you gasped, hips grinding against his hand. “Don’t tease.”

He chuckled, dark and low, sliding two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that made you see stars. “You’re so tight, baby. Been dreaming about this pussy for years.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, moans spilling as he pumped his fingers, thumb working your clit. “Fuck, Tae—more, please.”

He pulled back, ignoring your whine, and shoved his pants down, freeing his cock—hard, thick, the tip glistening. He stroked himself, eyes locked on yours. “You want this?”

“Yes,” you begged, gripping the desk. “Now.”

He didn’t tease. He lined up, thrusting in deep, filling you completely. You cried out, walls clenching around him, your body trembling as he stretched you. “Fuck,” he groaned, gripping your hips, fingers bruising. “You still feel like heaven.”

You matched his rhythm, rocking against him, moans echoing in the office. The desk shook, papers flying, the glass cool against your skin as he fucked you with a relentless pace. His lips found yours, the kiss sloppy, desperate, breaths mingling as you chased release.

“Look at me,” he growled, cupping your jaw. “I want to see you come.”

Your eyes locked, and he angled his thrusts, hitting that spot over and over. “Tae—I’m—fuck, I’m close.”

“Come for me,” he rasped, thumb circling your clit. “Let me feel you.”

You shattered, your orgasm crashing through you, walls pulsing as you screamed his name. The sight of you—head back, lips parted, body shaking—pushed him over. He thrust deep, coming with a guttural moan, spilling inside you, hips jerking as he rode it out.

You stayed there, panting, his body pressed to yours, your legs still around him. The office was chaos—papers everywhere, your blouse ruined, his tie crooked. But it was perfect.

Taehyung carried you to the leather couch, collapsing with you in his arms. His fingers traced your back, your head tucked against his chest, his heartbeat grounding you.

“Why’d you leave?” he asked, voice soft, raw.

You sighed, fingers playing with his shirt. “My mom got sick. Stage four cancer. I got a call that morning—she needed me in Daegu. I had to go. I didn’t have your number, and I didn’t think… I didn’t know it’d hit me so hard. I wanted to find you, Tae, but there was no time. After her passing, I completed my graduation and shifted back to Busan two years ago.”

He tilted your chin, eyes searching yours. “It meant everything to me. I looked for you, Y/n. Every summer, I went back to that café. But after becoming CEO two years ago, I couldn’t make time.”

Your heart ached, a tear slipping free. “I thought about you every night.”

He kissed you, slow and tender, pouring his heart into it. “I’m not letting you go again.”

You smiled, kissing his palm. “Promise. I want to stay this time.”

A beat, then you grinned, playful. “So… the job?”

He laughed, rich and warm. “Hired. Permanently.”

“Perks?” you teased, straddling his lap, hands on his chest.

He smirked, pulling you close. “Me. 24/7. Unlimited Access.”

Hours later, you stood in the elevator of Taehyung’s penthouse, the keycard he’d slipped you glinting in your hand. The doors opened, and you stepped into a world of sleek luxury—floor-to-ceiling windows framing twinkling skyline, plush furniture, and a faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. Your heels clicked on the hardwood as you tossed your purse onto a velvet couch, smirking at the bottle of champagne chilling on the counter. He planned this.

Taehyung appeared from the hallway, shirtless, his dress pants slung low on his hips, revealing the sharp V of his abdomen. His hair was damp, fresh from a shower, and his eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned against the wall, a glass of champagne in hand. “Took you long enough, wildfire,” he teased, using the nickname he’d given you in Busan.

You raised a brow, kicking off your stilettos and sauntering toward him, your hips swaying with every step. “Had to make you wait, city boy.” You plucked the glass from his hand, taking a slow sip, letting the bubbles dance on your tongue. “Nice place. Perk of the job?”

He grinned, stepping closer, his hand finding your waist. “Perk of being mine.” His thumb brushed your hip, sending a shiver through you. “You like it?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “Needs more… chaos. Maybe a few claw marks on that fancy couch.” You dragged a nail down his chest, light but deliberate, watching his eyes darken.

He laughed, low and rich, pulling you flush against him. “Still a troublemaker. You’ll ruin my furniture, won’t you?”

“Only if you’re lucky,” you shot back, nipping his bottom lip. “But I’m keeping the keycard. Non-negotiable.”

His hands slid to your ass, squeezing playfully. “Deal. But you’re moving in by next week. I’m not chasing you across Seoul.”

You gasped, mock-offended, pushing against his chest. “Moving in? Bold of you to assume I’d give up my independence for your pretty face.”

He smirked, catching your wrists and pinning them behind you, his lips brushing your ear. “Not my face, baby. My bed. You’ll be begging to stay once I’m done with you.”

You laughed, wriggling free and darting toward the champagne bottle. “We’ll see who’s begging, Kim.” You popped the cork with a flourish, the foam spilling over your fingers, and he groaned, chasing you to the counter.

“Messy girl,” he scolded, grabbing your waist and lifting you onto the marble, his lips crashing into yours. The kiss was playful, all teasing nips and giggles, but it softened, his hands cupping your face like you were precious. “I missed you,” he murmured, voice raw. “Every fucking day.”

Your heart fluttered, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “I missed you too, Tae. But no more running. I’m here. All in.”

He smiled, that boyish grin from Busan, and kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “Good. Because I’m planning forever. Babies, chaos, all of it.”

You smirked, poking his chest. “Two babies. And you’re begging first.”

He laughed, scooping you up on his shoulder and carrying you toward the bedroom, your squeals echoing through the penthouse. “We’ll see, wildfire. We’ll see.”

As he kicked the door shut, you knew—this was just the beginning.

A/n: Did Y/n and Taehyung’s wild summer and fiery reunion set your soul on fire? 😈 Reblog, comment, or slide into my asks to yell about this chaos couple!

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe  . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire

[misshoneyimhome]

What’s up, buttercups! 💕 Welcome back to chapter two of The Benchwarmer! First off—thank you so much for all the love and excitement you’ve shared for this story already. Seeing your reactions has been the absolute best, and I’m beyond excited to keep unfolding this journey with you!

Now, in case you’re wondering—will there ever be any intimate interactions between Reader and Auston? Oh, absolutely ✨ Have I made this a painfully slow burn that’s torturing even me with the suspense? Also yes🔥 Happy reading, my darlings! 💕✨

Tropes & warnings: inexperienced!reader x Auston Matthews, meet cute, strangers to friends, fake relationship, no warnings

Word count: 6.3K Chapter one

➼｡ﾟ

Chapter two: #MysteryQueen

::

“Dearest Toronto readers, it seems we have a mystery on our hands. Last night’s charity gala gave us glitz, glamour, and a moment that has the internet on fire. Forget the perfectly tailored suits, designer gowns, and champagne flutes—because what truly stole the show was one unexpected stumble and the instant chemistry that followed.

Our beloved Ice King, Auston Matthews, found himself caught in an uncharacteristically warm moment with an unidentified woman whose presence has ignited more conspiracy theories than a Stanley Cup drought. A fleeting touch, a lingering gaze, and now a photo has been seen around the world. Toronto can’t stop talking about it, and #MysteryQueen is trending faster than you can say, ‘Hat trick.’

Could the Ice King’s frosty demeanour finally be thawing?

Now, let’s not forget the timing, dear readers. With Matthews stepping into the captain’s role this season, his every move has been scrutinised. A new relationship would add fuel to the fire, making the stakes higher than ever. But this columnist can’t help but wonder—does the man who keeps everyone at arm’s length finally have someone worth letting in?

Stay tuned, Toronto. This season has just begun, and the story is heating up – so you know I’ll be here to bring you every detail.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer.”

_

Monday -

The shrill sound of your alarm cut through the quiet of your bedroom, jolting you awake with a groggy start. You fumbled to silence it, groaning as you buried your face back into the pillow. The events of the gala were already slipping into a hazy blur—clinking glasses, polished speeches, and that awkward but fleeting moment with Auston Matthews. Another long night of work, another day ahead. Same routine, different Monday.

Except… your phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.

The incessant buzzing broke through your grogginess like a second alarm. You squinted at the screen, your vision struggling to adjust to the early morning light filtering through the blinds. Notification after notification lit up your phone, the vibration almost rattling it off your nightstand. You reached for it, dread prickling at the edges of your still-sleepy mind. Why was everyone blowing up your phone?

You swiped it open only to see your group chat with Jess and Maya was on fire.

Jess (7:23 AM): OH MY GOD, HAVE YOU SEEN THIS?

Maya (7:24 AM): You’re all over X! #MysteryQueen is trending, babe!

Your heart skipped a beat, confusion settling in your chest like a lead weight. Trending? That couldn’t be right. With trembling fingers, you tapped the link Jess had sent, a sinking feeling in your gut as the page loaded.

It took a moment—your Wi-Fi felt sluggish, though it was probably just your nerves slowing time to a crawl. When the image finally appeared, your breath caught.

There it was: the photo. The one everyone seemed to be talking about.

Auston Matthews’ hands were firmly wrapped around your torso, his smirk that perfect mix of charm and confidence, while your face betrayed every ounce of surprise and embarrassment you’d felt in that moment. Cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide—you looked like you’d stumbled straight out of a romance novel and into his arms.

The lighting, the angle, the backdrop—it was all too good. Soft, golden hues framed the two of you like the culmination of a carefully planned rom-com climax. Whoever had captured the moment had turned a fleeting accident into what now appeared to be undeniable chemistry.

Above the photo, the headline read: “Has the Ice King finally been dethroned? Who is this stunning Mystery Queen?”

Your stomach churned as you scrolled through the attached comments. They were relentless.

“Who is she???”

“She’s gorgeous! Can we ship this already?”

“Ice King has a Queen! Loving this”

Memes were already circulating: the two of you photoshopped onto movie posters, side-by-side shots of you under headlines like “Toronto’s Hottest Couple?” Theories ranged from harmless to absurd—everything from claims you were his secret girlfriend to guesses about your astrological compatibility.

Your phone buzzed again.

Jess (7:26 AM): You broke the internet, Queen. Do we bow now, or…?

Maya (7:30 AM): You’re literally famous. Like, for real. Can we talk about how hot Auston Matthews looked holding you?

A groan escaped you as you tossed your phone back onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. “This can’t be happening…”

You stayed like that for a moment, letting the panic wash over you. Your mind raced as you replayed the moment in question. It had been nothing. A stumble, a quick save, a polite exchange, and you’d moved on. How had it spiralled into this?

Your laptop sat on your desk, its sleek, black screen staring back at you like it dared you to confirm just how bad things were. Hesitating, you opened it and typed in the dreaded hashtag: #MysteryQueen.

The search results were overwhelming. Page after page of posts, photos, and speculation. Your name hadn’t surfaced yet—thankfully—but that didn’t stop people from trying to piece together every detail about you. Some users had gone so far as to zoom in on your necklace, debating whether it was a gift from Auston.

You groaned again, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your temples. Stress bubbled in your chest, threatening to spill over. Jess and Maya’s texts kept pinging, a mix of teasing and encouragement that you couldn’t bring yourself to answer.

Jess: “So… when are you introducing us to Auston?”

Maya: “Not to be dramatic, but if you don’t milk this for all it’s worth, I’ll be mad.”

You snorted despite yourself, though the laugh was hollow. You opened your email, desperate for a distraction or a sense of normalcy, but the subject line at the top of your inbox snatched that hope away: “We need to talk about last night.”

It was from your boss.

Your stomach sank further as you glanced at the clock. 7:45 AM. Not even time for coffee.

“Perfect,” you muttered, slamming your laptop shut. This wasn’t just damage control anymore—this was survival. You needed to get ready for work, figure out how to salvage your career, and pray the internet had a short attention span.

_

The soft hum of the city buzzed faintly in the background as Auston Matthews stood in his kitchen, barefoot on the cool tile floor. He scrolled through his phone with one hand while expertly cracking an egg into a sizzling pan with the other. The aroma of coffee brewing filled the space, mingling with the faint sound of the egg frying. It was a typical morning—except for the buzzing chaos of his phone on the counter, vibrating with relentless notifications.

His phone rattled against the marble again. He leaned over, smirking as the latest messages lit up the screen.

Mitchy (7:15 AM): “Nice work, Captain. Saving PR girls in distress now?”

Auston chuckled softly, shaking his head. Mitch’s commentary was always reliable.

A second buzz followed.

Willy (7:20 AM): “Does she have a sister? Asking for a friend.”

He snorted, typing out a quick reply: “You’d have no chance, Willy.”

Sliding the eggs onto a plate, Auston grabbed a bottle of Prime from the fridge. He leaned back against the counter, sipping casually while thumbing through social media. There it was—the photo that had set the internet on fire.

The hashtags were as relentless as the messages from his teammates:

#MysteryQueen

#IceKingAndQueen

#CoupleGoals

Fans were analysing every pixel of the image: the way he leaned slightly toward you, his smirk soft and almost intimate, the subtle tilt of your head that made it seem like the two of you were the only ones in the room. It was absurd, the way a split-second interaction had been turned into a viral sensation.

His phone buzzed again.

Mitchy (7:32 AM): “So? You bringing her to practice? Or is this another ‘one night and done’ thing?”

Auston rolled his eyes and typed back, “Jealous, Marner?”

The reply came instantly.

Mitchy: “Of you? Never. Of her? Maybe.”

Auston let out a low laugh, setting his phone down with a soft clink. The teasing didn’t bother him. If anything, it amused him. Let them speculate. Let the internet obsess over the photo. He had always been good at playing into the media’s games while staying one step ahead.

He finished his breakfast in thoughtful silence, his mind briefly wandering back to the gala. The night had been standard fare: sponsors, schmoozing, and carefully crafted soundbites. But then there had been you—stumbling into his space, equal parts flustered and sharp-witted. You had been anything but predictable, and that, more than anything, had caught his attention.

The photo had turned a fleeting moment into a viral phenomenon. Now, he was caught up in the swirl of speculation, but unlike most, he didn’t mind. It was fun.

For now, though, there was training to get to. Auston grabbed his bag and headed out, smirking at his phone one last time before silencing the endless stream of notifications. The Ice King wasn’t worried—he was just getting started.

_

Arriving at the office felt like stepping onto a stage where you were the unwitting star of a play you hadn’t auditioned for. The usual hum of activity—clicking keyboards, ringing phones, snippets of muted conversation—was still there, but today, it had a charged edge. Every sound felt sharper, every glance lingered a second too long, and the air seemed to buzz with anticipation, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

You pushed through the glass doors, clutching your bag tightly as your heels clicked against the polished tile. The receptionist, a chipper woman named Clara who usually greeted you with a bright smile and a cheerful good morning, faltered for a split second before recovering. Her eyes flicked to her computer screen, her cheeks pink as if you’d caught her mid-gossip. She returned your nod with a stiff smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her hand nervously adjusting a stack of papers on her desk.

You offered her a polite “Morning” and continued down the hall, the weight of invisible eyes trailing you like static electricity. The whispers started almost immediately, barely muffled by the thin partitions between desks.

“Is that her?” a voice murmured, not even bothering to lower the volume much.

“I told you it was!” another hissed in reply. “She’s the one from the photo. Did you see how close they were?”

You felt your skin prickle, a flush creeping up your neck. It wasn’t just the whispers—it was the sidelong glances, the quick turns of heads as you passed, the way conversations halted the moment you entered a room. They didn’t need to say your name for you to know exactly what they were talking about.

The now-infamous image of you and Auston Matthews—locked in what looked like a moment of intimate connection—had spread through the office like wildfire. It had morphed you from a background player into the unwelcome centre of attention. Each step felt heavier than the last, your confidence sinking further as you imagined the scenarios they must be concocting. Yet, despite the murmurs, no one dared to approach you directly. They simply stared, whispered, and speculated, leaving you to endure the attention in silence.

By the time you reached your desk, your nerves were stretched taut. You dropped your bag next to the chair and slumped into the seat, staring blankly at your computer screen. The open layout of the office, which usually fostered collaboration, now felt stifling. Every glance felt like a spotlight, every quiet chuckle like it was aimed at you. Your chest tightened as if the walls were closing in.

A soft ping from your computer startled you. You opened your inbox with shaky hands, hoping for a mundane email to ground you. Instead, your heart sank as you read the subject line: “Meeting: 9:30 AM – Mr. Manion’s Office.”

Your stomach flipped. Of course. Your boss wasn’t going to let this slide without a formal discussion.

The clock read 9:30 AM sharp when you stood outside your boss’s office, taking a deep breath to steel yourself. The glass door reflected your image back at you—your blazer slightly wrinkled from the walk, your fingers clutching a tablet like a shield. You forced yourself to smooth down your hair, adjust your blouse, and plaster on a neutral expression. You knocked twice, the sound sharp and hollow.

“Come in,” came the brisk reply.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing the imposing space. Your boss’s office was the epitome of professionalism—sharp lines, muted tones, and a sense of order that bordered on sterile. Framed photos of MLSE milestones lined the walls, alongside neatly mounted jerseys signed by players he'd worked with countless times - hockey, baseball, basketball. The desk was immaculate, save for a single folder that sat directly in the centre. You didn’t need to look closer to know what was inside it.

Mr. Manion, your boss, a no-nonsense man in his late fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetually stern expression, gestured for you to sit. You perched stiffly on the edge of the leather chair, gripping the armrests like they might keep you grounded. The silence in the room stretched, the tension palpable as he flipped open the folder and scanned its contents.

Finally, he looked up, his brows knitting together in faint disapproval. “You’re aware of the situation, I assume?”

“Yes, sir,” you said, your voice steady despite the unease twisting in your stomach. “I’ve seen the photo.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied you. “Good. Then you understand why this is an issue. This photo—and the ridiculous frenzy it’s caused—has overshadowed what was supposed to be a highlight of our season. The charity event. The teams. Not…” He gestured vaguely toward you, his gaze unyielding. “You.”

The words landed like a slap, even though you’d braced yourself for them. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. “I understand completely.”

“Do you?” His tone sharpened, his eyes narrowing. “Because right now, this office looks less like a PR department and more like the set of a reality show. And if there’s one thing I don’t tolerate, it’s distractions. Our focus is the client. Always the client.”

You nodded quickly, your cheeks burning. “I’ll fix it.”

He leaned forward, his gaze unrelenting. “Good. I’ve organised that you'll be at the hockey game tonight. You’ll work with the MLSE media team to redirect the narrative. Shift the attention back to the players, the franchise—anything but this viral nonsense. Understood?”

“Yes,” you replied, your voice firm even as the weight of his expectations settled on your shoulders.

“And another thing,” he added, his tone softening but his expression remaining stern. “You’ll be working with Chase.”

Your stomach dropped. Of all people. Chase, the golden boy of the department who had an uncanny ability to make every situation about himself. Smug, self-assured, and relentless in his pursuit of credit for others’ work, he was the last person you wanted to be paired with.

“Chase?” you repeated, unable to keep the dismay out of your voice.

“Yes,” Mr. Manion said with finality. “He’s handled high-pressure situations before, and I expect you two to work together professionally to resolve this. No more distractions. No more headlines.”

You forced a tight smile. “Understood.”

“Good,” he said, closing the folder with a decisive snap. “Don’t let me down.”

The walk back to your desk felt even longer than the one to his office. Chase. Seriously... You could already picture his self-satisfied grin, the condescending tone he’d use to offer “advice.” The idea of spending the evening with him—let alone relying on him—made your skin crawl.

You slumped into your chair, your head spinning. The whispers around the office seemed to grow louder, like static building to a crescendo. You wanted to disappear, to crawl under your desk and wait for the world to forget the photo. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t an option.

Maybe, you thought for a brief moment, this could be an opportunity. Not the one you’d envisioned, but a chance nonetheless. If you could handle the media circus, Chase’s smugness, and the weight of your boss’s expectations, you’d prove you belonged here—not just as a worker, but as a leader.

Straightening your spine, you smoothed invisible wrinkles from your blouse. No more photos. No more moments. No more headlines. Just fix this and move forward.

Easy enough. Right?

_

The Maple Leafs’ locker room was alive with its usual pre-practice energy. The air buzzed with the familiar sounds of hockey prep—sticks being taped with meticulous precision, skate blades being checked and tightened, and gear bags being unzipped with sharp zings. The smell of sweat, leather, and faint traces of menthol liniment filled the room, but today, the usual pre-game hum carried an extra spark.

All eyes were on Auston Matthews.

“Yo, Tony!” Mitch’s voice broke through the din, instantly commanding attention. He was perched precariously on the bench, one foot up like a man about to deliver the Gettysburg Address. “So, do we call her your soulmate, or was she just your ‘weekend highlight’?”

The room erupted in laughter. Mitch, ever the instigator, milked the moment with exaggerated gestures, holding his heart like he’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow. Auston, unfazed, shrugged off his jacket, hanging it neatly in his stall as though Mitch hadn’t spoken at all.

“Neither,” Auston replied, his tone so smooth and casual it bordered on bored. “But thanks for your concern, Mitchy. Really warms my heart.”

“Oh, I’m concerned,” Mitch shot back, leaping down from the bench with dramatic flair. “It’s not every day our Captain makes romantic headlines off the ice.”

Matthew Knies chimed in next, leaning back lazily in his stall. His grin, wicked and knowing, spread like wildfire across his face. “You gonna share the story, or are you keeping this one all to yourself? Come on, Cappy. Did you at least get her number? Or is this just another no-strings situation?”

Auston finally glanced over, one brow arching in mock amusement. “Don’t you have a mirror to stare at, Kniesy? Go admire yourself somewhere else.”

The laughter doubled, bouncing off the walls like a puck ricocheting off the boards. Even the more reserved players smirked as the banter escalated.

Reaves, stretching out his shoulders, added in his deep baritone, “Bet her phone’s already blowing up. She’s probably sitting there right now, trying to figure out if she’s ready to handle the ‘Ice King.’”

“Or,” Mitch interjected again, holding up a finger like a professor making a critical point, “she’s trying to figure out why she’s trending while he’s already onto the next one.”

Auston rolled his eyes, dropping onto the bench as he reached for his skates. “You guys seriously need better hobbies.”

“Hobbies?” Mitch feigned outrage, clutching his chest theatrically like he’d been mortally wounded. “This is our hobby! Watching you fumble around women like it’s your first time stepping onto the ice.”

Even John Tavares, usually the stoic leader of the group, couldn’t suppress a chuckle as he taped his stick with methodical precision.

“You’re gonna need a new nickname after this,” Conor Timmins called out, grinning as he adjusted his shin guards. “Something like… Loverboy Matthews.”

“Or Prince Charming,” Max Domi suggested, leaning against the wall with a toothless grin. “You swooped in, caught her mid-fall—classic fairy-tale move. You practicing for a movie, or what?”

Auston didn’t miss a beat. “Just trying to remind you guys what grace under pressure looks like.”

The locker room erupted into hoots and cheers, players slapping their thighs or sticks against the floor in exaggerated applause. Even Auston, usually unflappable, couldn’t suppress the small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Let’s not forget the most important question, eh,” Mitch said, raising his voice to cut through the noise. “Did you or did you not close the deal? Because if you didn’t…” He let the sentence hang, his grin turning mischievous as the room erupted again.

Auston shook his head, leaning down to lace his skates with deliberate precision. “You guys are fucking awful. It was nothing. She’s just a PR manager doing her job. That’s it.”

Reaves shook his head, chuckling. “You’re telling me that look she gave you was part of the job? Please. If that’s her work face, I need to hire her immediately.”

“Let me guess,” William said, his grin widening. “You gave her your best smoulder, and she melted, didn’t she? Ice King strikes again.”

“Smoulder?” Mitch nearly doubled over laughing. “He probably just stood there and grunted. That’s his move. ‘I’m Auston Matthews. Be impressed.’”

“Don’t forget the eyebrow raise,” Max chimed in, waggling his own brows for emphasis. “That’s his closer.”

Auston grabbed a towel from his stall and lobbed it at Mitch, who narrowly dodged it with a dramatic yelp. “Keep dreaming, Marner. You’re just mad you’ll never have my moves.”

The room roared with laughter as Mitch held his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh, please. I don’t need your moves, buddy. I’ve got personality.”

“Personality?” Auston repeated, finally looking up with a smirk. “That what you call it now?”

Before Mitch could fire back, a sharp whistle cut through the chaos. Chief’s voice boomed from the hallway. “Alright, enough! Let’s go! Save the soap opera for after practice.”

The laughter died down, though the smirks and knowing glances lingered as the players turned their attention to gearing up.

As soon as Auston stepped onto the ice, the locker room antics faded into the background. The cool air hit his face, sharpening his focus as he took his first powerful strides across the rink. The sound of blades slicing across the ice and sticks snapping against pucks filled the arena, a symphony of precision and power.

“Alright, boys, let’s dial it in!” Auston called, his voice cutting through the hum of activity.

His every movement on the ice was fluid and deliberate, his passes snapping perfectly to his teammates like they were guided by some invisible force. He commanded the flow of drills with the confidence of a seasoned leader, his focus razor-sharp.

Even when Mitch skated past during a drill, leaning in just close enough to whisper, “Hey, Prince Charming—don’t forget to teach us those moves later,” Auston didn’t miss a beat.

“Don’t worry, Mitchy,” he replied, his tone calm and cool. “I’ll save the lessons for when you finally learn how to backcheck.”

The nearby players burst into laughter, and Mitch groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat. Auston smirked as he returned to the drill, his focus unwavering.

Back in the locker room, the banter picked up again as the players peeled off their gear and hit the showers. Auston wiped sweat from his forehead, grabbing his phone from his stall out of habit. The screen lit up with a flood of notifications, but one message stood out.

Mom: “Hola, mijo! Saw the news. You have a girlfriend now? Why didn’t you tell me? Qué sorpresa! Call me later. Besos!”

Auston groaned, leaning back in his stall as he rubbed a hand over his face. Of course, the rumours had made their way all the way to Arizona. His mother never missed a thing.

He quickly typed out a reply:

Auston: “No girlfriend. Just the media blowing things out of proportion. Promise I’ll call later.”

From the stall next to him, Mitch leaned over, his grin as wide as ever. “Let me guess—Mama Matthews wants to meet her future daughter-in-law?”

Auston groaned, tossing another damp towel at him. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Marner?”

“Not until I hear how you’re gonna explain this to her,” Mitch quipped, dodging the towel with a laugh.

Auston shook his head, smirking despite himself. It was going to be a long day. The Ice King wasn’t just trending—he was thriving.

_

“Oh, Auston. A commanding captain on the ice, a knight in shining armour at the galas—tell us, is there anything you can’t do? From blistering wrist shots to a disarming smirk that leaves reporters and fans alike spellbound, you’ve mastered the art of being Toronto’s shining star. Perhaps Mitch Marner should take notes—not just on your hockey technique, but on handling attention with your signature, infuriatingly effortless charm. And William Nylander? He might need a crash course in keeping up with your knack for drawing the spotlight without even trying.

But every kingdom needs balance, doesn’t it? A king isn’t a king without his loyal support. The rookies may watch your every move, but the city is watching, too—an entire court of adoring subjects, dissecting every detail, every headline, every photo. Careful, Matthews. It’s easy to rule the ice, but when the lines between the rink and the spotlight begin to blur, kingdoms can crumble under the weight of their own grandeur.

Your throne is solid for now, but your court is hungry for more. What will you give them next? - The Benchwarmer”

_

The Scotiabank Arena buzzed with pre-game anticipation, the hum of excited chatter blending with the sharp sounds of skates cutting across the ice during warm-ups. Fans clad in blue-and-white jerseys filled the air with energy, their collective excitement palpable as they streamed through the wide doors. The aroma of buttery popcorn and sizzling pretzels wafted through the concourse, mingling with the chill that radiated from the rink below.

You adjusted your blazer with a sharp tug, clutching your tablet tightly as you made your way to the media section. This was your arena of expertise—coordinating interviews, ensuring the narrative focused on the team, and staying invisible in the process. But tonight, the stakes felt impossibly high. The viral #MysteryQueen photo wasn’t just following you; it was plastered in the eyes and whispers of everyone around you.

As you approached the media room entrance, Chase was already waiting, predictably pristine in his perfectly tailored suit. His signature smirk was firmly in place, the kind that always made you want to roll your eyes. He leaned casually against the wall, looking as though he were preparing to deliver a victory speech rather than assist you in damage control.

“Well, well,” he said as you reached him, his tone dripping with mockery. “If it isn’t Toronto’s newest viral sensation. Tell me, how’s life as #MysteryQueen treating you?”

You shot him a glare, your jaw tightening. “Let’s just focus on the job,” you replied curtly.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Chase said, falling into step beside you as you walked into the room. “I’m here to make sure you don’t turn this into an even bigger mess. You’ve done enough of that already.”

You clenched your teeth, your grip on the tablet tightening. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Chase.”

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Because from where I’m standing, you could use a crash course in PR basics. Like staying invisible and not ending up as the story. Rookie move, don’t you think?”

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him with an icy glare. “Are you going to help, or are you just here to gloat?”

Chase raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin unrelenting. “Relax. I’m just here to keep you in line. Wouldn’t want you tripping over Matthews again and handing the internet more fuel for their fire.”

Heat rose to your cheeks at the jab, but you forced yourself to take a deep breath, counting silently to three. “Let’s just get through tonight without any incidents,” you said, turning on your heel and walking ahead without waiting for his reply.

The pre-game interviews began in a whirlwind of camera flashes and bustling reporters. Auston Matthews entered the room right on time, his presence commanding immediate attention. Every camera lens turned toward him, capturing his perfectly composed demeanour as he prepared for the barrage of questions.

You stood to the side, tablet in hand, observing quietly as he answered each question with ease. He was a natural—calm, polished, and confident. His responses were precise yet charming, a masterclass in handling media under pressure.

Chase leaned in slightly, his voice low but laced with condescension. “Look at him—perfect posture, perfect answers. You’d think he rehearsed this a hundred times.”

“He has,” you shot back under your breath, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

Auston’s gaze flicked in your direction, his eyes catching yours for a fleeting moment. For a split second, a glimmer of amusement danced across his face, as though he’d overheard your exchange. He smirked slightly, turning back to the reporters, but somehow the gesture felt like it was meant for you.

When the interviews concluded, you stepped aside to check the evening’s schedule, your focus shifting back to logistics. Of course, Chase remained close, ready to offer unsolicited commentary.

“You know,” he began, his voice teasing as he leaned against the wall, “if you’re trying to stay out of the spotlight, you might want to stop looking at him like that.”

Your head snapped up, a frown forming on your face. “Like what?” you demanded, sharper than you intended.

“Like he’s the only person in the room,” Chase replied with a smug grin. “Just saying.”

Before you could respond, the crowd began to disperse, the pre-game atmosphere shifting as fans filed toward their seats for the national anthem. You let out a frustrated breath, forcing yourself to refocus. Chase wasn’t worth your energy. Not tonight.

As the game began, the arena roared to life, the crowd erupting with every rush down the ice and save by the goalie. From the media section, you watched the game unfold, your tablet propped on your lap as you took notes and ensured the schedule ran smoothly. Auston was, as always, in his element, commanding the ice with every stride. He directed plays with a sharpness that reminded everyone why he wore the captain’s “C.”

But even amidst the game’s intensity, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time you glanced up, it felt as though the whispers of fans were louder than the cheers. You caught glimpses of people pointing in your direction, their phones raised discreetly—or not so discreetly—to snap photos.

The hashtag wasn’t going anywhere. If anything, the spectacle was growing.

Chase leaned over during a break in play, his smirk firmly in place. “You’re a hit, you know. The internet can’t get enough of you.”

You didn’t dignify him with a response, keeping your eyes on the game. But his words lingered, gnawing at your already frazzled nerves. This wasn’t the kind of attention you wanted—or ever asked for. Worse, you couldn’t tell if Auston was ignoring the attention or quietly revelling in it.

As the final buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted in cheers, you exhaled deeply, the weight of the night still pressing down on you. But this was only the beginning. There was still so much more to face.

_

The buzz of the post-game crowd echoed faintly through the tunnel, a mix of jubilant cheers and the hum of arena staff preparing to wind down for the night. The air was thick with energy, but you barely noticed, your thoughts consumed by the task ahead. You stood just outside the media room, shifting your weight between your heels as if the motion could steady the whirlwind of nerves building inside you.

Your tablet felt heavy in your arms, not because of its weight but because of what it symbolised—your professional armour in a moment that felt far too personal. The image of the viral photo flashed through your mind for the hundredth time that day. The teasing. The whispers. The relentless #MysteryQueen hashtag that refused to die. You hadn’t asked for this spotlight, but it seemed determined to follow you.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention, and when Auston Matthews stepped out of the media room, your pulse quickened. His shirt was damped, the faint sheen of exertion still clinging to his skin. He exuded a casual confidence, as if he were entirely unfazed by the chaos swirling around him. His gaze swept the hallway before landing on you, and just like that, his professional mask slipped into something more playful.

Raising a brow, he smirked, his tone low and teasing. “Waiting for me?”

You let out a huff, trying to summon the last reserves of your professionalism. “We need to talk,” you said briskly, nodding toward a quieter corner of the hallway.

Intrigued, Auston fell into step beside you, the faint click of his shoes on the concrete floor adding to the tension. Once out of earshot from the lingering media, he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in a relaxed pose that was the polar opposite of how you felt. His posture was casual, but his eyes were sharp, watching you with open curiosity.

“Alright,” he said, tilting his head slightly, his smirk never wavering. “What’s on your mind, Mystery Queen?”

The heat rushed to your cheeks, and you resisted the childish urge to stomp your foot. “Can you not call me that?”

“Fine,” he replied, clearly humouring you, though the amusement in his voice only grew. “What’s the issue, boss?”

Taking a steadying breath, you tightened your grip on your tablet, the hard edges grounding you. “I need you to address the rumours,” you said firmly. “Publicly. Tell everyone there’s nothing between us.”

Auston tilted his head, his smirk softening into something closer to curiosity. “Why?”

“Because,” you said, struggling to keep your frustration in check, “my boss isn’t thrilled about the attention. I’m supposed to be behind the scenes, not… trending online. I have a career to build, and this whole spectacle is not helping.”

He nodded slowly; his expression thoughtful. For a fleeting moment, you thought he might agree. But then, a different light sparked in his eyes—something calculating, almost mischievous—and his smirk returned, sharper than before.

“You want people to take you seriously, right?” he asked, his tone almost too casual.

“Yes,” you said cautiously, narrowing your eyes. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“And you need to stand out? Get noticed by your boss?”

The suspicion prickling at the back of your neck deepened. “What are you getting at?”

Auston straightened slightly, his relaxed stance giving way to something more deliberate. “What if… we don’t deny it?”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

“Think about it,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive tone that could probably charm half the city. “The attention isn’t going away anytime soon. If anything, it’s only going to get worse. So why not use it to your advantage?”

“You’re suggesting we… fake it?”

“Exactly,” Auston said, his confidence radiating like heat from a fire. “You want people to notice you? They will. You’ll look like the PR genius who landed me. And I get the media off my back for a while. Everyone thinks I’m ‘taken,’ and they stop asking me about my personal life. Win-win.”

You blinked at him, completely stunned by the audacity of his proposal. “That’s insane.”

“Is it?” he countered, his tone steady, his expression calm. “You said you wanted to build your name. What better way to get people talking? We use this Benchwarmer columnist to our advantage - the gossip she’s writing about me. Us. It’s pure strategy - something you’d know all about. Huh?”

Logic screamed at you to walk away, to tell him he was out of his mind. But another part of you—the part that had endured Chase’s relentless teasing, your boss’s stern lecture, and the whispers of your co-workers—paused. Was this really any more ridiculous than the situation you were already in? And if you played it right, couldn’t this be an opportunity?

You chewed your lip, your gaze darting toward the hallway where the faint buzz of the arena still lingered. “If this has to work,” you said hesitantly, “it has to be believable. No half-measures.”

“Believable,” Auston repeated, his smirk widening into a full grin. “That’s my specialty.”

You let out a resigned sigh, shaking your head. “This is crazy.”

“Crazy works,” he said with a wink, leaning in just enough to make your pulse skip. “Trust me.”

You searched his face for any sign that he wasn’t serious, but all you found was confidence and a glimmer of mischief. Against every ounce of better judgment, you nodded slowly.

“Alright,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s do it.”

The grin that spread across Auston’s face was triumphant, almost wolfish. “You won’t regret it,” he said, his voice low and assured.

As you turned to walk away, your heart pounded in your chest, your thoughts racing faster than the cheers that still echoed faintly through the arena. You couldn’t help but wonder: What have I just gotten myself into?

_

“Dear Toronto readers, it seems we have yet another moment destined for the record books. The Ice King himself, Auston Matthews, and his so-called Mystery Queen were spotted in an intimate exchange in the depths of Scotiabank Arena, away from the roar of the crowd and the cameras—well, most of them.

Sparks, dear readers, are flying faster than pucks on a power play.

The city is buzzing louder than the boards after a hard check, and why wouldn’t it be? For a team as iconic as the Maple Leafs, even the smallest whisper of a new royal couple in their kingdom is enough to set the fandom ablaze. And this particular pairing? It has all the makings of a modern fairy tale—complete with a little mystery and a lot of chemistry.

But let’s not forget the rest of the court. The rookies may be loyal subjects, and the veteran players ever-watchful advisors, but every kingdom comes with its share of intrigue. Whispers from the locker room suggest a reign of strategy, while murmurs in the stands lean toward romance.

Whatever the truth, one thing is certain: this King and Queen have the entire city watching their every move. Will their story be one of triumph or turmoil? Only time will tell.

So, stay tuned, Toronto. The season is young, and the drama is only just beginning.

Yours always,

The Benchwarmer”