#pedro pascal agegap

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

[lowrisemiller]

ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴜᴘ ᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴜᴍʙ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴡᴀɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴍᴏᴛᴇʟ ʀᴏᴏᴍꜱ ɪ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ

one - shot inspired by ethel cain’s song “thoroughfare”

Joel Miller never planned to take her with him. she was just a hitch in the road, twenty years younger and all bright eyes and soft questions. but somewhere between truck stops, cheap motels, and stolen glances, she became something more. now, a motel bed and a moment of weakness threaten to unravel everything he's been trying not to feel. just two lonely people trying to outrun their pasts—and maybe, finally, running toward something that feels like forever.

based on this ask | masterlist | 7.3k words | mutual pinning & yearning (I can't stop writing art this old man yearning im sorry), age gap (22&45), pov switches, joel being a bit possessive, vaginal sex, light edging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it in fiction only!)

The air was heavy enough to bite.

You’d already tied your hair back twice, but the heat didn’t budge. The pavement outside the diner shimmered like it was trying to disappear, and the cicadas had been singing since dawn. You were clocked out early, an apron slung over your shoulder, a duffel bag kicking at your heels. Not much in it—just a couple changes of clothes, your toothbrush, and your busted-up walkman with the Heaven or Las Vegas cassette still jammed inside. It barely played anymore, but you liked the way it sounded: warped and a little sad.

You’d told your boss you were leaving. She didn’t ask where. You figured she knew the look in your eye—like someone standing too close to the edge of something wide and unknown. The kind of look you get when you’ve finally run out of reasons to stay.

That’s when you heard it. The low, rough growl of an engine that didn’t belong to anyone local.

You looked up just in time to see a pickup roll into the lot, dust curling around the tires. It was all dented metal and sun-bleached paint, and behind the wheel sat Joel Miller—grayer than you remembered, beard thick and eyes squinting behind scratched-up sunglasses. You’d seen him once or twice before. He used to come through town hauling lumber or equipment, maybe something less legal. He always stayed quiet, nodded politely when spoken to, never lingered longer than he had to.

He climbed out, boots hitting the gravel with a thunk, and made a beeline for the diner door.

“You Joel?” you called, before he could reach the porch.

He turned, slow and skeptical.

“Who’s askin’?”

You hooked your thumb toward the truck. “Heard you’re headed west. Texas?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just eyed you the way a man might eye a stray dog—curious, cautious.

“Maybe.”

You stepped forward, your bag swinging. “I need outta here. I got cash. I don’t take up much space, and I won’t ask questions.”

Joel raised a brow. “That so?”

You nodded. “That’s so.”

The wind shifted. A long second passed, like he was waiting for something—maybe for you to flinch, or backpedal, or crack a joke. You didn’t. You just stood there, sweat sticking to your neck, heart hammering behind your ribs like it wanted to get in his truck before your body did.

He sighed through his nose, like he already regretted opening his mouth.

“You got anyone who’s gonna be lookin’ for you?”

“No.”

“You in trouble?”

“No more than usual.”

That one made the corner of his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not yet.

“Alright,” he said, finally. “You ride quietly, you don’t touch the radio, and you pay half for gas.”

You smirked, tossing your bag into the truck bed.

“You got it, cowboy.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like Jesus Christ, but he didn’t stop you.

By the time you hit the state line, the sun had dipped low, casting a bruised orange light across the fields. Joel’s hand stayed steady on the wheel, his forearm tanned and strong and marked with little nicks and scars. You didn’t stare, but you didn’t not stare, either.

He didn’t talk much. Not unless he had to.

But when you pointed at the horizon and said, “Never seen it look like that before,” he glanced your way and said, quiet as gravel—

“Stick with me. You’ll see a lotta things you ain’t seen before.”

You didn’t know if it was a promise or a warning.

Either way, you leaned your head against the window and smiled to yourself.

You were finally going.

And Joel Miller—rough, unreadable, too old for you Joel—was the one taking you.

You figured the silence would kill you.

Not the heat. Not the truck’s sticky vinyl seats or the stench of sunbaked roadside motels you’d been passing for hours—but the silence. Joel wasn’t much for small talk. He drove like he was on borrowed time and kept his thoughts zipped up tighter than his duffel. You tried, at first. Pointed out funny signs, asked if he’d ever been to New Mexico, made a comment about the shape of a cloud looking like a middle finger.

Nothing.

Well—maybe not nothing. A grunt here. A look there. You were learning to read them like road signs.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t driving you half mad.

“So,” you said finally, your foot up on the dash despite knowing it annoyed him, “are we ever gonna talk about the fact that we don’t actually know each other’s last names, or are we just gonna die on the highway someday and let the cops guess?”

Joel didn’t look over. Just adjusted the AC vent and muttered, “You talk a lot.”

You smiled, picking at the frayed hem of your shorts. “That wasn’t a no.”

He sighed, like he was tired of pretending to be annoyed. “Miller.”

You blinked. “Like... Joel Miller?”

He cast a sideways glance at you. “You knew that already.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” You shrugged. “Nice to hear it from the source.”

He didn’t ask for yours. Just waited.

So you gave it, simple and soft. Your first name, your last. It felt weird, saying it out loud. Like handing someone a piece of yourself that had been boxed up for too long.

“Well,” he said after a beat, “now if we crash, at least they’ll spell your name right in the paper.”

“Aw,” you cooed, “you do care.”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t not say it either.”

That earned you a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. But you caught it, and your heart did something stupid. Quick and fluttery, like a moth hitting a porch light.

The afternoon bled into golden hour, and the sky softened to a watercolor haze. You rolled the window down and let the air whip your hair around your face.

Joel reached across the bench seat, plucked your sunglasses off the dash, and tossed them into your lap.

“You’re gonna blind yourself.”

You held them up, squinting. “These are scratched to hell.”

“Better than nothin’.”

You slid them on anyway. They pinched your nose and made everything look sepia. You turned to him, letting the lazy drawl slip back into your voice like syrup.

“So what’s your story, Miller? You some kinda loner outlaw type? Haunted past, broken heart, scars that mean something?”

He didn’t laugh. Just kept his eyes on the road.

After a long pause, he said, “Somethin’ like that.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s cool. Real mysterious cowboy of you.”

“You got a story?”

You shrugged. “Nothin’ worth printing. Just needed to leave.”

Joel didn’t press. You liked that. Most people, they wanted the whole truth—or worse, they wanted to fix you. Joel didn’t offer comfort or advice or any of that fluffy shit. Just gave you the silence to breathe in.

You stopped for gas in a nothing town off the state highway. A one-pump station with flickering lights and a vending machine that still sold RC Cola.

Inside, Joel handed the cashier a twenty without a word, then glanced over his shoulder at you, already grabbing snacks off the dusty rack.

You held up a bag of sunflower seeds. “These say they expired last June. Think I’ll die?”

“Only if you’re lucky,” he muttered, pulling a bottle of water off the shelf.

You caught him looking at your reflection in the glass cooler door when he thought you weren’t watching. It was quick—blink and gone—but your stomach flipped anyway.

He looked at you like a man who didn’t mean to want something. Like want was a disease he thought he’d outrun years ago.

And maybe he had. Until you.

Back in the truck, you tore open a bag of gas station trail mix and tossed a raisin at him.

It hit his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

“Seriously?” you grinned. “Not even a blink?”

Joel glanced over, deadpan. “You throw like a girl.”

“I am a girl.”

He gave a small, sarcastic tilt of his head. “Huh. That explains the talkin’.”

You gasped, dramatic. “Joel Miller, you dog. You better watch yourself. I might just hitchhike to Phoenix with someone who respects my conversational skills.”

“You try that, you’ll end up chopped to bits behind a Cracker Barrel.”

You snorted. “Okay, fair. Guess I’m stuck with you, then.”

He didn’t respond, but you could see the smirk behind his beard.

You drove until it was nearly midnight, and Joel’s shoulders finally slackened. The road signs started mentioning Tucson. The stars came out, washed faint and soft above the highway glare.

There was a motel just off the exit—Starlite Inn, with flickering neon and a Vacancy sign swinging in the breeze.

Joel pulled in, turned off the ignition.

“You takin’ the floor or the bed tonight?” he asked, grabbing his duffel from the back.

You arched a brow. “Oh, are those the only options?”

“Unless you wanna sleep in the truck.”

You gave a mock sigh. “So chivalrous.”

He handed you your bag. “One bed. I’ll stay on my side. You stay on yours.”

You both knew how thin that line really was.

The front office of the Starlite Inn smelled like lemon cleaner and stale cigarettes. You leaned against the counter while Joel handled check-in, watching the old man behind the desk type with two fingers like he was unlocking national secrets.

“One queen left,” he muttered, squinting at the monitor like it might bite. “Don’t get much traffic this time of year. You folks just passin’ through?”

Joel gave a noncommittal grunt. The kind that said don’t ask more than you want to hear.

You watched the man slide over a single brass key. Old school. No digital locks here. The plastic tag said Room 12 in faded gold print.

Joel handed it to you without looking. “You get the door.”

You bit your tongue, mostly to stop yourself from smirking. Something about being given the key like that, like he was trusting you with it, made your chest tighten in a strange way. Too soft. Too warm.

Room 12 smelled like mildew and air freshener. The bedspread was some kind of polyester nightmare in faded shades of teal and peach. There was a tiny table, a single plastic ice bucket, and a TV from another decade.

You dropped your bag near the foot of the bed and turned in a slow circle, arms stretched.

“Classy.”

Joel didn’t respond. Just locked the door behind him and set his duffel down with a soft thud.

He went straight to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. You watched the way his shoulders moved under his shirt—broad and solid, carrying too much. Always carrying too much.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said, voice low.

You turned toward him. “You said we’d both take the bed.”

“Changed my mind.”

You folded your arms. “Why?”

Joel glanced at you in the mirror, water dripping down his jaw. “’Cause I don’t trust myself to keep to one side.”

The air thickened. Not hot, but heavy. Like a held breath between lightning and thunder.

You didn’t know what to say, so you sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced your boots.

“I trust you,” you said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

Twenty minutes later, the lights were off.

You lay on your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. The hum of the AC unit filled the space between you like a third body. Joel was on the floor beside the bed, one arm folded under his head, a thin motel blanket thrown over his lower half.

You should’ve been asleep by now. But your brain was racing. Replaying the way he looked at you sometimes—like you were something he didn’t want to want. Like the whole road ahead was getting shorter and more dangerous with every mile you traveled together.

“Joel?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitated. “Why’d you say yes? To all this.”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he’d fallen asleep.

Then—“’Cause you asked me like nobody else ever had.”

You turned your head toward the dark, toward the shape of him on the floor. The moonlight through the blinds striped the carpet across his chest.

“I didn’t think you’d say yes,” you whispered.

He exhaled. A soft sound. “Didn’t think I would either.”

The silence settled again. But it wasn’t empty now. It was full. Dense. Electric.

“Come up here,” you said, not sure if you meant it or just needed him closer to survive the weight of this feeling.

Joel didn’t move for a long moment. Then the mattress dipped under his weight.

He lay down on top of the covers, stiff at first. Then—inch by inch—he let himself relax. Just enough.

His arm brushed yours. Warm. Intentional. You didn’t move away.

Outside, a neon light flickered. Inside, the two of you lay in the same bed, a breath apart.

Still not touching. Not really.

But you could feel it. The line. The one he’d drawn in sand and shadow and motel dust. And how close you were to crossing it.

And how badly he wanted you to.

She was asleep. Or pretending to be.

Joel kept his eyes on the water stain above the bed, an abstract little thing shaped like Texas. Fitting. Everything came back to Texas these days—heatwaves and hard feelings.

The mattress was too soft, too warm on his left side where her arm had brushed his earlier. She’d been quiet for a while now. Her breathing had evened out, slow and shallow, the kind of sleep that meant she was too tired to keep holding whatever it was in.

And him? He was wide awake. Had been since she said come up here.

He shouldn’t have.

Should’ve stayed on the floor like he said he would, like a man who meant to keep his distance.

But Joel had never been good at keeping lines uncrossed, not when it came to things he wanted. And this—whatever this was between them—it was getting dangerous. Not because she was twenty years younger or too soft for the world he came from, but because she looked at him like he could be something else. Something better.

That kind of faith? That kind of sweetness?

It scared the hell out of him.

She’d asked him earlier why he said yes to the trip. You asked me like nobody else ever had, he’d told her. True enough. But it was more than that.

She reminded him of the kind of life he used to want before the world got heavy. The kind of life that smelled like motel soap and roadside peaches and fresh tires on hot pavement. She was young, yeah, but not fragile. Not dumb. She saw things. Paid attention. Asked questions that meant something.

And now she was asleep next to him, hair all messy on the pillow, lips parted just slightly like she’d been dreaming something gentle.

He had no business being here.

No business watching the curve of her shoulder or wondering what it would feel like to touch the skin there. No business remembering the way she laughed earlier in the car, all sunbeam and southern drawl, feet on the dash like she owned the highway.

Hell, no business wanting it. Wanting her.

But there it was, right under his ribs. That low, pulsing ache. Old and familiar. Something between guilt and gravity.

If she moved even an inch closer, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. Stay put? Pull away?

Or finally reach for the thing he wasn’t supposed to want.

And God help him, he did want her.

Not just in the motel bed way. Not just in the long-legged, lip-biting, pretty-girl kind of way. He wanted her laughter. Her late-night questions. Her songs on the radio and her theories about the clouds and the way she always seemed to find the quiet parts of him, even the ones he didn’t know were still there.

That scared him worse than anything.

Because she wasn’t his.

And he wasn’t hers.

But tonight? With the blinds drawn and the moonlight on her skin?

He almost forgot that part.

Almost.

You wake up to sunlight slanting through thin yellow curtains and the smell of coffee. Cheap coffee, the kind that comes from powdered packets and hotel lobby machines. But you’re not complaining. Joel’s sitting in the corner chair, legs spread, one hand curled around a Styrofoam cup like he’s guarding it.

He glances up when you stir. “Mornin’.”

His voice is rougher than usual, low and slow like it dragged itself out of sleep behind you. He doesn’t ask how you slept. Doesn’t need to. The two of you had laid there last night, backs straight, arms careful, like your bodies weren’t begging to shift closer.

You sit up, rubbing your eyes. “What time is it?”

“Little after seven. Figured you might want somethin’ warm before we hit the road.”

You blink at him, hair a mess and mouth dry, and for a second—just a second—you let yourself look at him like he’s yours. Like this is normal. Like it’s always been this way: his coffee, his quiet, his steady presence in your morning.

It’s a lie, but it’s a nice one.

“Thanks,” you say, and he hands you a cup. His fingers brush yours for half a heartbeat. He pulls back too fast.

You both pretend not to notice.

The coffee’s awful, but it’s hot, and that’s something. You drink in silence while he packs up. No radio. No TV. Just the rustle of a map, the zip of a bag, the soft creak of old carpet under his boots.

When you finally get moving again, the motel behind you, there’s a stillness to the car that wasn’t there before. You roll the window down and let the wind tangle your hair, let the sun spill across your thighs like it has every right.

Joel doesn’t say much.

But when he hands you a gas station pastry a few miles later, you take it, and that’s how you know everything’s still okay.

Not simple. Not clear. But okay.

The pastry was lemon. Too sweet, too dry. You ate it anyway.

Joel didn’t even glance when you unwrapped it, just kept one hand on the wheel and the other drumming his fingers on his thigh like he was thinking hard. You didn’t ask what about. You kind of didn’t want to know.

There were two hours of Mississippi ahead of you before you hit the Louisiana state line, and not much to look at but cotton fields and stray billboards peeling in the heat. You’d rolled your window back down, one leg tucked beneath you in the seat, the other stretched out toward the dash, toes tapping to the faint hum of some old country song he’d let play low on the radio.

“You always this quiet in the mornings?” you asked eventually.

Joel glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Only when I’m stuck in a car with someone who talks too much.”

You snorted. “Rude.”

“The truth.”

“Fine. But I’m not the one who practically sighed with relief when I handed you your half of the sandwich yesterday.”

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

You looked out the window to hide your own grin, pretending to watch a hawk circle over a line of trees. It was easier this way—teasing him, pushing a little and letting him push back. Every so often you caught the way his eyes softened when you said something funny, or the way his hand would tighten briefly on the steering wheel when your laugh lingered a beat too long.

There was a lot you didn’t say.

And that silence? It was starting to feel like its own kind of conversation.

By the time the gas light came on, the road had stretched flat and pale in the sun, and the air had that thick Louisiana cling to it. Joel pulled off into a gravel lot with one of those gas stations that hadn’t seen a health inspection since the late ‘90s.

“I’ll fill it,” he said, already reaching for his wallet. “You go stretch your legs.”

You didn’t argue.

The station had one of those coolers full of off-brand sodas and melted ice, plus a dusty rack of sunglasses and fake knives. You grabbed two waters and some fruit jerky just because it made you laugh. The place smelled like cigarettes and plastic. You kind of loved it.

When you came back out, Joel was leaning against the truck, cap pushed low, eyes on the highway.

You handed him the water. “I got you something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me it’s that damn jerky.”

You held it up proudly. “The fruit kind. Mystery flavor.”

He gave you a look like he was genuinely questioning your sanity, but took it anyway. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I regret a lot of things,” you said, climbing back into the truck. “But not this.”

He paused. Stared at you for a second too long, water bottle hanging from his hand, the plastic crinkling slightly in the heat.

Then he got in, started the engine, and didn’t say a word.

But his eyes kept drifting over to you as you unwrapped the jerky with mock ceremony and took a dramatic bite.

And even though the flavor was somewhere between cherry cough syrup and sadness, you smiled through it. Because Joel Miller was trying not to smile back, and failing.

By late afternoon, the sun had turned a deep, syrupy gold, washing everything in warm light. You passed through towns that looked like backdrops from a dream—shuttered shops, rusted swingsets, a church sign that read “GOD’S NOT DONE YET.”

Neither were you.

Joel hadn’t touched the fruit jerky, but he kept it on the dash like it meant something. You didn’t ask why. Just let the silence between you settle into something companionable. Something steady.

A few more hours and the light started fading. The road grew quieter. You noticed Joel’s hands flexing on the wheel more often, his jaw tight.

“You tired?” you asked.

He shook his head, but you could tell it was a lie.

“Don’t be a hero,” you said gently, turning in your seat. “You’ll get us both killed swerving into a ditch ‘cause you wouldn’t stop for the night.”

He glanced at you, tired but amused. “That how you talk to all your chauffeurs?”

You smiled. “Just the handsome, grumpy ones.”

He didn’t respond, but his ears turned a little red.

You found a motel just outside a tiny town called Marais. The kind of place where time moved slower and the stars actually showed up once the sun dipped below the trees. There was only one room left. One bed. The clerk didn’t even try to hide his raised eyebrows.

Joel paid without flinching.

Inside, the room was cleaner than you expected. Faded quilt. A working ceiling fan. That same familiar hum of an old A/C unit struggling to keep up with the Southern heat.

You kicked off your shoes and collapsed face-first onto the bed, groaning. “God. I forgot how nice it is to lie down.”

Joel chuckled low in his chest. “You’re dramatic.”

You peeked at him from the pillow. “You’re old.”

He turned the bathroom light on, but you saw the smirk anyway.

Later, you brushed your teeth while Joel stood outside smoking. You could see the flick of his lighter through the thin motel curtain. He didn’t smoke much—not around you—but you figured he needed it tonight. The way he’d been quiet again. The way his eyes lingered on the road too long, like he was thinking himself into a hole.

You came out in a T-shirt and sleep shorts. The kind of thing you used to wear around your old beat up apartment. The kind of thing Joel tried not to look at.

Tried.

He put the cigarette out and turned away fast, like he hadn’t noticed the way your bare legs caught the hallway light. You climbed into bed without a word, curling toward the wall.

He took the other side, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Maybe a foot. Maybe less. You felt the heat of him anyway. The quiet of him. The sheer presence of Joel Miller, like gravity itself had decided to rest in the middle of this bed.

Neither of you moved.

Sometime after midnight, you woke up to the sound of rain. Soft and steady against the window, like fingers tapping the glass. Joel was still on his side, breathing deep. But his hand was close now—only inches from yours where it rested on the mattress.

You didn’t think. Just moved a little.

Your pinky brushed his.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t shift.

Didn’t say a thing.

But his breathing changed. Just a little. And somehow, that was louder than anything he could’ve said.

You lay there like that for a long, long time. Neither of you are speaking. Both of you are awake.

And though you didn’t reach for him, didn’t say his name or press your lips to his throat or thread your fingers with his—

You could have.

And he would have let you.

You both knew it.

He didn’t sleep much.

Not that he expected to. Not with her that close.

It wasn’t her fault—she hadn’t done a damn thing. Just laid there breathing, all soft and warm and barefoot in his periphery, like it was normal. Like this whole thing wasn’t tugging something loose in him.

Joel stared at the ceiling until the rain stopped, then at the crack in the curtain where the early light leaked through. He kept thinking it would be easier if she’d been louder. If she talked too much or chewed with her mouth open or snored like hell. Anything to give him a reason to shake this off.

But she wasn’t like that.

She was kind. Sharp, but never mean. Curious in a way that made him feel seen, even when she wasn’t asking questions.

And God help him, she looked at him like she saw something worth keeping.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Joel rolled onto his side carefully. She was still asleep, one arm curled under her cheek, the hem of her shirt rucked up just enough to show the slope of her lower back. His chest ached.

Twenty-two years old and it still hit him like a gut-punch—that quiet, simple vulnerability. The kind of thing he hadn’t let himself want in years.

She moved a little, brow twitching, and he closed his eyes fast, pretending to sleep.

Because if she caught him staring, he wasn’t sure he could explain himself.

Or worse—he might try.

He got up before she did, let the door click shut behind him as gently as he could. The air outside was thick with the aftermath of rain, still cool but warming fast. He sat on the curb by the truck with a paper cup of motel coffee and his second cigarette of the morning, neither of which did a damn thing to calm him down.

He didn’t want to be that man. The one who let himself get soft over a girl half his age just because she was sweet and pretty and kind to him in ways he didn’t think he deserved anymore.

But he was that man.

He could feel it. In the way he hesitated before getting back in the truck yesterday. The way he wanted to hear her say his name even when she was annoyed with him. The way he’d nearly taken her hand last night, just to feel something steady before sleep took him.

It scared him.

Because Joel didn’t want to break her. Didn’t want to hurt her or ruin the quiet good thing they had going, even if it was nothing but shared meals and motel stops and that long stretch of road between them.

But she made him feel younger.

No, not younger. Alive.

And that? That was even more dangerous.

He heard the door creak behind him.

Barefoot steps on the pavement. A yawn.

“Is that coffee?” she asked, voice still low and rough from sleep.

Joel didn’t look at her. Just held the cup out. “If you can call it that.”

She took it and sat beside him without asking.

And for a moment, with her shoulder brushing his and the rising sun spilling gold across the parking lot, Joel forgot all the reasons why he shouldn’t want this.

Forgot about age. About guilt. About how this couldn’t possibly last.

Because she smiled at him with sleep-warm eyes and a soft “thanks,” and all he could think was: Goddamn, I’m in trouble.

They got back on the road after checking out, her hair still damp from the motel shower. She tied it up on the ride out of town, twisting it messily with a hair tie pulled from her wrist. Joel caught himself watching her in the rearview, the reflection just enough to see the slope of her neck, the soft crease at the corner of her eye as she squinted against the sun.

She didn’t talk much at first. Just tapped her fingers against the window ledge, humming under her breath to a song on the radio that he didn’t know. Something soft and female and longing.

He didn’t ask what it was.

He liked it better not knowing.

They stopped for gas at a quiet station just off the interstate. While she went inside for snacks, Joel stayed at the pump, eyes on the curve of her retreating back, the way she moved like she was half-wrapped in sunlight.

Jesus Christ.

He leaned on the truck door, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful—though she was, in a way that made his throat tight. It was that she looked at him like she trusted him. Like she saw something he didn’t think he had left in him.

He wasn’t used to that.

But this girl?

She talked to him like he mattered in a different way.

And Joel wasn’t sure what the hell to do with that.

Back in the truck, she tossed him a pack of trail mix and slid a cold can of Coke into the cup holder.

“I guessed,” she said. “You don’t seem like a fruit punch guy.”

He raised a brow. “And what kind of guy do I seem like?”

She didn’t look at him. Just smirked faintly and buckled her seatbelt. “The kind who only likes the original stuff. No cherry flavor. No peach twist. No bullshit.”

Joel huffed a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

They drove in comfortable quiet for a while.

Later, she fell asleep again. Slumped against the window, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her lips parted just slightly.

Joel’s grip on the wheel tightened.

There was a part of him—some selfish, buried part—that liked the way she trusted him enough to fall asleep like that. Like she knew he’d get her where she needed to go. That he’d keep her safe.

And God, he would.

Whether she asked him to or not.

That realization scared him more than anything. Because Joel had spent years avoiding attachments. Keeping things clean. Transactional.

But this? This wasn’t clean.

It was quiet and messy and dangerous.

She wasn’t just some girl hitching a ride anymore.

She was herself.

Warm. Smart. Brave in a way that snuck up on you. The kind of person who picked wildflowers out of a motel parking lot and braided them into a napkin ring for no reason at all. The kind who hummed to Fleetwood Mac and offered you the last piece of candy without even thinking twice.

And the worst part?

Joel wanted to keep her around.

Wanted her beside him in the passenger seat, one knee pulled up, telling him stories he didn’t ask for but always listened to. Wanted her curled up in bed with him again, not touching, not speaking—just there.

He hadn’t wanted something like that in a long, long time.

And now that he did?

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

It was late.

They pulled into a random motel.

The sun was long gone, and the air was thick with humidity and the hum of cicadas, wrapping around the night like a second skin. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead, casting red light across her face as she leaned against the check-in counter.

Joel signed the paperwork with a cheap pen and let the desk clerk assume they were just another couple passing through. Let her think what she wants.

Hell, he didn’t even know what this was anymore.

He was too tired to lie to himself about it.

The room was small. One queen bed. Old AC rattling in the window. A lamp with a cracked base and floral shades that hadn’t been washed since the nineties.

She dropped her bag by the chair, kicked her shoes off with a sigh, and sat on the edge of the bed like she owned it.

Like she’d always belonged there.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Joel nodded. “Just tired.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “You’ve been quiet since the gas station.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not like that.”

He swallowed hard. Turned away, pretending to fiddle with something in his duffel just to avoid her eyes.

She saw through it. Of course she did.

He didn’t know why he was still pretending. The air between them was too hot, too thick, too full of everything they hadn’t said. Every brush of her knee against his in the truck. Every glance. Every goddamn moment where he almost let something slip.

Almost told her he wanted her.

Almost admitted he hadn’t thought about anything but her for days now.

She stood behind him suddenly, close enough that he could feel her breath on the back of his neck.

“I know you’re fighting it,” she whispered.

Joel’s whole body tensed.

“I can feel it. You think you’re protecting me,” she said, voice gentle. “But you’re hurting yourself.”

He turned, slowly, and met her eyes.

There was no teasing in them. No manipulation. Just warmth. Certainty.

Like she already knew.

He stepped back out of reflex—but she followed. Hands brushing his chest. Fingertips tracing the edge of his t-shirt like she was memorizing the shape of him.

“You don’t have to be scared of wanting something,” she murmured. “Not with me.”

Joel let out a shaky breath.

She was the one who closed the distance.

He didn’t remember how they ended up this close, only that her hands were on him and his heart was breaking open in his chest. He’d spent every mile of this drive trying to hold the line, keep her safe behind the walls he’d built for women like her—young, sweet, not for him.

And now she was standing there, telling him he didn’t have to pretend.

Telling him she already knew.

When she leaned in, he didn’t stop her. Couldn’t.

Her mouth brushed his like a question, one he answered with both hands gripping her waist, holding her still while he kissed her deep and slow—like he’d been waiting his whole life for the chance. He tasted mint on her tongue and something softer, something hers. Something he’d been dying to have again since the last time she smiled across the truck cab.

She sighed into it, arms sliding around his neck, body arching into his like she already knew the shape of him. He backed her up, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the bed and she sank down with a soft gasp.

Joel stood over her, just looking.

The low motel light painted her skin in soft gold, her thighs pressed together, breath shaky as she looked up at him.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse.

“I’ve been sure,” she said, fingers curling in the hem of his shirt. “Since Amarillo.”

He let out a breath that sounded more like a groan and leaned down, kissing her again—deeper now, rougher, fingers gripping her jaw as she pulled him down with her.

They undressed each other in pieces.

Her shirt was the first to go, then his. She traced his chest like she couldn’t get enough of the sight, trailing her fingers over old scars and muscle and warmth.

“You’re so goddamn handsome,” she murmured, and it hit him like a brick.

Joel ducked his head, almost embarrassed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m telling the truth.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he kissed her instead—kissed her slow and deep, until her body melted beneath him.

Her bra came off next. He didn’t rush, didn’t fumble—just pulled the strap down her shoulder and watched it fall like it was sacred. Then he leaned in, took her breast into his mouth, and sucked gently—felt her shiver beneath him, her thighs spreading just slightly in response.

“Joel—” she whispered, breath hitching.

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart,” he rasped, one hand trailing down to the button of her shorts. “You want me slow? Easy?”

“I want you, however you’ll give yourself to me.”

His jaw clenched. Christ. She knew how to break him open, piece by piece.

He took his time undressing her.

Her shorts slipped down over her hips, panties damp. He could smell her arousal, thick and sweet, and when he dropped to his knees between her thighs, she gasped.

“Wait—”

“I wanna taste you,” he said, voice low. “Been thinkin’ about it every night since Mississippi.”

She didn’t stop him after that.

He slid her legs open with both hands and leaned in, groaning against her when he finally pressed his mouth to her. She was warm and slick and already so ready for him, thighs trembling as he licked slow, patient circles around her clit. She reached for him, fingers tangling in his hair, back arching up as she bit down on her wrist to keep quiet.

“Joel—oh, fuck—please—”

He flattened his tongue, licked long and slow, then flicked gently until her thighs shook around his ears. Her orgasm built like a wave and broke with her legs wrapped around his shoulders, her hips rocking into his face as she whimpered his name over and over like a prayer.

He didn’t stop.

Not until she pulled him up and kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue.

Joel undid his jeans with shaking fingers, but she touched his wrist.

“Let me,” she whispered.

She pulled his belt open, tugged his jeans down just enough, and wrapped her hand around his cock.

Joel groaned deep in his chest—her touch soft, reverent. He was hard and aching and nearly lost it when she pressed a kiss to his chest.

“Condom?” she asked.

He nodded toward the bag.

She retrieved it, ripped the foil open with trembling fingers, and rolled it onto him slowly, like she wanted to savor every second.

Then she laid back.

Spread her thighs.

Waited.

“Come here,” she said.

Joel settled between her legs, lined himself up, and paused.

Because this wasn’t just a hookup.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was everything he’d been scared to feel.

He slid in slow, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around him, and bit back a groan when she gasped and clung to him, nails digging into his back.

“Goddamn, you feel—fuck, baby,” he muttered, burying his face in her neck. “You feel perfect.”

She wrapped her legs around him, pulled him closer.

He moved slow—deep, steady thrusts, letting her feel every part of him, letting himself feel everything. The warmth of her body. The way she whispered his name. The soft, pleading sounds she made when he hit that spot deep inside her just right.

“Joel, I—fuck—I think I—”

“I know,” he whispered, kissing her. “Come for me.”

And she did.

He felt her clench around him, felt her body fall apart, and finally—finally—let himself go.

He came with a groan, buried deep inside her, every muscle tensing before he collapsed on top of her, breath hot and ragged in her ear.

They laid there in silence.

Her hands traced lazy patterns across his chest. He kissed her shoulder once, twice.

Then, in the dark, she said:

“You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just held her tighter.

Then—

“Not sure I’ve ever been.”

She smiled against his skin.

“Me neither.”

You wake up to birdsong and silence.

No trucks passing on the highway. No boots on gravel. No Joel rummaging through the duffel for coffee or keys or his worn-out map. Just stillness, and the warm weight of his arm slung across your waist.

For a moment, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into his chest, listening to the soft sound of his breathing. It’s steady. Heavier than usual, like even he’s allowed himself a rare kind of rest.

The motel room is still dim. One of the curtains is half drawn, letting in a sliver of morning sun that catches on the dust in the air. Everything smells like last night—like motel soap and sweat and him. Like something real.

Your thigh brushes his when you shift slightly, and that’s when you feel it again—that ache between your legs, the good kind. The kind that reminds you it wasn’t a dream.

You press your face to his chest, hide the stupid smile that spreads across your mouth.

You’d never seen Joel like that before.

You’d seen him tired. Sharp. Guarded. Patient. Stern.

But not undone.

Not the way he was last night—hands trembling, voice breaking, whispering your name like he’d been holding it in for years.

And God, the way he looked at you afterward—like he’d seen the edge of something and chosen to fall anyway.

When he stirs beside you, it’s slow. A grunt under his breath, his arms tightening just slightly around your middle. His nose brushes the top of your head. He breathes in like he knows exactly where he is—and who he’s with.

“Morning,” you whisper.

His voice comes out rough. “Mornin’, darlin’.”

He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t roll over or grab his jeans like he’s got somewhere to be.

Instead, his fingers trail lightly along your spine. Absentminded. Gentle.

You tilt your head up. “You okay?”

Joel looks down at you, eyes soft in a way that makes your stomach flip.

“Think so,” he says after a beat. “You?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

More than good. But saying that out loud would make your chest crack open.

He studies you like he wants to say something else. His brows furrow like he’s weighing it. Maybe wondering if last night changed everything—or if you’ll pretend it didn’t.

So you speak first.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But something settles in him. Like a rope pulled tight just slackened.

“It ain’t,” he says. Simple. Final.

“Good,” you whisper.

Joel leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slips under the blanket, warm and possessive against your back.

“I got no plans of leavin’ you behind,” he says quietly. “Not now.”

And something in your chest flutters—something dangerous. Something hopeful.

You rest your cheek against his heart and close your eyes.

Out there, the road’s still long. There’ll be towns and weather and tension. There’ll be bad days and good ones and probably some kind of reckoning when you get to wherever the hell he’s taking you.

But right now?

He’s staying.

And so are you.

divider by @strangergraphics

🏷️ @xodilfluvr @zevrra @joelmillersonlyprincess @alyhull @bluekat707 @catch1ngmoths

[drewsctover]

illicit affairs | smau au

dbf!joel miller x reader 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

synopsis .ᐟ . . . you've always had a little thing for joel — your dad's best friend. but that night — when he picks you up drunk from a party and stays with you until your dad gets back from the hospital — something changes. maybe it's the way he takes care of you. or maybe... you just stopped pretending.

warnings .ᐟ . . . age gap, social media au, curse words, fluffy but angst too, suggestive content, grief, alcohol use, some mature themes, english is not my first language so bear with me :)

chapters. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

01. | 02. | 03. | 04. | 05. | 06. | 07. | 08. | 09. | 10. | [more to be added]

extras. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

reader’s and joel’s ig profiles.

[sleepingbeautyysblog]

[divaofmads]

A Love Meant To Burn

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader (Oc)

Chapter I , Chapter II

Chapter III: Your Name Was the Enemy

Chapter Summary: She knew exactly what she was doing. He was already broken the moment she looked back. Now, their story isn't about right or wrong. It’s about how far they’ll go when love feels like ruin.

Warnings: Angst, +18, Emotional trauma and guilt, Suicidal thoughts and themes of death, Complex and challenging relationship dynamics, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. **I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional**

Word Count: 10k

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

A/N: This one took a piece of me to write. it’s the kind of chapter where you know the characters are making choices they might never recover from, and you just sit there — helpless — watching it all unfold.

This isn’t just about love. it’s about the kind of love that hurts. the kind that demands you to choose between your heart and your sanity. between what you want, and what you can live with.

When the day revealed itself through the pale light slipping into the mouth of the cave, you were still asleep. Your cheek rested against Joel’s chest, your breath gently touching his skin — warm, patient, and innocent. One of Joel’s arms held you close, while the other rested on your shoulder; his fingertips moved slightly, not gripping you tightly but carrying a sense of possession that made it clear he wouldn’t let go. Your breath was like a soft echo rising and falling on his chest; each exhale a form of penance for him, a reminder.

He wanted to watch the peace spreading across your face when you woke up and realized you were still beside him — but it wasn’t time. Not yet. He hadn’t told you. Not yet… he hadn’t stolen you from yourself.

Joel’s head was leaned back against the damp stone wall of the cave. After a sleepless night, his eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was wide awake. The body that bore the marks of war seemed a little lighter in his arms. But the weight in his heart… that had become a burden harder and harder to carry. When his fingers tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, what passed through him wasn’t just love; it was also fear. Guilt.

Jackson was close now. Beyond the jagged cliffs lay that small, protected town — full of truths. Names. Faces. Answers. And Joel knew he wouldn’t be able to look into your eyes there. Because that town carried the truth that would tear you from him: that the man holding you so tenderly right now was the one who had killed your father.

But this morning… these few hours… you were still in his arms. He could still feel the soft rise and fall of your chest beneath his heart. And when he gently pulled the blanket over both of you, it wasn’t just to keep you warm — it was to make you a little more unforgettable. As though he wanted to protect you from more than just the cold of the cave. Wrapping his arms around your body, he rested his head in your hair for a moment. He closed his eyes. He wanted the moment to last forever. But time had never been kind to Joel Miller.

When he opened his eyes again, the first chill of morning brushed across his face. You exhaled softly and stirred a little. Your body still leaned into his, but you were waking up.

Joel saw your eyelids flutter, and he reached out to caress your cheek. His fingers glided gently from the curve of your cheek to just under your chin. Then his voice came, soft as a whisper.

“Hey... time to wake up, darlin’.”

In the way he said it, there was a kind of refuge. A way to say he loved you without saying the words. When your waking eyes met his, he saw the sleepy smile spreading across your face. Not the gaze of a stranger, but the look of a woman who trusted him.

And in that moment, Joel’s heart ached just a little more.

Because he didn’t know how he’d look into those eyes soon.

By the time night fell, snow had begun to fall slowly. The sky had closed over them like a gray blanket; the wind had turned into a whisper humming in their ears. But this night was different from the others. Joel stopped the horse to tend to your bleeding wounds. But…

You saw it as he searched through the inside of the backpack. His fingers reached for things that were no longer there: a roll of bandages, sterile gauze, a single dose of antibiotic capsules… all used up when Joel had refreshed the dressings on your wounds. The last bottle of alcohol had been used yesterday to clean the gash on yout knee.

There was nothing left.

No painkillers, no antiseptics.

Only a few dirty bandages, a half-dried spool of suture thread, and a broken pair of scissors.

Joel’s gaze drifted down to the worn-out pack beneath his hand. Then he quietly bowed his head. He knew it too. The truth lived in the silence. This was the phase of wounds that no longer healed.

The injury on your shoulder… that had been the beginning. Every minute a wound remained uncleansed, time turned into the enemy. And the enemy in your shoulder had already started creeping beneath the skin.

The edges of the wound had begun to bruise. Your skin was hot to the touch, but hard like stone. Every contact with that area triggered your body’s defense systems, setting your nerve endings on fire. The infection was spreading from within, beginning to take hold of your entire system.

You tried not to show Joel. You staggered as you stood but fixed a determined expression on your face. “We have to keep moving,” you said, as if nothing had happened.

But you hesitated for a moment as you took a step.

Joel noticed. He took a step toward you, wanting to reach for your shoulder, but you pulled away.

“I’m fine,” you said again. Like a wounded animal… and took another step.

Joel stopped. He knew. He had seen that look in the last days of Tess. The ones who tried the hardest to hide their pain were often the ones suffering the most.

But with you, it was different. You weren’t carrying pain — you were carrying vengeance. Your wound was burning not just your flesh, but your soul. And you were someone too strong — or perhaps too broken — to let the man beside you carry you.

The rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves striking snow-covered stones rose through the silence like a kind of music. The pale light of the sun seeped gently from the mountain slopes, and the droplets sparkling on the frozen branches along the path looked like crystals hanging from the sky. The air was still sharp, still cold… but the wind blowing inside you now belonged to an entirely different climate.

You were in front of Joel, seated in his lap. Nestled between his knees, your back leaned against his chest. Your hands were wrapped around his; your fingers locked together tightly, as if they had known each other across the passage of time. Your body had surrendered to his warmth. And so had your heart. There was a promise now, in the way his arm wrapped around you.

“You’re quiet,” you said, resting your head back toward his shoulder. Your eyes weren’t focused on the horizon — they were focused on him. “You’re thinking.”

Joel’s throat was dry. With the horse’s slow but steady steps, his thoughts were moving too. Each step brought you both closer to Jackson; each vibration pushed him further toward the truth… the truth he had to tell you but still couldn’t bring himself to.

“I always think,” he said, voice low and husky. “But someone like you... you drown out a man’s thoughts.”

You smiled. Without hesitation. No matter how much pain you had endured, the bond between you and this man had begun to outshine the past.

“What did you think when you found me?” you asked in a whisper. “Honestly.”

The muscles in Joel’s jaw tightened. When the horse flinched slightly, he tightened the reins, but the real jolt had been inside his chest.

“I wondered... who you were. Why you were alone. Why you were so close to death.”

“And still, you saved me,” you said, resting your head on his chest. “I’m glad you did.”

Silence hung for a few heartbeats. Joel swallowed the words rising to his lips. *I killed your father.* The words hovered on the edge of his mouth, so close they nearly slipped free. But then you turned slightly toward him on the horse, your face glowing with affection.

“When I look at you, my pain quiets,” you said. “Everything inside me goes still. Only you remain.”

In that moment, Joel felt like someone crushed beneath his own weapon in battle. Defeated. Defenseless. And ashamed.

He brought his face close to your neck, breathed you in deeply. “I’m not the man you think I am, darlin’. I might… let you down.”

“Have you?” you asked, turning slightly. Your eyes were serious, but carried hope too. “Have you abandoned me? Hurt me? Loved me with lies?”

Joel wanted to look away, but couldn’t. Because your eyes were locked onto his. Only a few inches separated your lips, and your breath scorched his skin.

“It’s not possible to love you with lies,” he said at last. “Because loving you... is already the purest kind of truth.”

As the horse continued on its path, you laid your head against his chest again. Your eyes had welled with tears, but the smile on your lips remained. This journey was nothing like the one you’d first started. You weren’t just leaning on Joel anymore — you had surrendered to him. Without fear. Without question.

But Joel’s eyes were now fixed on something else in the winding bend of the distant valley. As Jackson drew near, the past cast its shadow again.

And in that shadow, something as sharp as love was waiting: the truth.

As the cold seeped through the forest like a thin mist, you continued your journey. With each trot of the horse pressing into the snow-mixed earth, the rising shadows of the mountains whispered that Jackson was near. But in that silence, it wasn’t just the sound of hooves that filled the air—there was something else between you: pain.

The wound on your shoulder was the only thing that truly kept you awake. Beneath the bandage, it throbbed relentlessly, each breath sending a knife-like jolt through your flesh. But you didn’t make a sound. You clenched your teeth. You didn’t want anything to cast a shadow over the bond growing stronger each day between you and Joel… the trust… the love.

But Joel Miller was a careful man. He knew that in silence, even body language could be a scream. And your scream was the trembling in your shoulder. No matter how hard you tried to sit upright on the horse, he had noticed every time you shifted your weight away from your right side, every moment you secretly rubbed your shoulder, every sharp breath you held back.

Suddenly, he stopped his horse. You instinctively pulled away.

“We need to stop,” he said. His voice was firm, but there were cracks in it—he could hear your pain.

You lowered your head, clenched your jaw. “No… no, please. We can keep going. Jackson isn’t far.”

Joel looked at you. His gaze was soft but stern—there was the expression of a man on the verge of breaking, holding himself back just to protect you.

“I see you,” he said. “You’re in pain with every step. Your shoulder’s in bad shape, the bandage is soaked through, there’s blood.”

You averted your eyes. “I can push through a little longer… How much farther could it be? Five, six hours? Maybe seven. Joel, please. If we stop now, we’ll have to spend the night in the mountains. We can’t afford to slow down any more.”

Joel’s face hardened. “We have to stop. Your health—”

“No!” you interrupted, the only word that came out loud. “You don’t know how much pain I can take. This wound is not more important than getting there. We need to warn them about the threat in Northpoint. You’ve already been delayed enough because of me. You can’t wait any longer. We have to make it. Both of us.”

Your words hung in the air. Joel locked his eyes on yours. The silence lasted long. Then he clenched his jaw, turned his head, and urged his horse forward.

“Alright,” he said, simply. His tone was hurt, but resigned. “But if we have to stop… this time, it’ll be my call.”

You nodded, burying the whirlwind of emotions inside you. You hoped this small victory over the man you loved would be enough to silence the ache. Joel pressed on, wrapped in silence, but his eyes kept drifting toward you.

If something happened to you… if you didn’t make it to Jackson together… it wouldn’t just be your anger he’d have to face.

And you, you had placed the invisible bond between you — the passion, the unfinished sentences, the traces of every touch — above everything else. Despite the pain, you kept riding, as if what you were fleeing wasn’t just the wound.

As the rhythmic steps of the horse echoed beneath you, the cold air surrounding you pressed down harder, like leaden clouds hanging low in the sky. Snow had started falling again during the night, and now it had seeped into the veins of the forest as a fine layer. But to you, the cold was not just a matter of weather — it was the echo of a threat rising from within your own body.

The wound on your shoulder was no longer just a source of pain, but a warning. At first, it had only throbbed — like the first sparks of infection, as your tissues battled the heat beneath your skin. But now, that throbbing had turned into a tremor spreading toward your internal organs. Your muscles were stiffening, your movements growing more mechanical by the hour.

You were aware of these symptoms. And you paid attention to every move to make sure Joel didn’t notice. You held your shoulder a little straighter, pinned your trembling hand to your thigh. Your breathing had quickened, but you released it slowly through your lips, as if it were only from exhaustion. But inside, you were burning.

Sweat traced from your scalp to the lines on your forehead. But this wasn’t from the cold — it was from the fire within. Your body was overflowing with white blood cells fighting off the infection, your immune system waging a war that was draining every ounce of your energy.

Your head began to spin. The images around you blurred in and out, the trunks of trees overlapping one another. Joel was behind you, always watching, always giving you space. You straightened up, not wanting him to notice your condition. Rubbed your eyes. Bit your lip. Your pupils had dilated — another sign of the fever.

You clung to the only weapon left in your mind: your will. You wouldn’t be a burden to Stranger. You’d already been enough of one. You had to tell them about the new infected type, and fast. And of course, there was also revenge.

JM. Two letters circling in your mind. And your father’s revenge. Joel Miller was in Jackson, and he was waiting for you to kill him without mercy.

You swallowed. It was a hard swallow, like a stone sinking down your throat. “I’m fine,” you told yourself. “Just a few more hours. Hold on.”

But Joel’s glances toward you were lasting longer now. He sensed something was wrong. Maybe he was waiting for you to realize it yourself. Maybe he was searching for a way to stop you before you even knew you needed to stop.

You pressed your knees tighter to the sides of the saddle to keep your balance. But this time, the nausea hit. The infection was reaching your core, your internal organs. Your heart beat faster, your lungs struggled to expand. Still, not a single groan escaped your lips. You swallowed. Blinked. And kept going.

Jackson had risen just beyond the final bend — molded by winter’s hands, covered in snow, silent and solid. Its walls, built by human labor, were as real as hope itself. As the radio towers stretched into the sky in the background, for the first time in a long time, arriving somewhere felt like a true “arrival.”

But for you, this was more than just an arrival. It was a reckoning.

The wound beneath your shoulder wasn’t just a cut — it was a silent prophecy reminding you of your father’s bloody end. As your body rotted, your soul marched toward one goal: find Joel Miller, confront him... and maybe even kill him.

Hiding the pain wasn’t easy, but for someone with a purpose, it became possible. Because revenge was more resilient than the immune system.

At the foot of Jackson, as you turned that final bend, your vision blurred. Snow poured before your eyes like rain. The white glare erased the boundary between your mind and reality. The only sound echoing in your ears was that of a figure calling from far away.

“Y/N?”

Joel’s voice came from a distance. Muffled, restrained, but worried. Yet you didn’t hear him.

You had already slipped into the past. Hallucinations often appeared in the final stages of such severe infections. The mind, rather than protecting reality, clung to memory. To your father... your final goodbye... and the name Joel Miller.

Your lips were dry, but parted involuntarily. The first syllable was bare and fragile: “Joel…”

Joel Miller. Your enemy. Your lover. Your killer.

In your mind, he stood there. With the gun pointed at your father, on that dark night, where it had all begun. And now, you had found him. Right at Jackson’s gates, just a second before your knees gave out. But this Joel wasn’t real. Just a ghost made of cortisol, inside your head.

“Dad…” your voice trembled. Raspy. “He… you…”

Joel pulled the reins, and the horse stopped abruptly.

“Y/N?”

He leaned forward, panic in his voice.

“Hey, look at me. What are you saying? What… what’s happening?”

Your eyes were already full. Your pupils had dilated, your body entering hyperthermic shock. Joel’s voice was fading. But to you, his face was clear. Even if it was a hallucination, his eyes were the same as the night he killed your father. And now he was in front of you. With your breath trembling, you whispered one last word before letting go:

“Joel… Miller…”

Joel’s eyes went wide. He dropped the reins and reached to catch you.

“Y/N! No, no… Damn it, NO! Sweetheart, look at me!”

As his hand touched your shoulder, your body began to slide from the horse.

And in that moment, the whole world went dark.

The last thing you heard was your name — called out in the voice of the man you loved, trusted, but were meant to hate:

“Y/N!”

A scream from the darkness startles you. Just one step ahead, you see your father collapsed to his knees—blood seeping from his chest, dripping onto the snow, turning into a dark red stain as it freezes. His face is pale, his breath ragged; his eyes turned to you in fear. Behind you, the silhouette of Redhill burns, like a city swallowed beyond the flames.

“Stop! Please!” you scream. Your voice echoes, but it’s as if no one hears it, swallowed by the apocalypse. Your foot won’t move forward, as if the ground is holding you, like a swamp… Every step delayed. Every breath feels like broken glass in your lungs.

That’s when you see the shadow for the first time.

A figure emerges from the mist. No face, no clear form. Only a shadow, only a silhouette… A gun in its hand, standing right in front of your father. Time feels frozen. You try to run toward the figure, pleading with a voice that cracks from your throat:

“Don’t! Please… What did this man ever do to you?!”

But there’s no answer.

You look at your father’s face. He looks like he just wants to see you one last time. His lips move:

“Run… sweetheart…”

Then the gunshot.

It’s like a bomb goes off inside your head. Your father’s body falling back happens in slow motion. Your legs give out beneath you. You collapse to your knees. Your breath shortens. Only one sound echoes in your ears: the shot, and then your father’s lifeless body.

Then you look again at the silhouette.

It begins to sharpen… The lines become clear… The eyes, the mouth, the hands… And suddenly, that name you’ve kept buried in your mind for years takes the shape of a face.

It’s Joel Miller.

But what shatters you more is that you *know* him.

The man you fell in love with. The one who saved you, held you, looked into your eyes and said, “I won’t let anything happen to you.” His eyes are on you now, his face filled with pain. As if his heart is breaking, too.

“You…” you whisper. “You…”

And then that world starts to collapse.

The ground cracks, the sky darkens. Everything pulls downward, and you’re falling with it… Falling… Falling. And then—

Your eyelids felt like lead. It was as if you were slowly rising to the surface from a dark and formless void, one you couldn’t remember falling into. Like someone approaching the light… but the light here, in the real world, burned like a sharp dagger. You wanted to open your eyes—but couldn’t at first. The world beneath your eyelids throbbed with pain.

There was a high-pitched ringing in your head. Your ears were buzzing. Time and space felt distorted, your skull echoed like an empty tin can. You shifted slightly. Your whole body ached from head to toe. Especially your right leg—that place... it felt like it was on fire. But you were still alive. The pain, unbearable yet real, was proof of that.

You let out a soft breath. The sheets beneath you smelled unfamiliar. The dry, heavy scent of harsh soap, ash, and old wood fibers... You had definitely never been here before. Everything was unfamiliar.

That was when a voice echoed nearby. A young girl’s voice. Its tone was cautious, but laced with a faint kindness, like she’d been waiting patiently for you to wake without scaring you.

“Hey… looks like you’re finally waking up.”

At first, it sounded far away. Like you were hearing it underwater. When you strained your eyes open a little more, your vision was blurry. In the doorway, backlit by soft light, you could make out the silhouette of a young girl in a pale, long-sleeved shirt, with pony tailed hair. Your eyes blinked a few times, and the world slowly came into focus. She stepped closer, and when you tried to sit up, stumbling slightly, she raised her hand gently to stop you.

“Easy, take it slow. You’re still really weak,” she said. “You’ve been asleep for two days. Maria and I took care of you. Well... as best we could.”

Her voice was unfamiliar, yet it carried a strange kind of balance—calm, cautious, but trustworthy. Her movements were controlled, like she knew she was in a room with someone unpredictable, but still had the courage to offer that person a glass of water.

“Where… am I?” you asked, your voice cracked, hoarse and raspy. Your throat was parched, your tongue glued to the roof of your mouth.

The girl turned her head slightly, not looking away but also avoiding the question directly:

“We’re in Jackson. North of Wyoming, small settlement… pretty safe, all things considered.”

Jackson. That name rang a distant bell. Maybe from the crackling voice over the radio at the power plant, or Tommy’s echoing shout… or maybe from even further back. But your mind still felt clogged, like it was filled with mud. Nothing would stay in your grasp.

“Who… who are you?” you asked, lifting your head slightly from the pillow.

“Ellie,” she said plainly. “But don’t worry about that now. You need to rest.”

She had said her name—Ellie—but you noticed something else: she hadn’t mentioned the man who brought you here. The one who made it possible for you to stay, who had rescued you or carried you into this room. It was like she was hiding something—or had been told not to say. And yet, that voice… that voice still echoed in your ears. That deep and husky tone that had told you, as you trembled on horseback, “Don’t you give up.”

Ellie picked up a cracked-glass pitcher from the small nightstand. She filled a glass with water, its surface flecked with bits of dust. She held it out to you. Your fingers struggled to reach. You wanted the water, but you also wanted to grasp the truth behind everything.

She helped you, gently supporting your back and bringing the glass to your lips. Even the water burned as it passed down your throat. But at least you were drinking. You were alive.

As Ellie placed the glass back down, your eyes wandered around the room. Dark wooden walls. A few faded drawings hanging. Books lined up on a shelf. A guitar leaning in the corner—there was no dust on it—it had been played recently. An old curtain on the window, a faded denim jacket hanging on a nail. And the smell of the bed… you knew that smell. Somewhere deep inside, your skin remembered it.

But still… you couldn’t name it yet.

Everything was still watching you like a shadow.

Sitting up in bed felt like trying to pull a bullet fragment lodged deep inside your body. Every muscle, every fiber, every breath burned like an open wound. Your chest was tight, a dull pressure in your abdomen. Your left arm had gone numb, and the throbbing in your right leg could still be felt beneath the bandages.

As you struggled to sit up, Ellie instinctively moved forward, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, careful to make her touch guiding, not forceful.

“Hey… slow down. Your stitches are still fresh. It’s gonna hurt if you move too much,” she said, eyes serious, her voice a warning.

You pressed your fingertips against the sheet, gritting your teeth as you pulled yourself up. Your head spun, your vision briefly darkened, but you gathered your will. By the time your back rested against the pillow, you were breathless. Heat trickled down the back of your neck, mingling with the sweat at your hairline.

Your eyes turned to Ellie. Questioning, cautious, maybe even a little… suspicious.

“He brought me here… didn’t he?” Your voice was hoarse and cracked, your throat still dry, but the words came out clear.

Ellie averted her gaze for a second. She fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket. That small, almost invisible hesitation told you a lot. The girl was careful. Every word she spoke was weighed in her mind before it left her mouth.

“Which ‘he’?” she asked, her voice casual, but tension simmered underneath. She didn’t lean toward you or move from her spot. Not defensive, more like she was giving you space.

“The man I ran into… out there,” you said. “The stranger.” You didn’t look away. “The one who lifted me onto the horse… and saved me.”

Ellie frowned. The corner of her mouth twitched slightly, then she turned her eyes to the window. A cold-lit morning lay outside; heavy clouds, wind gently stirring the curtains.

“He’s in a meeting,” she finally said. There was no mistaking the certainty in her voice. “About the new infected types. They’re discussing the signals from Northpoint.”

Your heart suddenly started to beat faster. Northpoint.

That place… hazy, silent, full of death. Its walls cracked, machines broken. The hum that echoed through the quiet. Your desperate attempts to repair that cursed network to send a signal to Jackson. And then… your call for help. And his arrival.

“In a meeting, huh,” you said quietly.

Ellie nodded, turning her eyes back to you.

“I looked into Northpoint. Everyone’s talking about it. They said the systems were dead, but you got some of them working again. You established communication… even if briefly. That’s something most people here couldn’t manage right now.”

She paused. There was a strange expression on her face—somewhere between admiration and cautious distance. “Fixing things like that. Surviving that long. Alone. Even Maria was impressed.”

You were still listening, but something else echoed in your mind. A background noise behind her words, like the static of a broken recording bleeding into your thoughts.

Joel.

His name still hadn’t passed from Ellie’s lips. But an image suddenly formed in your mind. About six months ago. You’d just set out. Winter hadn’t fully set in, but the nights were already freezing. While traveling a rocky path, you’d stumbled across an abandoned gas station. You’d found a rusted map. Thick and faded. Marked with hand-written notes—arrows, lines, scribbles.

A name was written there. You still remembered. “Joel & Ellie.”

You still carried that map. It had been soaked in rain, the edges frayed, but you never threw it away. Back then, the names had seemed ordinary. But now…

Your heart skipped a beat. Your eyes turned back to Ellie. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out. You felt something crack open in your chest. Deep and sharp suspicion.

Every detail in the room—the guitar on the wall, the bookshelves, the scent in the air, even Ellie’s voice… there was an answer hidden in all of it. But you couldn’t name it. Not yet.

Ellie noticed your gaze but said nothing. Instead, she refilled your glass from the pitcher. The glass had a crack, but her hand didn’t tremble.

“Keep drinking,” she said. “You need to rest.”

But you were no longer focused on the glass. You were locked in your memories. And something in your chest was slowly beginning to awaken.

The room fell silent once more. Only the sound of the distant wind brushing against the windows scratched at your insides like a cold thorn. As Ellie set the pitcher back down, you were still silent. She tilted her head slightly, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. Then she shoved her hands into the pockets of her pants.

She was just about to leave the room when your voice held her back.

“What was your name?”

Ellie stopped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if frozen mid-motion. You could see from the movement in her shoulders that she was preparing an answer. Slowly, she turned to look at you, her eyes a deep brown and her expression cautious.

“Ellie.”

You only nodded. But she looked directly into your eyes. For too long. There was something in it. Not absentmindedness—scrutiny.

Ellie narrowed her gaze.

“That’s the second time i’ve told you that. Why?” she asked. Her voice sounded soft, but the tension in her tone was obvious. “I mean… have we met before? Or…” Her eyes squinted for a moment. “Are you from FEDRA?”

Your face remained expressionless. No confirmation, no lie. Just that empty, yet meaning-laden stare. Ellie’s pupils shifted with unease as she received no answer. It was clear she now felt like a threat hovered just under her nose.

She quickly dropped her hands to her sides, then took a step back. It was obvious she was trying to change the subject.

“I mean… you’re probably hungry,” she said quickly. “You haven’t eaten in two days. I’ll… I’ll make you a sandwich. Just wait here, okay?”

Still, you said nothing. Ellie was clearly unnerved by your silence. As she turned and hurried out of the room, she seemed almost swept away like a gust of wind behind her. The door clicked shut. Her footsteps faded down the stairs.

At that moment, alone in the room, the silence was no longer just emptiness—it was weight. Even the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling looked menacing. The wind slipped in through a cracked corner of the glass, lifting the edge of the curtain slightly.

This place... this was someone else's life. Not yours. And slowly, a cold suspicion began to crawl through your veins. Your breath quickened. You looked at the pillow, the blanket, the bookshelf on the wall. All of it… had a masculine order to it. Clean, but slightly messy. Old books on the shelves, a broken guitar string, a charm made of dried pine branches. Flannel shirts hung behind the door. Most of them were large. One had a loose thread dangling from a missing button on the collar.

Ellie’s face replayed in your mind. Her tension, her panicked exit. The sandwich excuse—it was almost childlike. And once you realized that, you couldn’t stay seated any longer. No matter how tired, how broken, how wounded you were...

...you had to get up.

You pushed off the blanket with your hands. Your skin prickled. When your toes touched the cold floor, it felt like stepping onto a frozen river. Your breath was uneven. You clenched your teeth. As you rose, the stitches in your chest throbbed, but you didn’t care. You would endure.

As Ellie’s footsteps faded away, the silence inside deepened. You were alone now.

But this solitude wasn’t peaceful. Like a growing ache in your chest, a feeling inside you wouldn’t settle: You were in the wrong place. And looking for the right person.

You glanced around once more. The blanket still lay tangled around your knees. With the sting of the stitches on your body, you pushed yourself upright from the bed. For a few seconds, your balance faltered, but you managed to stand by pressing your hands against the edge of the mattress. Your head throbbed, your vision still blurry. But your mind—your mind was clear.

The watch.

You remembered suddenly.

The one thing keeping every ounce of anger and every trace of vengeance alive in your veins.

The watch found next to your father’s body.

With the killer’s initials carved into its back—your most tangible memory that even time couldn’t erase. Without it... you might forget why you were fighting.

Panic set in as you turned your head. You looked under the bed—nothing. You reached into the small drawer of the bedside table. Empty. You slammed it shut.

Your bag. Where was your bag?

After a quick scan, your eyes landed on the torn backpack resting on the chair in the corner of the room. You moved toward it with hurried steps—despite the pain of your wounds. Your hands trembled as you unzipped it. You looked inside.

Maps... an unfinished notebook... a few bandages... but...

No watch.

A wave of cold fear washed over you. You hadn’t left it behind. You always kept it in the innermost pocket.

It couldn’t have been stolen.

Maybe...

No.

Then your eyes caught the drawer of the small desk in the corner. It sat half-open beside the chair. You moved toward it. Your legs trembled, but you didn’t stop.

When you opened the drawer, the first things you saw were a few crumpled papers. Notes. Scattered scribbles. Faded words. But beneath them was a stack of paper that caught your attention. Lines written in shaky handwriting had been pressed into the pages. As your eyes began to grasp the words, something inside you shifted. Your pulse quickened. You carefully flattened the paper with your hand.

These... these were song lyrics.

But not like the kind you’d seen before. They weren’t random.

As if between the sentences... you found yourself.

“I saved a woman—maybe

she was already lost when I did.

She asked me for direction,

but the path... the path was me.

Her eyes left, but my heart stayed with her.

And now whenever the night comes...

I’m bleeding in a dream shaped by her voice.

But you know me now.

So... say something.”

Your knees nearly gave out at the first line.

Your eyes were locked on the paper. You turned to the next page.

“There’s a place in my nights—

filled only with the sound of that woman’s voice.

Even when she pointed her gun at me,

there was warmth in her hands.

Loneliness,

sometimes fades with the breath of a stranger.

I saved you.

But really, you killed me.”

The song wasn’t finished.

Some sentences were cut short. Letters scratched out. Notes written over them.

“Will tomorrow birth revenge from this night, or a bond built upon regret?”

Your throat tightened.

The air in the entire room seemed to grow heavier.

It became hard to breathe.

Your eyes lifted from the paper.

You read the word again.

"I saved you.

But really, you killed me."

As your heart echoed within your chest, you felt this line was kin to your blood. The words were no longer just ink—they were a projection of a past that echoed inside you, of broken hopes and a face you still couldn’t decipher.

"Even when she pointed her gun at me..."

Your eyes froze on the line. Something inside you snapped. This couldn’t be a coincidence. A sentence this accurate, this familiar, could only be written through witness. But... you had never pointed a gun at that man. Not before. Not yet. And still… it was as if the words said one day you would, and he knew it.

There was only one question echoing in your mind:

“Did he write these?”

The stranger must have brought you to this house, right? It was his house. And she — the girl with Joel Miller, Ellie—was assigned to look after you.

Suddenly, it felt like the air around you had gone cold. A quiet unease spread through the room. And just then—

The door opened.

You flinched instantly, gripping the papers reflexively to keep from dropping them. Your heart had leapt to your throat. Your fingers trembled. Your breath caught in your chest like fractured glass.

The first to step in was Ellie, holding a plate. Her expression was tense. She stopped in her tracks the moment she saw you standing, the papers from the drawer still in your hand.

"What are you doing?!" she asked, voice sharp with worry. "You shouldn’t be up. You barely started walking again."

Your eyes shifted past her shoulder.

And he was there.

Standing at the threshold.

That familiar face. Harsh features. Shadows hanging beneath his eyes like the weight of years of guilt carved into skin. And yet... his eyes were soft. The man you loved was looking at you with love.

Your hands trembled as you looked at him. You tried to speak, but the words stuck in your throat. You couldn’t describe what you felt. You were grateful to be alive, and yet… you were in the middle of a swamp. And every step was pulling you deeper.

Ellie turned to him as she realized he’d entered. Her brows were furrowed. "She’s up... I told her she needed rest."

Joel Miller knew the secrets would come to light one day—he just never thought they'd be so eager, while you were still limping through the aftermath.

Joel gave her a small nod. His gaze didn’t just fall on Ellie—it carried a weight as it passed over to you. He was calm. What he was thinking was impossible to read.

"Thanks for watching her, Ellie," he said. His voice was firm. But beneath it, something else lingered. A message: leave.

Ellie’s shoulders tensed slightly. She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to walk out that door. Her eyes moved back to you. Then to Joel. But Joel didn’t look away. It was like a silent message passed between them. About danger. About trust.

Finally, Ellie sighed. "Sandwich..." she said, setting the plate on the nightstand. "So she won’t go hungry."

Then she turned back. And as she stepped out the door, she cast one last glance back. As if it might be the last time she saw you.

And silence fell.

You were alone now.

Joel studied you for a few seconds. He’d noticed the papers in your hand—the ones from the drawer. His eyes drifted there, but he didn’t ask you anything directly.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t move. Your body and your mind were fighting the same war. The words in your hand, the man before you, Ellie’s strange silence…

You slowly placed the papers on the table. Your fingers were still trembling, but you made no sound. The weight of the moment was carried entirely by the silence. It felt like the air in the room had thickened, time sinking beneath your steps. You didn’t take your eyes off him.

And then… you started walking.

Unsteady, but resolute. Quiet, but stormy.

Your steps echoed across the wooden floor until you stood right in front of Joel.

Only a few inches separated you. And when you looked into his eyes, you saw the weight of years—pain, loss, and exhaustion. But you also saw something else… familiarity. As if… you’d been here before. As if his gaze had been calling you for years.

Joel parted his lips to speak. But that word… that first word… never made it out.

Because you spoke first. And your voice rose not from your throat, but from deep inside, from your soul.

“Have you ever heard of Redhill?”

Joel’s expression didn’t change. But that name, that familiar syllable, caused a flicker behind his eyes. He understood. But he didn’t speak. His eyes didn’t leave yours. He was waiting.

“It used to be a home,” you said. “It had walls. It had my father. And his faith… it kept me alive. He believed it was still possible to trust people. To build something with them.”

Your eyes filled with tears, but not a single drop fell.

“Then… that day came. Fire fell from the sky. Bullets rained. Screams, gunfire, blood… everything blurred together. And I… that day… as I carried my father’s lifeless body, I made a vow.”

Your voice cracked. But your words were heavy, steady, and sharp.

“I’d find the man who killed him. And I’d kill him. No matter what it cost.”

Joel was still looking at you. But the edges of his eyes had quivered just a fraction. Maybe it was just a trick of the light. Maybe it was his heart. But you saw it.

“A year and a half. I walked alone for a year and a half. Maps, abandoned roads, shadows… until… I saw you.”

This time, Joel’s brow furrowed slightly. He let out a breath without realizing it. But he still didn’t speak. He only listened.

There was a quiet waiting in his eyes. And a fear.

“You were a stranger,” you said. “And something inside me shattered the moment I saw you. I didn’t understand it. Because… I loved you. Beyond revenge, beyond hate… in that moment, I loved you.

And that feeling… it started to ruin everything.”

Your hands were clenched by your sides. Your eyes glistened with tears, but your voice… your voice didn’t waver anymore.

“As I loved you, I forgot my purpose. But there was something I never let go of… something that kept me tied to my past. I always had it with me. That watch. The watch of my father’s killer. It was always with me. When I slept, when I walked, when I fought. The only thing that reminded me why I was still alive.”

You studied Joel’s face carefully. And in that moment… a tiny muscle moved in his jaw. As if time shifted once more. But still… he remained silent.

“In this room… I looked for it. But it’s gone. Please, tell me I didn’t lose it. Tell me I didn’t lose my watch.”

Joel didn’t speak for a long time. It was as if the room had stopped breathing. Time had lodged itself in your chest like a bullet. It couldn’t move forward, couldn’t turn back. It could only wait. You were both inside a silent apocalypse.

Then... very slowly, Joel reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. It was a small, careful movement. As if he were carrying a grenade. His fingers, moved by a familiar habit, found it. And he pulled it out. That old, worn wristwatch — its scratches telling the story of the past.

It carried the weight of time. And now... something else too.

He held it in his palm for a while. His fingers brushed the surface, as if uncertain. But then... he took a step. Then another. Closing the space between you.

You held your breath, standing still.

One of your hands was clenched into a fist. Your heart... your heart was pounding wildly.

Joel let out a slow, trembling breath.

Then, with his fingertips, he turned the back of the watch.

Without ever looking away from you, he held it out.

But before... before he called you to take it, he showed you the two letters.

A faint engraving.

Not faded with time — on the contrary, deepened by it: J.M.

Those letters… and the truth you’d been chasing for years.

Joel still held the watch in his hand. His eyes were lost in shadow, but his voice… his voice came like an echo from the past. Deep. The voice of a fallen man.

“I remember that day… The watch had stopped. But I never took it off. Even if it couldn’t tell time anymore… it was the only promise I made after my daughter was gone. Not to forget.”

Joel’s voice held no anger, no defense. But he didn’t try to hide what was inside him. That sentence… was the gravestone he carried on his back.

In that moment… the world lost its sound. But the words crashed off the walls. Echoed in your head. The watch had stopped. But your time was only now beginning.

Your eyes widened. Your heartbeat changed. In that moment, all the pieces in your mind came together: Redhill, the promise you made your father, the single name echoing through the silence… And it slipped from your lips like a whisper: “It’s you.”

You took a step toward him. With everything burning in your eyes: “Joel Miller.”

And the past pierced the chest of the future.

In that moment, you couldn’t control your breath, nor the familiar rage that began to burn inside your eyes.

You locked your gaze on Joel’s. But what filled your eyes now wasn’t just the silence of the man you knew — it was someone else. A silhouette of a past stained with blood, ashes, and curses. In that moment, those eyes didn’t belong only to Joel. Behind those eyes were the ashes of Redhill. Behind those eyes lay your father, a single bullet in his head, lying on his back.

“You…” you began, your voice hoarse, tangled with breath. On your face was not just disappointment; there was the sharpness of betrayal. “You knew. All along. Who I was.” That last word felt like it scratched your throat.

Joel said nothing. He neither denied nor confirmed. His gaze fell to your hands — you were still holding the watch.

“You did it on purpose,” you said, stepping forward. “When you found me, when you saw who I was… you knew. And you said nothing. Why? Tell me, why?!” What came out of you wasn’t just pain; it was a cry made at the edge of a grave buried deep inside. “You made me fall in love with you,” you whispered. Your eyes were filled, but the tears didn’t fall. If they fell, you’d fall apart. If they fell, your rage would turn to helplessness. “You lied! You stayed silent. You hid your identity. And I…” You pointed to your chest. “I carried this every day, every night… this watch, this memory, this dead man! You… you stole them all from me!”

“You’re heartless.” The words slipped through your clenched teeth. You were so close now, you could feel Joel’s breath.

Joel lowered his head. As if trying to push the last word stuck inside him through his throat. From between his pale, cracked lips, a quiet “Y/N” escaped, but it didn’t echo in the room. Because the only thing cutting through the silence now was the roar of the emotions exploding inside.

“I never lied,” he said at last. His voice was heavy. So heavy, it was as if the words had given in to gravity. “I just… couldn’t tell the truth.” He looked up. The lines around his eyes looked deeper now. He was tired. But this tiredness wasn’t physical. It was the sorrow of a man who, after losing too much, believed he didn’t even deserve to live.

“I owed you a life,” he said, stepping forward. “But part of that life had already been taken from you. I couldn’t give it back. What was I supposed to do?” He paused, then continued with pain in his voice, “I didn’t tell you my name. I warned you. Again and again. I told you I wasn’t right for you. I did everything to keep you away. But… God knows… I couldn’t stay away from you.”

There was a tremble in his face now. His eyelids were quivering. His breath came in short bursts. He swallowed hard. It was as if another Joel had emerged from within him. Not the one Ellie knew — this was the man who hadn’t opened his heart to anyone since Sarah, and when he did, it shattered everything.

“I didn’t want you because I love you,” he said. “Because loving you… was hell. Loving you was like staring into the face of every person I ever killed. In your eyes… they all died again.” His voice cracked. For the first time, his eyes filled with tears. “I wish we’d met in another way.” His shoulders sank. “I wish this path… wasn’t so damn cursed.”

The air had grown cold. The house was silent. In the silence, the only thing echoing was a broken breath—like the outcry of a scream held back. In that moment, time neither moved forward nor stayed in the past.

Your fingers trembled; it was unclear whether from anger, the cold, or the weight in your chest you could no longer bear. Your eyes were locked on Joel Miller—not as a man, but as a ghost. He was the embodiment of a shadow hidden among memories, now returned in flesh and blood.

Your throat was dry; the words burned as they left your lips.

“I… I set out on this path to kill you, Joel Miller. Not just for my father… but for Redhill. The curse of all of them settled on my shoulders like a burden. At the end of this road, I was supposed to shoot you!”

Your voice cracked. Your eyes filled, but no tears fell; hatred was a feeling that didn’t allow tears.

“But do you know what happened? I fell in love with the man I swore to kill! In this damned world, I loved you! How could… how could it be like this?! This isn’t how I imagined this scene. This confrontation. This truth.”

You gripped your hair with your hands, turned away as you tried to control your breath, but looked at him again.

“I hate myself. For loving a man like you… I want to die!”

With those words, it was as if the silence cracked in the room. The only sound was the faint creak of a footstep on the wooden floor. Joel, without saying a single word, slowly reached for his waist. His hand found a gleaming piece of metal. He let out a deep, weary breath.

SIG P226: A semi-automatic pistol favored by federal agents and some military units—reliable, trusted. Joel always trusted this weapon. It never let him down. Aged, but loyal. Just like him.

In the silence, the sound of the mechanism pulling back echoed like a chilling whisper: “CLICK.” But it wasn’t the sound of death—it was the sound of surrender.

Joel raised the gun to his chest. But now, its loyalty had changed.

He turned the pistol and held it out to you, slowly, deliberately. The grip—marked with his fingerprints—faced you. The muzzle pointed downward. His fingers were ready to let go. His eyes, bound to the past.

“Take it,” Joel said. His voice was dry, hoarse, but steady. “I’m right here. Do whatever you have to do. Give me what I deserve… let your finger be on the trigger.”

You stared at the gun as if frozen. Your hand hovered in the air for several seconds. Your breathing grew erratic.

When you held the weapon, its coldness spread from your fingertips to your heart. With trembling hands, you reached for the trigger, but what you were really touching was his fate—or maybe your own. In that moment, time stopped; neither the weight of the past nor the possibility of the future remained. Only you, him, and the decision in your hands.

He was looking at you. Without saying a word. He offered no defense, no apology. In his eyes, there was only a quiet acceptance—as if he had long been waiting for this moment, as if every sleepless night had prepared him for this.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t want to. Because you were supposed to hate him. Because once, you had sworn. That you would kill him. When you stared at your father’s lifeless body in the ruined streets of Redhill, when the hopes of your people were crushed underfoot, when you set out on this journey whispering his name… it had all started that day. And it was all… supposed to end today.

But everything had changed, hadn’t it?

That stranger was no longer a stranger. The fury you carried in your heart had been pierced by the nights you’d shared with him.

You applied pressure to the trigger. Just a little… just a click. But your finger couldn’t go further. Because his face didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. He had surrendered himself to you.

“Do it,” said his eyes. “Do what must be done.”

You couldn’t do it.

You lowered the gun.

Your arm trembled. Your shoulder dropped.

Tears slid down your cheeks, but you didn’t say a word.

Slowly, you sank to your knees. You placed the gun on the ground with care.

The sound… that metallic clatter… hit your ears heavier than bullets.

You rose to your feet.

Joel stayed silent for a long time.

The gun was still on the floor.

His old leather jacket rustled faintly; even the dried bloodstains were just shadows now.

He looked into your eyes—only your eyes.

Then, suddenly, his voice cracked with an unexpected tone.

“Why didn’t you?”

It was such a simple, bare question… there was nowhere left to run from it.

“You should’ve killed me,” he said again, his eyes locked with yours.

“You were so close… pulling the trigger was just a second.

And… I deserve it.”

You didn’t move.

Your hands were clenched into fists, but they weren’t shaking anymore.

It was like you had shed all hatred, all rage.

Only silence remained.

Then your voice, breaking in a whisper-like confession, came out:

“Because I… already knew.”

Joel furrowed his brow, tilting his head slightly.

You kept talking, your voice layered with depth.

“When we were in Northpoint… when I was close to repairing the device. I made contact with Jackson. Someone named Tommy answered. He asked, ‘Is Joel Miller with you?’ The words were hard to catch through the static. But I ignored it, wanted to think I was being paranoid. Tried to convince myself I’d misheard.”

Your voice cracked again, but there was no stopping now.

“I knew. For days… maybe weeks… I knew.”

Your eyes locked onto Joel’s.

There was no fear left in your gaze, no denial.

Only the raw truth—like an open wound, still bleeding.

“I forgot the promise I made my father. I opened my heart to the man I was supposed to hate. And now, I have neither revenge… nor peace. Only a love cursed—born from the ashes of everything it burned.”

You cried for the first time. But quietly. “I thought you betrayed me. But I’m the one who betrayed. My father’s grave. My people. Justice… Myself.”

Joel stood frozen where he was, your words echoing around him like ghosts.

He couldn’t run. Couldn’t turn back.

Your voice still echoed in his ears—that voice which had once been the only light in his darkness.

But now, that light was setting itself ablaze before his very eyes. That strong, ever-composed face of his…

It looked too tired to carry its secrets anymore.

His eyes were full—but no tears fell.

Joel Miller had stopped crying the day Sarah’s body grew heavy in his arms. And now, maybe for the first time since then, he’d been struck in that same place again.

Perhaps that’s why he stayed silent.

Because words… never bring anything back.

But in that silence, there was a scream.

A scream of a man who wanted to reach for you, but had no right to touch.

Joel Miller had survived death.

But not you.

Not the shattered light in your eyes.

And in that moment, he knew one thing for certain: Love doesn’t always heal.

Sometimes the greatest hell is looking into the eyes of the woman who still loves you.

He slowly straightened up.

Took a step forward.

Then stopped.

And in a hollow voice, he asked only one thing:

“So what happens now?”

That night, you made the decision that changed your life. And maybe you'll never know... whether you did the right thing, or made the biggest mistake of all.

When you straightened your back, your body still ached. The pain beneath your ribs was a sharp reminder of wounds that hadn’t quite healed—but even that pain was nothing compared to the wound in your soul, much deeper, much sharper.

As your knees trembled, your eyes locked on Joel. He was still there. Silent, wounded, and regretful. But a very different war raged inside your heart.

There was a moment of silence. Then you spoke.

"I'm leaving," you said. Your voice was calm, but filled with ashes. "I can’t wake up every morning and share the same sky with you."

Your words hung in the air like a blade. Joel didn’t say a word.

You took a step. You staggered slightly, but gathered yourself. Your gaze still fixed on him. And as you spoke your final words, it was as if you were carving them into your own tombstone:

"Joel, because the more I forgive you... the more I hate myself."

When your words ended, everything seemed to stop. You’d come to understand that a love soaked in blood and betrayal couldn’t be silenced. You weren’t angry at Joel anymore—you were angry at yourself. You realized you couldn’t carry this weight.

And Joel—he didn’t fall apart when he first heard your words… but when he first felt what they meant, his knees gave out.

When you said you were leaving, your voice didn’t even sound like your own. It was foreign, cold, determined. Love had turned you into a stranger. And there was no forgiveness left—not for Joel, not for yourself.

Joel didn’t speak at first. As if every word might drive you further away. But when you turned your back and took a step, he moved. His fingers, strong but trembling, gripped your shoulders. He still had strength—but it wasn’t to hurt you anymore. It was to keep you from leaving.

"You can’t go," he said, his voice torn like a prayer. "Not like this… not in this state… you won’t survive out there alone. You’ll die, Y/N."

But you lowered your head slightly. Your eyes weren’t on Joel—they were fixed on your past.

"Maybe… I should," you said. But it wasn’t defiance. It was a sentence. Accepted. Your fate. And when Joel understood that, he lost his breath. "I think I deserve this," you said. "Redhill... needs me, yes. But if I return with this stain inside me, I’ll be neither leader nor daughter. So maybe… this is how it ends. In the middle of the road. Quietly."

Joel stepped closer, his hands still on your shoulders. But this time, they were a refuge.

"I did something to you, yes," he said. "I hurt people. I’ve been doing it for a long time. You know who I am now. But there’s one thing I need you to understand…"

He paused. His eyes pierced into yours. As tired as the dead, as hopeless as a prisoner.

"Along the way… watching you… each night by the fire, when you turned your back and couldn’t sleep, when you woke up from your nightmares… my heart was always in your hands."

You stayed silent. Maybe you heard him. Maybe you didn’t. But Joel wasn’t expecting an answer anymore. This wasn’t a confession. It was a moment of punishment.

"Y/N…" he said softly, his voice the final hope of a man breaking apart. "I loved you. I still do. But no matter what you do, you’re right. I broke you. What I did to your father… to myself… I’ve already sentenced myself. Every day, every hour, every breath…"

You shook your head slowly, still locking eyes with him.

"It wasn’t just you, Joel," you said, your voice cracked. "I betrayed too. Before my father’s blood even dried… I loved you. And that’s the one thing I can’t forgive."

Joel’s eyes widened. Because for the first time, the guilt that once crushed only him had now begun to bury you too.

"When I made contact with Jackson… when I was in Northpoint… I found out who you were," you continued. "But I couldn’t say it. Because saying it… meant losing you. And losing you… meant losing everything."

Your lips trembled. Joel tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. In that moment, his hands fell. Because you weren’t holding him anymore. You had chosen to walk into your own hell.

As you slowly turned your back, Joel’s eyes clung to you. You were leaving. Taking your heart with you. And leaving him alone. Just like how it all began. In silence. Without gunshots. But with a far deadlier pain.

Joel was still there. Standing. Wounded. His blood-covered hands were still holding you—as if letting go would send you plummeting off a cliff, or worse, he would lose everything. There was an unusual panic in his eyes. Joel Miller, always so cold-blooded before killing a man, had now lost that calm. Had he ever been this afraid in a war? He didn’t know. But the thought of losing you… that weighed heavier than any hell he had ever endured.

"Y/N..." he said again. His voice was hoarse, torn from his throat. "Don’t leave me now. No matter what... we’ve come all this way together. Don’t say it’s over. Please... we can find another way."

"Joel, it’s over," you said. Your voice didn’t tremble. "This path... it only leads to a grave."

Joel staggered. As if your words had punched him in the gut. His eyes lingered on you. His lips moved but no words came out. He stepped forward again, maybe ready to fall to his knees and beg. That would’ve been a sacred fall for Joel Miller. And he could only do it for you.

"I’ll do whatever you want," he said. "If you’re going back to Redhill… we’ll go together. I won’t pretend nothing happened, but… I can’t stay away from you. I thought I had a future with you. Maybe it’s too late. Maybe it’s madness. But..."

You didn’t look at him. You slowly reached for your backpack. You weren’t ready, not really. Your wounds were still bleeding, your bones still begged for rest—but staying meant not healing. It meant rotting deeper. Joel’s voice echoed behind you, but it had already turned into a memory. Your fingers were cold, like every vein inside you. Your eyes locked on a single point. You had to repeat to yourself that it was over. Otherwise, you’d take it all back.

You turned around one last time. Your eyes met. Joel wasn’t begging anymore. He was just standing there, stripped bare in loneliness. His lips quivered, but the tremble didn’t come from cold—it came from the loss gnawing at him. Something had broken in the depth of his gaze.

"I need to pack," you said.

Joel remained silent. As if even that line gave him hope. He looked at you like he was thinking, So you're not leaving right away. But that was what Joel Miller never understood: the journey had already begun in your heart. Goodbyes don’t start at the door—they begin when something inside finally lets go.

And in that moment—maybe he would speak again, maybe take another step—but you beat him to it. You slowly walked forward, standing directly in front of him. Your body was tired, your eyes as dark as the night. As his hand reached for your shoulder, you suddenly pushed against his chest. He stumbled back toward the door. For a second, he didn’t understand what was happening. But then his back hit the doorframe, and reality returned.

"Y/N—"

The door shut. Loud. Heavy.

He heard the turn of the lock. That sound hit sharper than a gunshot. His hands no longer trembled. The decision had been made.

Joel stood frozen before the door. The silence inside was louder than the wind outside. His palms curled into fists. He didn’t knock. Because he knew now: it wasn’t the door that had closed—an entire lifetime had.

And you, inside, were breathing. Slow. Heavy. You’d probably start packing a bag. Take some bandages. A little food. But most importantly: you’d leave your heart behind that door. It had grown too heavy to carry any longer.

This time, he didn’t want you to die. But he no longer had the courage to stop you. And maybe this time… it really was the end.

[adoreispunk]

Out of Reach (joel miller au)

“…this new offer—Olivia helping out—felt like a solid alternative. Maybe this was the break I needed to keep business going without pulling my hair out in the process. My dark thoughts also hoping some eye candy would help my pent up stress.”

an: summary of this story is back on chapter 1:) this is still establishing the characters relationship but we’re gonna start getting into the good stuff next;)

tags: joelmillerau, age gap, dbf!joel, joelmillerfanfic, pedropascal, mature

Two

I was sitting out on the porch after a day at work, staring at the setting sun while my mind raced through a million things.

The blessing of my flourishing business was quickly becoming one of my biggest burdens. I had more work than I knew what to do with, but not enough hands to get it all done. It felt like I was juggling twenty different things, running from job site to job site, trying to stay on top of everything. And then there was the marketing side of things, where every client seemed to find us through the damn internet. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I'd rather gouge my eyes out than try to figure out how to use my phone to save my life. Felt like the only thing to take some edge off was a couple glasses of whiskey at the end of the night.

It was starting to weigh on me, and I knew I had to find help—someone reliable. That's when I thought of Theo, an old friend I used to work with back at the other company. Good guy, solid morals, and one hell of a contractor. I dug through my phone, scrolling through my contacts, hoping to find his number buried in the list. After a few seconds of praying, I saw it and dialed without thinking twice.

I didn't immediately bring up the job offer. Part of me just needed some human connection outside of the idiots I see everyday at work. Ever since Sarah left for school, the house had been quieter than I liked. I still wasn't used to coming home to an empty house every day.

Thankfully, Theo agreed. He invited me over for some beer and dinner the next day. After wrapping up some work at the office, I threw on my clean work boots and a fresh flannel and drove over to his place. The house looked like it had seen better days, but it felt familiar. I pulled into the driveway, and the porch light flickered on as I approached.

Theo greeted me with a hearty slap on the back and a beer in hand. "Right on time. Good to see you, Joel." He led me out back, where the grill was going, and the smell of sizzling meat filled the air.

We spent a few minutes catching up while he manned the grill. The usual stuff—how work had been, who was still at the old company, and what had changed. I asked about his daughter, Olivia. It had been years since I'd seen her, but I remembered her as a sweet kid who always had a laugh for Sarah's jokes. I had no idea what she was up to now. Theo had only mentioned that she was busy with school at UT Austin.

After a few beers and dinner, I decided it was time to bring up what I'd been thinking about.

"You know, after we moved, I started working at a new company. But man, I just couldn't handle it. The owner was a real piece of shit. I ended up leaving pretty quickly before I could break his jaw."

Theo raised an eyebrow and gave me a half-smile. "Doesn't surprise me. You've always had a low tolerance for idiots."

"Yeah, well, I figured I could do better. So, I started my own company. It's been growing the last couple of years. I've been picking up bigger jobs all over the state. Things are starting to really take off."

"Good for you, Joel," Theo said, genuinely impressed. "Sounds like it's been a good move."

I nodded, taking a long sip of my beer. "It has. But, things are getting busier, and I could use some help. I've been thinking about expanding, bringing in a few more people to handle the workload. I thought I'd reach out to you to see if you'd be interested."

Theo was quiet for a beat, the only sound was the sprinkler in the background. I couldn't read his face. I really hated asking for favors. He took a long pull from his beer, then set it down and looked at me seriously. "I appreciate the offer, Joel. I really do. But I've been at this company for years. Yeah it can be a pain but it works for me. Just pushing through till I'm ready to retire man."

I tried to mask my disappointment. "I get it. 'M not trying to pressure you into anything. I just thought it might be a good fit.”

Theo shook his head, "You're a good guy, Joel. But right now, I'm happy with what I've got going. I think you'll find someone perfect for the job, though. You've built something good here, and I respect that."

I nodded, trying to swallow the sting of his rejection. "Thanks. I appreciate you at least thinking about it."

Theo took another sip of his beer, and then something seemed to click in his head. "You know, though... I've got an idea that might help you out. My daughter, Olivia, she's always had an eye for marketing and branding, and with her coming back home for spring break, I was thinking it could maybe be a good opportunity for her to intern with you."

I raised an eyebrow, unsure if I heard him correctly. "Intern? Olivia?" I wasn't sure how to feel about a college aged girl running around my office.

"Yeah," Theo said, warming to the idea. "She could help you with some of the marketing side of things—reach out to potential contractors, spread the word about your business, all that good stuff. She needs an internship for school and I've been trying to get her to get some real-world experience. This could be a great fit for her if you're okay with it ."

I mulled it over for a second. Olivia had always been a smart kid, and if she had a knack for marketing, this could be what I needed. "That's an idea. I could use someone to handle that side of things. But 'm not sure about the logistics—would she be okay with working for me like that?"

Theo shrugged. "She needs the experience, and I think she'd love the opportunity. Plus, it'd give her a chance to get a taste of what it's like to work with a real, growing business."

I thought about it for a moment longer. It might not be the full-time help I needed, but if Olivia was up for it, maybe it could be the start of something that would help lighten the load for me.

"I'll talk to her," I said, finally nodding. "If she's interested. I could definitely use someone who knows their way around that shit, especially in this age."

Theo smiled, clapping me on the shoulder. "I'll let her know. Think it'll be a good fit for everyone. Let me pull up my Facebook, the kids got a knack for photography too."

Theo pulled out his phone, swiping through a few images before handing it to me. "Here, She's really got an eye for it."

I glanced down at the screen, seeing a few shots—landscapes, candid moments of friends laughing, and some of her work at school. But then I came across a photo that made me pause.

It was a photo Theo took of Olivia, standing in front of the Christmas tree. The glow of the lights reflecting off her features. She was dressed in tall boots, a mini skirt with tights, and an oversized jacket, her hair loosely falling around her face as she gazed off to the side, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. For a split second, my eyes widened but not enough for Theo to notice. I couldn't help but notice how grown up she looked.

My stomach churned as my thoughts veered into uncomfortable territory. A rush of guilt hit me like a cold wave, and I quickly handed the phone back to Theo, trying to shake the idea from my mind. "Yeah she's really grown up, must be proud of her.”

The guilt lingered as I realized this man innocently showed me photos of his daughter and I had to fight my thoughts about how she looked. But the image lingered. I focused on something else around me. The last thing I wanted was to think about her in any other way than the daughter of an old friend. But damn, she was something. I forced myself to clear my throat and refocus on the conversation, mentally scolding myself for even entertaining those thoughts.

As the evening wore on, the conversation shifted to other topics, but I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. While Theo might not be able to help directly, this new offer—Olivia helping out—felt like a solid alternative. Maybe this was the break I needed to keep business going without pulling my hair out in the process. My dark thoughts also hoping some eye candy would help my pent up stress.

[vxnillaprincess]

ughhh I’m so boredd I need some hot older guy to talk to!!😞

[littlestwolf12]

I’m so sad rn I just need to be babied

[dannyo000]

Dbf!Joel👀 made by me!

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | masterlist.

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"Fata viam invenient | The fates will find a way."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡

❝They call you Rome’s lion, her indomitable shield, yet to me, you are the flicker of warmth in a palace carved from ice.

Your hands are calloused from war, but they cradle my soul with the tenderness of spring rain. Your voice commands legions, yet it whispers my name like a prayer, as though the gods themselves might hear and envy us our stolen moments.

If love were not a sin, I would adorn you with laurel not for conquest, but for the triumph of your heart over mine. Yet here we linger, caught in the webs of empire, where every glance is a rebellion, and every touch a battle lost.

Ad te anhelo, quasi ad caelum ipsam, (I long for you as though for the heavens themselves,) but our stars burn too brightly, and even the gods avert their eyes.

So I am to love you as Rome loves her champions— for eternally.❞

thꫀ ρᥣᥲᥡᥣเ᥉t! (on spotify) 🏛️

in love with marcus acacius

ꪑᥲ᥉tꫀɾᥣเ᥉t!🌞

Chapter I: "in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

Chapter II: Soon

Chapter III: Soon

Chapter IV: Soon

Chapter V: Soon

Chapter VI: Soon

Chapter VII: Soon

Chapter VIII: Soon

Chapter IX: Soon

Chapter X: Soon

Chapter XI: Soon

Chapter XII: Soon

Chapter XIII: Soon

Chapter XIV: Soon

Chapter XV: Ending

[drewsctover]

something meant to be.

you lost faith in yourself and in the world, but destiny is already written — and when you least expect it, happiness finds its way to you. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

warnings: modern series/no outbreak, dad!joel, age gap (reader is twenty four and joel is forty two), fluffy, a little bit of angst due to the reader’s past (mourning and miscarriage), mentions of body insecurity and unhealthy eating habits, smut (chapters marked) and maybe… slow burn.

prologue. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

you lost your baby a few weeks ago. no. months ago. but you still can’t get over it. the loss of your little boy, your little edward, whom you loved with all your heart, broke something inside you. and maybe that can’t be fixed anymore.

the first weeks were terrible. you didn’t eat, didn’t get out of bed, and ended your two year relationship with your son’s father.

you lost all sense of life and color — your world turned gray and miserable, and your heart felt heavier than ever. you feel guilty. you feel lost, and there’s this constant sense of emptiness, especially in your belly, where your baby used to grow.

edward was restless that afternoon, maybe scared by the sound of the rain. while he kicked you, making you giggled and cry from the pain, you stroked your belly and whispered, with a faint smile and tears in your eyes, “easy, my sweet boy, you’re going to kill mommy like that.”

and just like that, the pain would fade, and your heart would warm. your son was there, safe — and in a few months, you would have him in your arms.

but that didn’t happen.

and now, one year later, you got a job offer: to be a nanny for a seven year old girl. a kid was the last thing you needed right now. but, according to your older brother, you should give the job a chance, because, like grandma used to say, “children heal everything.”

yeah, maybe. but at my first panic attack, i’ll quit.

“hello? mr. miller?” you said, your voice soft and calm, as you held the phone to your ear. you had just finished your coffee and, in that moment, were grateful you'd gotten your future boss’s number through linkedIn. because if you hadn’t, you’d have to leave the comfort of your home to meet him in some fancy restaurant. “i accept the job, mr. miller. i’m honored by your trust! and i can’t wait to meet you and, of course, little ellie.”

chapters. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

one┆two┆three┆four┆five┊six┊more to be added.

extras. 𓈒 ⭒ ݁ .

reader’s and joel’s ig accounts.

[sleepingbeautyysblog]

[lowrisemiller]

this with joel miller pls i beg

wishing for a older man <333

[sweetlovepascal]

you’re so vain

pairings pedro pascal x reader

summary after endless late nights on set, pedro finally has a moment to breathe. but with you, the night is anything but quiet + aftercare w pedro pascal after intense lovemaking.

tag 18+ detailed smut, minors dni. explicit language, eventual smut. dirty talking, reader fantasizing pedro while he cooks. established & secret relationship. unspecified agegap. just pedro expressing his love for you, cooking for you, removing your heels and massaging them. pedro pascal taking care of you, calling you baby. this is unedited.

masterlist

after weeks of long hours on set, late-night shoots, and endless takes, pedro was finally done filming. he had barely had time to breathe, let alone relax.

when you arrived at his apartment, the door swung open to reveal a pedro that immediately made you smile. pedro stood there, his signature smile lighting up his face.

"finally, you're here."

you raised an eyebrow. "missed me that much?"

instead of answering, he just held your hand, pulling you gently inside. his apartment smelled like home—garlic and onions simmering on the stove, warm notes of something sweet lingering in the air. a few lamps cast a cozy golden glow over the space, their soft light reflecting off the vinyl records stacked near his player.

pedro shut the door behind you, running a hand through his hair before turning back around, studying you for a moment like he was memorizing the way you looked in this exact second.

"you have no idea how much i needed this,"

"a quiet night, good food, and me causing chaos in your apartment? what more could you ask for?"

pedro chuckled, stepping closer. he reached out, gently brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on you before dipping slightly lower.

"you look beautiful tonight," he said softly, his voice warm with sincerity. his eyes flickered over the dress you were wearing, admiration evident in the way his lips curved into a smile.

"is this new? it suits you perfectly."

you felt a warmth creep into your cheeks, but you managed to keep your expression playful. the fabric hugged your waist.

"so you do pay attention," you teased, giving the hem of your dress a little twirl.

“always,” pedro chuckled, eyes studying you.

"especially when it comes to you."

pedro moved with practiced ease in the kitchen, the soft glow from the overhead light casting warm, golden shadows over his figure. his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the strong lines of his forearms.

you couldn’t help but watch, drawn to the effortless grace in the way his fingers curled around the wooden spoon. the way he slowly stir the sauce.

you imagine his hands curled up like that deep into your cunt, hitting that sensitive spot.

those same veins engraved around his dick when he thrusts deep inside you, his touch lingering, his breath warm against your cheek.

pedro reached for a bottle of wine, twisting the cap off with a practiced flick of his wrist. the muscles in his forearm flexed with the motion. he glanced at you then, catching the way your gaze lingered.

"you’re staring," he said, voice deeper now, softer. like he knew exactly what was running through your mind.

you hummed, giving a small shrug. "just enjoying the view."

pedro let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he poured the wine into the sauce, the deep red swirling effortlessly into the mix.

"dangerous thing, letting me know that,"

your breath hitched, pulse quickening.

that's when you wandered over to pedro's collection of albums in the shelves. punk legends. the clash, ramones, sex pistols.

you reached for ‘carly simon’s no secrets’, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. without hesitation, you placed ‘you're so vain’ onto the vinyl player.

you lifted the needle onto the vinyl, and as the familiar crackle filled the space.

"you walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht, your hat strategically dipped below one eye, your scarf it was apricot" you had one eye in the mirror, as you watched yourself gavotte,"

pedro is famous. breathtakingly, unfairly, effortlessly handsome. the kind of man whose name alone set hearts racing, whose every interview had reporters shamelessly leaning in closer, hanging onto his words like they were something meant just for them.

and then there were the fan edits.

you had seen them. stitched together with slow-motion frames, just enough depth to send people into a frenzy.

and now, here he was. not in an edit. not on a screen.

just him.

standing in his kitchen, watching you with something real, something that wasn’t meant for millions, wasn’t curated for cameras.

just for you.

the thought sent warmth curling through you, something dangerously close to disbelief, something undeniably real.

and still, pedro stood there, smiling like you were the only person who had ever mattered.

“and all the girls dreamed that they'd be pedro's partner… they'd be pedro’s partner…"

pedro had frozen mid-motion, eyes locked on you with something between amusement and absolute fascination.

he let out a low, breathy laugh, setting the plate down on the dinner table, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you.

”oh, so this is what we're doing tonight?" he mused, eyes glinting with mischief.

you simply grinned, swaying a little to the rhythm, letting the song fill the space between you. laughter bubbling up in your chest.

"and you're so vain… you probably think this song is about you!"

pedro's hand pressed gently against his heart, his palm tracing slow, reverent circles. like he was trying to steady the overwhelming warmth spreading through him.

"you…" he started, but his voice was softer now, unreadable. pedro let out a small breath, as if he was trying to steady himself, eyes following your every move. his hand still on top of his heart.

"you really are something else," he murmured, barely above a whisper.

your movements slowed, your hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as you finally stilled, standing just a few steps away from him.

"oh?" you mused, tilting your head slightly. "and what exactly am i?"

pedro let out a low chuckle, shaking his head like he was trying to clear his thoughts.

"someone who makes my heart feel too full," he admitted, eyes flickering with something deeper.

"and honestly?" he added, a teasing glint slipping into his gaze, breaking through the quiet tenderness. "at this rate, you might actually give me a heart attack."

you let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head, warmth curling through you in ways you couldn’t even begin to explain.

pedro grinned, victorious, like he had been waiting for that exact reaction. like making you laugh, even in the softest, most intimate moments, was something he’d never let himself fail at.

because somehow, he always knew exactly when to bring you closer and when to make you laugh like every little piece of him was attuned to every little piece of you.

then, before you could tease him again, he took his steps forward, closing the last bit of space between you. his fingers brushed lightly against your waist, his voice lower now, softer.

”you’re really trying to kill me tonight, huh?" he murmured, voice rough with something that sent a thrill down your spine.

"just keeping things interesting," you mused, your smile lingering.

"you don’t have to try," he murmured, his voice softer now.

"you already are."

pedro's gaze drifted toward the dinner table, the soft glow of the candles flickering against the polished wood. the meal he had spent so much time preparing sat untouched, but as his eyes shifted back to you, something in his expression changed.

"forget about the food."

"after all that work?"

whatever had been simmering on the stove wasn’t nearly as important as whatever was happening between you now.

"i might’ve been hungry for something else." pedro whispered into your ear, his voice lower now, softer,

his fingers grazed lower into your stomach, enough to send something electric through your skin.

his hand slid to the side of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, holding you there as his mouth met yours.

it deepened quickly, tongues meeting, breath tangled, your body already pressing into his. he slid his hand down your thigh, then up under your dress. when his fingers brushed the lace of your panties.

pedro pulled back just enough to look at you.

he kissed you again. this time harder. both your dinner forgotten on the table.

he lifted you easily, hands gripping your thighs and carried you to the bedroom, kissing you like he couldn’t get enough, like he’d starved for this moment.

as soon as the door to his bedroom door clicked shut, you backed him against it with a kiss that made his breath catch. he smiled against your lips, one hand already sliding up the back of your thigh.

“tell me how long you’ve been thinking about this.” you pressed your body to his, feeling the hard line of him against your stomach.

“since the moment you've been gone.”

when he laid you on the bed, you sat up, eyes burning.

he couldn’t keep his eyes off you all night. not just your dress, though the way it clung to you made his jaw clench but the way you looked at him. like you already knew what was coming later.

“you’ve been teasing me all night,” he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “and now you’re gonna take everything you asked for.”

you didn’t answer with words, just reached between your bodies, fingers finding the hard length of him through his jeans.

“not yet.”

without a word, he slid his hands up your thighs, slow and firm. his fingers found the back of your ankle straps. he unbuckled each one deliberately, pulling the heels off and setting them aside.

your feet now free, he massaged your heel briefly, then the arch, his thumbs pressing softly. a quiet hum escaped your lips, involuntary.

“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he said, his voice rough.

pedro undressed you with a kind of reverence. his hands memorizing every curve, every breath, every sound you made as he sucked your tits.

and then his mouth was on your inner thigh.

he pulled your panties down your thighs, he kissed the inside of each as if in prayer. 

he spread you open, knelt between your legs, and just looked for a moment. then he lowered his head and licked you slowly, deliberately, like he meant to ruin you.

his tongue circled your clit, then flattened against it. you can feel his nose brush down your bud as he licked your pussy.

you bucked against him, but he held your hips down, groaning into you as your thighs tightened around his face.

“fuck baby… i haven’t even started yet.”

he didn’t stop when you begged. he didn’t stop when you came. he only growled softly, licking you through it, pulling another orgasm out of you until your body went limp and trembling beneath him.

pedro pulled back, his face glistened with you, and he kissed up your stomach, your boobs, your throat.

“take off your shirt.”

he smirked, pulling it off slowly.

you leaned up and ran your hands over his chest, down his stomach, then unbuckled his belt with slow, teasing hands. he let you, watching you with dark eyes.

then he hovered above you, sliding the tip of his cock along your folds.

he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch until he was buried into you.

your breath left your lungs. he filled you so completely it was almost overwhelming.

pedro didn’t move at first. he just stayed there, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“god baby, you’re perfect,” he said, his voice breaking a little.

then he began to thrust—deep, controlled, building rhythm with purpose.

he moved inside you like he was trying to memorize your body from the inside out. each stroke deeper than the last, each shift hitting the exact place that made your toes curl and your voice shatter in pleasure.

he flipped you over, dragging you up onto your hands and knees, spreading you open for him. he slid in again from behind, slow and hard, both his hands grabbing a hold of your breasts.

you arched for him, moaning loudly, shamelessly.

one hand on your hip, the other slid under your body, teasing your clit as he pounded into you harder now—each thrust shaking the bed, your moans swallowed by the storm raging outside the window.

you looked back at him, hair clinging to your face, and begged.

“please pedrito— don’t stop. i’m so close—”

his hand moved faster, thrusts rougher, until you came with a cry tightening around him, body shaking uncontrollably.

pedro swore under his breath, pulled out, and turned you onto your back again.

he slid in deep, kissing you with tongue and teeth, hips snapping against yours. he held your face, moaning into your mouth.

“i’m gonna come—”

you pulled him closer. “inside please—“

that single word unraveled him.

you both moan into each other's mouths, his hand finding your breasts once more.

he gripped you tighter, buried himself deep, and came with a low groan, spilling inside you in long, shaking waves.

the room felt heavy with warmth and breath, like the world had folded in on itself to make space just for them.

the blankets were twisted, sheets pulled halfway down the bed, skin cooling under the air conditioning.

pedro lay on his side, watching you.

you curled towards him, your cheeks still flushed, chest rising and falling in that slow, uneven rhythm that only comes after something raw and real. your hair clung to your temples.

he reached up and brushed a finger down the side of your face.

“you okay?” he asked, voice so soft it.

“yeah,” she whispered. “i’m more than okay.”

pedro smiled, his gaze soft and unwavering. “i love you,” he murmured, the words settling between you like a quiet promise.

slowly, he leaned in, his elbow propped against the bed for support, his body angled towards you.

“i love you too.” you whispered back, the words felt both gentle and immense as you closed your eyes.

after a few minutes, he wasn’t in bed anymore. you heard quiet footsteps padding across the floor, careful not to wake you. but you were awake, floating in that sweet, sleepy in-between where the world feels gentler.

pedro came back with a towel, damp and warm. his dark curls were tousled and his eyes.

those rich, thoughtful eyes flickered with a kind of focused tenderness that made your chest ache a little.

“hey,” he whispered, kneeling beside the bed, brushing a damp strand of hair from your forehead.

you smiled lazily. “you don’t have to…”

“i want to,” he said, his voice hushed like the room itself. “let me take care of you.”

he moved slowly, as if every motion carried meaning. with practiced care, he pressed the towel to your skin, wiping gently, never rushing, never too firm. you watched the concentration in his expression, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, like you were something fragile and precious.

he pressed the soft towel against your face, the coolness of the fabric a gentle contrast to the warmth of your skin. the towel glided over your forehead to the gentle slope of your nose, caressing the soft skin along the bridge before gliding over your cheekbones, wiping with tenderness along the curve of your jaw.

his eyes soft and focused on the quiet ritual of tending to you. the air between you felt still, as though time had slowed in those moments.

with a subtle shift, his hands moved to your neck. the towel swept down the length of your throat. from there, his hands traveled to your shoulders.

the towel, slightly damp, moved over to your shoulder blades, gliding with a soft but firm motion as he worked his way across your chest and stomach.

as the towel traveled lower, the fabric travels over the curves of your body until he finishes.

the rain fell harder now, but in here, there was only warmth. breath. skin.

pedro leaned in, kissing your shoulder.

when he finished, he tossed the towel aside and climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up around both of you. you shifted, nestling into his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you like the easiest thing in the world.

“you always do that,” you murmured.

“what?”

“take care of people. even when you’re tired.” his fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine.

“doesn’t feel like work with you,” he said.

“feels like… coming home.”

[starkenobi]

Welcome, earthlings!

Hello, call me Rai! | +30 | brazilian | any pronouns | asexual 🌻

Some of the contents you'll find here: marvel, star wars, the pitt, criminal minds, iwtv amc, school spirits, x-files, twin peaks, halsey, bts, pedro pascal, aubrey plaza, florence pugh, oscar isaac, bae doona, son sukku, margaret qualley, noah wyle.

my tags if you wish to filter something out: starkenobi writing; starkenobi recs; starkenobi asks.

☆ tagging 'goddess' to all the female celebs i like and 'babygurl' to all the male celebs i like.

This is a lgbtqia+ safe space!

Feel free to send me a message in my inbox! Asks about fics and writing, comments, thot thoughts, headcanons, suggestions, gossip about tvshows and films, ramble about everything and anything! Let's chat~

✸ Writing Guideline:

Writing for Bucky Barnes, Jack Abbot, Michael Robinavitch, Natasha Romanoff, Sam Wilson, Samira Mohan, Tony Stark, and Yelena Belova.

Crossovers I write for: marvel x the pitt (reader x character on my write list).

Requests: drabbles and imagines will be accepted within reason, but I won't accept oneshots. Please, keep in mind that I can choose which ones to write or not, and it may take a while to be posted!

Although this is not an +18 blog, there is some explicit content. If you are underage, please do not interact with content marked as explicit.

I do not write: soft!dark; dark; dubcon; noncon; cnc; yandere; ddlg; selfharm; suicide; bullying; degradation; pedophilia; incest; necrophilia; underage; agegap with reader younger than 27; cheating between "main" couple; I'll warn if something makes me uncomfortable.

There's no taglist, but you can follow my work through #starkenobi writing! Some works have their own tag (can be found in the masterlist and stories).

I don't consent to have my work posted, translated, or published by others.

⋮ MASTERLIST!

✸ Demonic Domination Masterlist (on going)

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Reder; Bucky Barnes x Reader; Matt Murdock x Reader.

Summary: Y/N doesn’t classify herself as a vigilante or, as people on the internet say, an antihero. No, she’s just an occult detective with a fucking amnesia trying to create a new life beyond her secret mutant status. At first, she really tried to keep a normal civilian life, but it’s difficult when you’re rescued from a dark place by a man dressed as a mummy ninja calling himself Moon Knight. So, anyway, working as an occult detective makes her travel around the world, and it’s cool because it gives her a lot of stories… Until her feet touch New York grounds. It’s all downhill from there.

Warnings: +18 romance; angst; fluff; smut; violence; torture; gore; not following 100% mcu events; bisexuality; pseudo harem; feelings.

✸ The Pitt x Avengers Crossover

Pairings: Jack Abbot x reader; Michael Robinavitch x reader; Samira Mohan x reader; Rabbot x reader

Summary: Collection of oneshots with avenger!reader in The Pitt universe.

✸ Bucky Barnes

ᯓ Christmas Elves | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; first christmas; established relationship; sweetheart universe.

ᯓ Courage Drink | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; love confession; friends to lovers; sweetheart universe.

ᯓ Handsome | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; flirty; established relationship; sweetheart universe.

ᯓ Stupidly in Love | Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

oneshot; idiots to lovers; misunderstanding; romcom.

Summary: Y/N agrees to help Bucky win Natasha's heart. No problem, right? Except for the fact that Natasha is her best friend and Bucky is her crush. Where the hell had she gotten herself into?

ᯓ The White Wolf | werewolf!Bucky Barnes x pirate!reader

oneshot; fantasy au; romance; soulmates.

Summary: She's one of the greatest pirates of her time, bringing chaos throughout the human kingdoms... Until an unfortunate event changes her life completely. And the white wolf makes sure to be definitive.

✸ Jack Abbot

ᯓ Finally | Jack Abbot x firefighter!reader

drabble; strangers to lovers; fluff.

ᯓ Just Another Day | Jack Abbot x firefighter!reader

drabble; established relationship; comfort.

ᯓ curiosities about jack and his firefighter

✸ Natasha Romanoff

ᯓ Bodyswap | Natasha Romanoff x super soldier!reader

ficlet; fluff, established relationship; body swap.

ᯓ Friday Night | Natasha Romanoff x mutant!reader

drabble; mutant harassment; fluff; strangers to possibly lovers.

ᯓ In your arms | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader |

ficlet; fluff; established relationship.

ᯓ Kazino | Natasha Romanoff x reader

oneshot; +18 romance; mafia; strangers to lovers; angst with happy ending.

Summary: In the midst of a dark nightmare, Y/N finds a possible spark of hope and love. But to get her own freedom and the chance of a new life with Natasha, she must first destroy the criminal empire that holds her hostage, piece by piece.

ᯓ Sleepover | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

oneshot; unrequited love, angst with no happy ending.

Summary: Living an unrequited love is not easy, but it's necessary to realize the time to move on. Or, reader is secretly in love with her best friend Natasha, who's getting married to another person.

ᯓ Truth or Dare | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

drabble; +18 romance; a bit of smut and a bit of fluff.

ᯓ With Love | Natasha Romanoff x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; acquaintances to lovers; flirty.

✸ Tony Stark

ᯓ Amnesia | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

ficlet; tiny angst; memory loss; fluff; established relationship.

ᯓ Dracarys! | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

drabble; fluff; established relationship; frosty universe.

ᯓ Draw me like one of your french girls | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

oneshot; established relationship; fluff; flirty; frosty universe.

Summary: Tony was just curious about your new hobby. He wasn’t jealous that you chose Steve Rogers as your partner in crime for drawings and sketchbooks. Nope, not jealous at all.

ᯓ Drunk Confession | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

ficlet; fluff; friends to lovers; frosty universe.

ᯓ Simple and easy | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

ficlet; fluff; friends to lovers.

ᯓ Menace | Tony Stark x avenger!reader

oneshot; +18 romance; established relationship; explicit content; frosty universe.

Summary: Tony and Y/N can't hide their attraction and the effect they have on each other. And what should have been a simple photoshoot's interview ends up becoming the trigger for an important step in their relationship.

ᯓ Lovesick | Tony Stark x reader

oneshot; apocalypse au; romance; angst with no happy ending; description of disease and death.

Summary: When Tony and Y/N decide to change their honeymoon plans, they had no idea that Tony's simple illness was, in fact, a mortal virus never seen before.

✸ Sam Wilson

ᯓ Stealing Clothes | Sam Wilson x reader

ficlet; fluff; established relationship.

✸ Yelena Belova

ᯓ Cardiac | Yelena Belova x avenger!reader (coming soon)

oneshot; romcom; miscommunication; fluff.

Summary: Do you know the saying "fuck around and find out"? Well, that's exactly what she did. Yelena was proud of her skills, but sometimes curiosity really does kill the cat. Or Yelena hears something and draws her own conclusions.

ᯓ Detka | Yelena Belova x reader

ficlet; amnesia; angst; established relationship.

ᯓ Fight or kiss flight | Yelena Belova x reader

ficlet; rivals to lovers; fluff.

✸ Marvel Characters

ᯓ Bait | Logan Howlett x mutant!reader

ficlet; fluff; violence; established relationship.

ᯓ Bodyguard | Clint Barton x reader

ficlet; fluff; implied smut.

ᯓ Damn it | Steve Rogers x avenger!reader

imagine; missing the flirting when it's gone; angstish.

ᯓ JamaisVu | Matt Murdock x reader

oneshot; soulmates; hanahaki; angst no happy ending.

Summary: Like it or not, every choice has a consequence. And no matter how much Matt Murdock and Y/N tried not to acknowledge its existence, the connection of the red thread was there all along.

ᯓ On the run | Nomad!Steve Rogers x reader

ficlet; implied smut; fluff; a bit of angst.

ᯓ Wanna bet | Frank Castle x reader

ficlet; friends to lovers; implied smut.

ᯓ Wrong Number | Loki x reader

ficlet; fluff; friends to lovers.

[pittconfessions]

As much as I enjoy lowkey lusting after the older men in The Pitt… two things rub me the wrong way:

1. Publicity and media riding the “daddy” popularity train is a bit icky to me. On my Max profile there is literally a category called “Daddy” and the cover image for all the featured shows is the middle age male main character (Noah Wyle, Pedro Pascal, James Gandolfini lol). This is gross to me. On a few levels.

It also encourages the romance/shipping/fan reactions to characters being brought up in interviews to the actors which is really borderline harassment behavior and unprofessional imo. Like when the actors are doing interviews, they’re at work, don’t berate them with sex questions. If they choose to engage (Shawn Hatosy on twitter) that’s one thing - but it unprompted and unwanted is gross.

2. I will be deeply disappointed if S2 has any major problematic agegap or power dynamic relationships explored UNLESS it is done intentionally to illustrate that they are bad. This show is very preachy (in a good way imo!) By that I mean, the show makes a point to bring up topical things in an organic way and have a character point out an issue, and another respond. Like Collins encouraging McKay to consider if weight was a factor and McKay saying she’d be conscious of that. The show has like a list of shit they go through, hitting all topical current day issues.

But because this toxic fandom clearly wants some daddy action - unless an agegap/power imbalance ship is done with the explicit conversation around why the ship is bad - this fandom will take it and run and burn shit to the ground.

.