#Runaway Thunder

[evileyekabuki]

GODDESS OF STARDOM CHAMPIONSHIPS

✝️🖤🪦 OEDO TAI 🪦🖤✝️

Championship Reigns: 6x

Most Reigns Individually: Yu Ishino (2)

[wondrouswendy]

for the fic asks, 🌅 and 🔚

Thank you for the ask!

🌅 do you typically known the ending to something before you start writing it?

For the most part yes, with exceptions to this being rare. I like having a general idea of where I want to take a story. What tends to be less deterministic is knowing how long the story might be ahead of time. I tend to expand a preliminary outline over the course of writing a story. The Runaway Rabbit was supposed to be a one shot, but then it became a much longer story as I realized it would be more interesting to explore the aftermath of this Trench/Darling origin story.

🔚 have you ever completely changed the direction a piece was going?

Originally while writing Days of Thunder, I hadn't planned on continuing the story past Trench and Darling's vacation. I had planned on jumping ahead straight to the future with Emily and Jesse inferring the nature of the previous leadership's relationship by reading between the lines in the documents. Kind of like what we can do ourselves. I ended up enjoying the story so much (and I brought @rangerzath on board to the Trench/Darling ship) that I decided to expand the story and showcase more of their history/relationship development over time.

[marvelbrackets]

[ballpitbee]

WARMING UP with Grampy Thunder Runaway and Uncle Oyl

OCs I went and drew today for a big thing im makin

[martiszcz]

I like that the prophecy Xavin was talking about turned out to be about parental love, not romantical.

[angelofthenight01]

Truth Serum

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

genre: flufy  ||     warnings: none

It all started, as these things often do, with a seemingly straightforward mission. Infiltrate a HYDRA base, retrieve some stolen tech, don't get captured, the usual. You were pretty confident, you'd been training with the Avengers for a while now, holding your own, even earning a few nods of respect from Captain America himself. You weren't exactly a superhero, more of a very skilled and adaptable support member, but hey, it paid the bills and got you close to, well... certain people.

You remember the moment the serum hit you. It wasn't dramatic, no needles, no villainous laughter. Just a rogue vial – accidentally knocked off a table by a HYDRA goon who tripped over his own feet, a testament to their competence – and its contents splashed right onto your cheek. It didn't taste like anything, but a second later you could swear you felt your brain doing the cha-cha.

"Are you alright?" Tony's voice was crisp over the comms. You knew he was watching the feed from his suit.

“Peachy,” you said, your voice surprisingly calm, even as the world around you started to look a little too vibrant. “Just feeling a bit… honest.”

“Honest?” Steve’s voice now chimed in with that trademark wholesome concern. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know,” you found yourself saying, “like, if you asked me if I liked the way the light caught your hair this morning, I’d say yes, Steve, you’re like a walking, talking golden retriever of justice and your hair is always perfectly coiffed. Sorry, am I oversharing?”

A beat of silence followed, punctuated only by the sharp crackling of your boots on the steel floor of the HYDRA base.

"Uh, thanks?" Steve said hesitantly.

“And Tony,” you continued, unable to stop the runaway train of your mouth, “your sarcasm is a coping mechanism, and sometimes it's a little predictable, but you're actually really good at inventing things, even if you pretend to hate trying.”

You could hear Tony sputter in disbelief. Before he could recover, you spotted your quarry – the tech – in a nearby room. And then you saw her. Natasha Romanoff, a whirlwind of controlled fury and ballet-like movements, expertly disarming guards left and right. Everything suddenly seemed… brighter. And also terrifying. Because, of course, the truth serum also seemed to have activated your inner monologue on high volume.

"Oh, damn it," you muttered, your voice still broadcasting. "You're so cool, Natasha, your hair looks amazing, are those tactical boots because you can be both deadly and elegant and it's totally not fair. I also think... I think..." You clamped your mouth shut.

There was a sudden, sharp intake of breath over the comms. You could practically feel Natasha's gaze burning through the screen and directly into your soul.

"Alright," Natasha said, her voice silky smooth, but with a definite hint of something dangerous lurking beneath. "You’ve had your moment. Let's finish this."

And that’s when you realised that you had a very, very big problem. You had a mission to finish, sure, but you also had to not reveal your crush on the world's most deadly spy. You could picture it now, if you even let a hint touch your tongue, it would be all over the tower, Tony would create a song about it, and Clint would laugh and draw cartoons of you in love struck positions.

You moved with newfound urgency, grabbing the tech and bolting for the nearest exit.

“I’m just gonna, uh, take this and go now,” you announced, “Gotta avoid... uh... social interactions. Bye!”

You broke into a run, your boots thundering on the metal floor, the comms going silent as everyone processed what had just happened. You could hear footsteps behind you, and you didn't need to look back to know who was trying to catch up to you.

You burst out of the HYDRA base into the cold night air, not caring where you were going, just knowing you needed to get away from Natasha. You sprinted across the snowy landscape, your breath puffing in white clouds.

Then, you hit a patch of ice.

You went down, hard, landing in a comical heap with a muffled oof.

“Are you alright?” Steve’s concerned voice came over the comms, making you groan.

“No,” you whined. “I just busted my butt. Also, I think I need to be honest with you all about the way I prefer to put my butter on my toast, and it’s not the way you would imagine, it’s much more…”

You cut yourself off before you could launch into a detailed explanation of your highly unorthodox buttering techniques. You scramble to your feet, wincing.

“I think I need to go home now!” you shouted, then took off running again, stumbling over the uneven snow.

“Wait!” Natasha’s voice called out from behind you again. Closer this time.

“No!” you yelled back. “I can’t, if I’m not running away, I’ll probably tell you I think you’re amazing and all of the romantic feelings I have for you and then you’ll get weirded out and it’s just, a whole thing!”

You didn’t wait for a response, diving behind a large snowdrift. You could hear Natasha’s footsteps pause, a beat of silence followed, and then you heard a sigh.

You peeked over the top of the snow drift, and saw the figure that was Natasha, hands on hips, a look of fond exasperation on her face. It made your heart do a little flip of emotion.

"Okay, fine," Natasha called out, "I'll give you some space. But you're not getting out of this conversation without explaining all that 'buttering' talk later. And your feelings." She added the last bit in a soft voice.

You ducked back down, a blush creeping up your neck. You could hear laughter coming through the comms this time, Tony, Clint and Steve having a field day. You might have also heard Thor laughing way too loud, then suddenly a deep growl, and then silence.

You knew you couldn't hide forever. But for tonight, you decided, you'd take your chances with the arctic wind over the truth serum and the very attractive woman currently stalking you. 

For now, your escape was enough. You would deal with the awkward, heartfelt, and hopefully not too embarrassing aftermath tomorrow. But tonight? Tonight you are just a very honest person with a severe case of avoidance and a very big crush. And that’s something, right?

[ariahmichelle]

Runaway Love

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: After a messy fallout with your family, you feel you have nowhere to go. You turn to one of your only friends that has a place of their own, Rafe Cameron. You expected tension, but not late-night talks and stolen glances that make you question everything.

A/N: my requests are open, also check out my new series coming soon!

—

Rafe knew something was wrong the moment he opened his front door.

You stood there, drenched from the rain, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, your eyes rimmed red. You weren’t crying anymore, but the remnants of it were there—the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips trembled ever so slightly, the way you wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Rafe had seen you in a lot of states—laughing at his stupid jokes, rolling your eyes when he said something cocky, swearing at him when he pushed your buttons just to get a reaction. But he had never seen you like this. Never this… small.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was softer than he meant for it to be.

You hesitated, shifting on your feet like you weren’t sure if you should even be here. But then the sky rumbled with another crack of thunder, and you sucked in a shaky breath.

“Can I come in?”

Rafe didn’t hesitate. He stepped aside, letting you into the warmth of the house.

—

It wasn’t until you were wrapped in one of his hoodies, sitting on the edge of his bed with a steaming mug of tea between your hands, that he finally asked the question burning in his mind.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”

You stared into the cup, like maybe the answer was hidden in the swirling liquid. “I left.”

Rafe frowned, shifting to sit beside you. “Left where?”

You let out a bitter laugh. “Home.” You shook your head, voice quieter this time. “If you can even call it that.”

Something in his chest twisted.

Rafe had known you for years. You were one of the few people who had stuck around, who could handle his bullshit, who called him out when he needed it. You’d spent more time at his house than your own, but he never questioned it. He never thought to ask why.

Now, he wished he had.

“Talk to me.” His voice was steady, but his hands curled into fists at his sides. “What happened?”

You exhaled sharply, setting the mug down on the nightstand. “It’s not like it was just one thing, Rafe. It’s been bad for a long time.” Your fingers twisted in the hem of his hoodie. “My dad—he drinks. A lot. And when he drinks, he gets angry. My mom just pretends like it’s not happening. Like I don’t hear the shit he says, like I don’t—” You cut yourself off, shaking your head. “I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. He wasn’t used to this kind of anger—the kind that made his vision blur, the kind that settled in his chest like something heavy, something that made him want to destroy.

Because you had been dealing with this alone. And he had never noticed.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, his voice tight.

You scoffed. “What were you gonna do, Rafe? Fix it?” You shook your head. “It’s not that simple.”

His fingers twitched, resisting the urge to reach for you. “You could’ve stayed here.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him. “I didn’t want to be your problem.”

Rafe let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not a problem. Jesus, Y/N.” His voice softened. “You’re my best friend.”

Something in your expression shifted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “And you’re staying here. As long as you need to.”

You blinked, like you hadn’t expected that. “Rafe, I—”

“No arguments.” His tone left no room for debate. “I mean it.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of the rain tapping against the window. Then, finally, you nodded.

And for the first time that night, your shoulders relaxed.

—

The days blurred together after that.

At first, you tiptoed around the house like a guest, like you weren’t sure if you were overstaying your welcome. But Rafe made it clear—this wasn’t temporary.

“You keep leaving your shit in my room,” he teased one morning, holding up a pair of socks you’d apparently abandoned on his floor.

You rolled your eyes, snatching them from his hands. “I’ll clean up, Cameron. Relax.”

He smirked, leaning against the doorway. “Didn’t say I minded.”

He didn’t. If anything, he liked it. He liked walking into the kitchen and finding you sitting on the counter, stealing bites of whatever he was making. He liked the way his clothes looked on you, the way you curled up on the couch at night like you actually belonged here.

Because you did.

And maybe that scared him more than anything.

—

The night it finally happened, you were sitting on his bed, scrolling through your phone, when you let out a tired sigh.

“I should probably start looking for a place.”

Rafe looked up from where he was sitting on the floor, tying his shoe. “Why?”

You gave him a look. “Because I can’t live here forever?”

He frowned. “Why not?”

You blinked. “What do you mean, ‘why not’? I’m not your responsibility, Rafe.”

His jaw ticked. “I never said you were.”

You sighed, setting your phone down. “Then what are you saying?”

Rafe hesitated. Then he stood, moving closer until he was right in front of you. His fingers brushed against your knee, a touch so light you barely felt it.

“I’m saying… I don’t want you to go.” His voice was quiet.

Your breath hitched.

He exhaled, shaking his head. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen what was going on with you. And now that I do—” His fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie on your thigh. “I don’t want you anywhere near them. Ever.”

Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. “Rafe…”

“Stay,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours. “Stay with me.”

You should’ve said no. You should’ve told him this wasn’t a good idea, that staying with him would only make things more complicated.

But you didn’t.

Because the truth was, you didn’t want to leave either.

So instead, you whispered, “Okay.”

And when Rafe’s lips brushed against yours a moment later, soft and hesitant, like he was giving you the chance to pull away—you didn’t.

[zablife]

Runaway with Me

Benny Cross x female reader

Divider credit @firefly-graphics

Summary: You're a nice college girl dating a fellow student and photographer named Danny, but your boring life comes to an end when you meet the man you've previously only lusted after in photos. When you spend a night with Benny, your whole world changes.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, unprotected sex, language, drinking, infidelity (sorry Danny)

A/N: Kathy doesn't exist in this AU. Only my second fic for Benny. Let me know your thoughts! Comments are love 💕 No spoilers here!

Benny Cross Masterlist

“Hey,” a low voice called to you, rumbling like thunder on a warm summer night. His smoldering gaze stopped the click of your heels on the pavement before you could reach the bus stop, your attention stolen by a good looking blonde. You watched intently as the flashing streetlight illuminated his rugged jawline and muscular arms, sending a crackle of electricity down your spine.

“I know you,” he remarked mysteriously, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

Your throat went dry, as you struggled to answer. Readjusting your purse on your arm, you shook your head before you finally heard yourself whisper hoarsely, “I don’t think so.” However, you knew he was right, you’d seen his photos in Danny’s dorm room, though the prints hadn’t done him justice. 

“You’re that college girl Danny’s always talking about,” he added, eyes roving your body in obvious appreciation.

Your mouth dropped open at the mention of your boyfriend, heart beat quickening as you thought of the way you’d stared at those images, biting your lip in curious desire for a man you’d never met. It hadn’t occurred to you you might actually meet one day, but now it seemed your fantasy was coming true.

Locking eyes with him in a flirtatious stare, you almost felt guilty as you introduced yourself with a coy smile.

Benny's blue eyes twinkled and a wide grin spread across his face as he realized you weren't frightened of him.

"I'm Benny," he reciprocated without saying more. However, the way he allowed comfortable silence to linger, put you at ease long enough to explain that Danny stood you up, leaving you to take the bus home. You couldn’t help the anger that filled your voice, throat constricting with unshed tears as you wondered when you’d be as important as his silly book. 

Seeming to understand your need for distraction, Benny asked, “You wanna get out of here?” He didn’t wait for a reply before flicking his cigarette butt to the ground and throwing one leg over his bike.

As you thought of Danny's calls going unanswered, you picked at the strap of your bag hesitantly. “I don’t know, I should be getting back,” you reasoned quietly with yourself.

Benny held up his hands as though accepting defeat. “You gotta go, you gotta go,” he shrugged before starting up the bike.

You glanced over your shoulder toward the uninviting looking bench under the bus shelter just as the engine roared to life, impulsively grabbing his chiseled bicep. His chin jerked up at you in surprise, that adorable grin returning when you yelled, “I’m coming with you.”

Extending a ringed hand for you, he helped you onto the bike, snuggly fitting your arms around his trim waist with the instruction, “Hold on tight."

You didn’t bother asking where you’d be going, your desire for adventure steadily growing. When he accelerated toward the highway with wind rushing past your hair and colors blurring in your peripheral, you could think of nothing except the adrenaline coursing through your veins and the seductive thoughts multiplying with every new sensation.

Pressing your cheek against his back, you inhaled the intoxicating mixture of pomade and leather, closing your eyes to imagine it mingled with the sweat of exertion. The vibration of the bike beneath your legs, body molded tightly against his made you all the more eager for him.

When he pulled into a local motel and helped you off the bike, your legs had turned to jelly and you couldn’t be sure if it was from the overwhelming experience of the ride or your sudden nerves as you waited to see what might happen next. 

Benny didn’t seem to notice, walking toward his door with a slow, but confident strut. “Want a drink?” he asked, holding the door for you. 

You fidgeted with your necklace as you peeked your head into the small, yet tidy room where he said he’d been staying for the past month.

He offered you the first bottle of beer, knocking the cap off against the dresser with a sharp crack. He shook the fizz from his hand, sucking a little off his thumb before placing the bottle in your hand.

As your fingertips brushed against each other, it renewed the electricity dancing between you, his eyes darkening to a deeper shade of blue as lust overtook his gaze.

With a shaky breath you took a sip and placed the bottle onto the table, quickly forgetting it as he took hold of your arm and pulled you into a searing kiss.

As the cool metal of his rings touched the burning skin of your cheeks, you moaned against him, allowing him the opportunity to lick into your mouth hungrily. He was gentle, but firm as his tongue fought yours for dominance, hands tangling in your hair as his passion increased.

His calloused hands memorized every inch of you on their way down your body to find the hem of your top and pull it over your head. Nipping softly at your lower lip, he distracted you momentarily to unclip your bra and toss it aside, stopping long enough to suck in a breath at the sight of your breasts. 

Ducking his head to take a pert nipple into his mouth he lapped and sucked against the sensitive bud, making you whimper with need. 

“Like that, pretty girl?” he asked softly, hand kneading your other breast until you thought you’d cum from that simple touch alone. Hands resting atop his blonde curls, you pushed him away gently to catch your breath and he huffed out a little laugh. “A little too much, huh?”

Taking his lead, you wasted no time removing his jacket and shirt to reveal the taut planes of his chest and abs. Skating your fingers across the lean muscle with a sigh, you leaned in to place scattered kisses along his collarbone. You watched the vein in his neck jump before ghosting your lips over his throbbing pulse and chose a place to suck a bruise. 

He hissed as you tongued over it in soothing circles, fingertips clutching at your hip when you blew a stream of cold air across his flesh. Deciding to push him further, you snaked a hand down his front, palm gliding over the coarse material of his jeans. A low rumble of satisfaction came from his chest as you stroked his growing bulge, his hips involuntarily bucking against your hand. 

You smirked at his responsiveness and the fact that he was much bigger than you’d imagined. Unable to wait any longer, your fingers fumbled excitedly with his belt buckle, Benny groaning at the promise of release for his aching cock.

Falling to your knees, you helped him out of his pants and watched his cock bounce against his tan stomach. The little gasp that left your throat seemed to amuse him as he tilted his head to savor the sight of you before him.

Hand reaching for him like a prize, you began long slow licks along his shaft before taking the spongy head between your lips, eager to please. No sooner had you begun, he grasped for your shoulder to steady himself from the dizzying pleasure, opposite hand sweeping the hair from your face to watch himself disappear down your throat.

Benny’s moans began to fill the room as you worked, a stuttered breath escaping when you stopped to kitten lick and suck lightly on the tip, holding eye contact with him. The sight of your angelic face staring up at him through your lashes, saliva running down your chin was almost too much for him to bear. He knew he couldn't resist you if you continued much longer.

Within seconds you felt him capture your wrists, pulling you up to your feet as he gulped and shook his head. "Not yet, baby."

Walking you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed behind you, he pushed you onto the mattress with a bounce. You giggled as his eager fingers hooked into the waist band of your skirt and underwear, tugging them down to reveal all of you to him. "So beautiful," he exclaimed, long fingers tracing over your chest and stomach reverently.

He hovered over you, placing kisses to your neck as his fingers found your slick folds, opening you up slowly until you were practically dripping down his fingers. Adding a thumb to circle over your clit, your back arched off the bed and he hushed you with a deep kiss which only intensified when he felt you clench around his digits.

"Need you, Benny," you whined, clutching at his broad shoulders and urging him to rest his weight over you. He pressed his forehead to yours, nuzzling your nose in a gesture far too sweet for the single, powerful thrust that came next. Tears sprang to your eyes from the exquisite feeling of fullness, the pressure on your g-spot intense and immediate.

Benny stilled the moment he'd seated himself inside you, shuddering slightly to hold himself back as he allowed you time to adjust to his size. His cool blue eyes drank you in before resuming a steady rhythm that had you writing beneath him, head tossed back onto the pillows.

The slow drag of his cock against your sensitive walls sent your nerve endings firing little sparks of heat through your core, somehow amplifying the need for more. Benny sensed it immediately, raising your leg to his hip and sank even deeper with a low rumble of satisfaction, matched only by your lustful mewls.

Spurred on by every sweet sound you made, his hips began snapping against you, a light sheen of sweat coating his chest. Your hands flew to his hair, tugging slightly at the roots as your brain fogged with pleasure. As he fucked you into the mattress, your eyes fluttered closed, only vaguely aware of him slipping his thumb into your mouth. Sucking eagerly against the salty skin, you heard Benny groan loudly as the sensation shot straight to his cock.

Removing his thumb with a pop, he snaked his hand between you to circle the small bundle of nerves at your apex causing your mouth to drop open. He leaned in for a kiss unlike before, messy and demanding. "Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?" he asked breathlessly.

You gave a pathetic nod, biting your lip as you felt the coil in your stomach ready to snap. Staring into the oceans of Benny's endlessly blue eyes, a soft static began buzzing in your ears as you heard him whisper, "Yeah? Let me see." His warm breath hit the shell of your ear just as you tipped over the edge, white heat consuming your body. Wave after wave crashed over you, melting your brain and making your limbs turn gooey.

Benny fucked you through it as he chased his own high, hips stuttering before he pulled out with a quick jerk. Emptying himself onto your stomach in hot, thick ropes, he exhaled a contented sigh and smiled down at you with a lopsided grin.

Hours later, overcome with exhaustion, you curled into Benny's side beneath the covers. Safe and warm in his embrace, you found yourself talking about anything and everything. He listened with rapt attention as you described your boring college, the pressure that came with the classes and your dream to escape, seeing the country the way Danny had.

Mostly, Benny listened, but he talked a little about his own travels too. The life he was leading fascinated you and you found yourself wishing you were part of it. However, your voice began to trail off as you glimpsed the far off look in Benny's eye.

Truthfully, Benny found the excitement in your voice endearing and he couldn't help fantasizing about taking you on the road with him. As he idly traced patterns against your arm, he found himself suddenly saying, "Runaway with me."

Clutching the duvet to your chest you turned to stare at him in disbelief. "What?"

His jaw set determinedly, he nodded to indicate he was serious about what he'd said. "Be my girl," he added, eyeing you carefully to see if you'd accept.

Your heart knocked against your chest as you swiftly agreed, moving to straddle him and take his face between your hands for a celebratory kiss.

As the first rays of sun hit Benny’s eyes, he groaned in protest. The morning had come too quickly despite his best efforts to savor the night with you. Turning over in bed to drag you closer to him, his arm stretched over the cold, empty sheets. Clutching the material in his fist until his knuckles turned white, he wondered if you’d caught a cab, leaving the moment you came to your senses. 

Shuffling to the side of the bed to retrieve his jeans, he wondered why he’d been foolish enough to think you’d go anywhere with him when you had so many other opportunities. But he couldn’t think about all that before he’d had a cigarette so he fell out the front door, digging in his pockets for a lighter.

Just as he stumbled off the concrete step, he nearly tripped over the chair you’d placed outside the door, eliciting a cry of surprise from you.

As he quickly apologized, you clutched his Vandals jacket to your shoulders, giggling at his disheveled appearance. He was still effortlessly handsome despite his hair sticking up in all directions, the streaks of golden blonde catching the sunlight and arousing another wave of desire in you. However, you noticed he seemed too distracted to reciprocate.

“I thought you left,” he admitted, graveled voice still full of sleep as he closed the motel door behind him.

You raised the hand that held your cigarette, explaining, "Just came out for a smoke.”

As he retrieved the cigarette he had tucked behind his ear, he considered you warily. "Before you took off with my jacket?"

"I was going to give it back when I came in to wake you up," you explained softly, standing to stub out your cigarette with the toe of your shoe.

He turned his back to you, pretending to survey the parking lot as he nodded in understanding, "You gotta go."

You wrapped your arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his back as you imagined you'd do many more times in the future during long rides together. "We have to go. I thought we were running away together," you reminded him with a playful nudge.

He turned around instantly, pulling you close by the lapels of his jacket for a long kiss. Smirking against your lips he murmured, "Then let's go, baby."

[agentoffangirling]

Bc of all this stuff of "Billy is the first gay character in the MCU", I have decided to compile a list of queer characters in the MCU, sorted by date so y'all know who the actual firsts are

The conditions are thus:

It is confirmed in the project by either the character themselves or by another person. Maybe they speak of a partner, or say "I'm gay" onscreen

It is confirmed outside of the project by a director, actor, writer, etc. The specific thing about this is that it must be spoken about openly, not just "oh I like that idea!". No, it must be said, "yes, we intended for this" "this character is queer", you get the idea. This means cases like where Chloe Bennet voiced support for an openly bi Daisy Johnson in "Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D." will not be counted, for while she does like it, she doesn't confirm Daisy as bi

The project must be set in the MCU timeline. If it is the subject of a multiverse, then that must be when the multiverse started branching out. "Deadpool and Wolverine" counts, but all other X-Men movies will not count

With these conditions, it also means cases like Iceman will not be considered, as even though him being a mutant is written like a coming out scene, he is still treated as being entirely het

Does that make sense? Good, let's get going

Victoria Hand (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season 1, 2013-2014): Lesbian, confirmed by actress

Isabelle Hartley (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season 2, 2014-2015): Lesbian, stated by actress

Joey Gutierrez (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season 3, 2015-2016): Gay, confirmed on screen

Jeri Hogarth (Jessica Jones, 2015-2019): Lesbian, confirmed on screen

Valkyrie (Thor: Ragnarok & Thor: Love and Thunder, 2017/2022): Bisexual, confirmed by actress and later confirmed on screen

Korg (Thor: Ragnarok & Thor: Love and Thunder, 2017/2022): Gay, only confirmed on screen in Love and Thunder

Karolina Dean (Runaways, 2017-2018): Lesbian, confirmed on screen

Nico Minoru (Runaways, 2017-2018): Bisexual, confirmed on screen

Ruby Hale (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season 5, 2017-2018): Aesxual, confirmed by actress

Aneka (Black Panther & Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, 2018/2022): Lesbian, confirmed by actress

Ayo (Black Panther & Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, 2018/2022): Lesbian, confirmed on screen

Unnamed character played by Joe Russo (Avengers: Endgame, 2019): Unknown, confirmed on screen

Marcus Benson (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. season 6, 2019): Gay, confirmed on screen

Loki Laufeyson (Loki, 2021): Genderfluid and bisexual, confirmed on screen (it is worth noting that Loki was only confirmed as queer in the series, ten years after he made his debut, which is why I only count the series here. However our main timeline Loki is suggested to be same)

Sylvie Laufeydottir (Loki, 2021): Bisexual, confirmed by creators

Yelena Belova (Black Widow & Hawkeye, 2021): Aroace, hinted on screen, confirmed by writer

Phastos (Eternals, 2021): Gay, confirmed on screen

America Chavez (Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, 2022): Lesbian, confirmed by actress

America's moms (Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness, 2022): Unknown, confirmed on screen

Mister Immortal (She-Hulk: Attorney at Law, 2022): Bisexual, confirmed on screen

Agatha Harkness (WandaVision & Agatha All Along, 2021/2024): Unknown, potentially sapphic or wlw, confirmed on screen

Rio Vidal (Agatha All Along, 2024): Unknown, potentially sapphic or wlw, confirmed on screen

Billy Maximoff (Agatha All Along, 2024): Gay, confirmed on screen

[tightjeansjavi]

Hi!! Love your writing!! Can you write a cowboy fetish joel miller with boot riding 🥺🥺

Hi nonnie! Thank you for sending this in! It scratched my brain just ✨right✨ and I hope it does the same for you! I couldn’t just do some boot ridin’ without some plot ;) enjoy 🤠

Dinner & Diatribes

~word count: 3.7k~

Pairing | Cowboy/bounty hunter! Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: you’re the kind of love that Joel Miller has been dreaming of all his life

Warnings: smut,fluff, angst, cowboy in shining armor vibes, unprotected piv, boot ridin! dick slingin, mutual masturbation, voyeurism, implied age gap, dom/sub vibes, sir/mister kink, implied abuse (not by Joel) Joel is a bounty hunter during the Wild West, reader is a runaway bride wanted for murdering three men, filthy language, pining, protective! Joel, assumed unrequited love, swearing, AU that might not 100% be historically accurate but I tried! reader has no physical descriptions such a skin tone or body type, readers nickname is Chickadee, +18 minors dni! Let me know if I missed anything!

Joel Miller knows that keeping a bounty for himself ain’t the way to go about things..he knows that there’s consequences for his actions, an imminent problem would surely arise if he didn’t bring you back to the town you fled from. Wanted for the murders of three men. A wild untamable thing on the run is how the sheriff described you to Joel. And the most important detail of all; I don’t care if you bring her back alive, or in pieces.

And then Joel found you, tracked your trails for miles and miles through the barren rough terrain of the Wild West. You didn’t even put up a fight when you heard the distinct sound of thundering hooves drawing nearer and nearer. You were exhausted, dehydrated, and on the verge of collapsing to the dusty earth while vultures circled ahead.

This didn’t mean you gave up entirely when Joel Miller had you circled, cornered and lasso at the ready. That’s when he took notice of your state, your attire. A once glittering wedding dress now hanging on by threads of shredded fabric. The bottom tooled fabric was now a dirty sand color, blending in with the dirt. Remnants of your eye makeup cracked and stained beneath your eyes and cheekbones that were once painted in a pretty pigment.

He watched from the saddle of his horse as you sank down to your knees, awaiting your inevitable fate to be delivered. “Have you come to turn me in, Mister?”

His head cocked to the side, eyes studying your vulnerable form intently. You couldn’t see his face as it was obstructed from your view with a tied bandana, but even from where you sat on your knees, you could see that his eyes were a deep shade of brown, dark and mysterious.

He dismounted his horse swiftly, silently, boots tearing up dusty patches of earth with each heavy step he took. The spurs on the back of his boots chimed through the air as he stopped in front of you. His broad frame casted a shadow over your kneeling form. His hands were encased in worn leather, and he smelled of tobacco smoke, saddle soap, and musk.

He crouched down, hat tipping forward while one leather clad hand reached for your jaw, thumb brushing across your skin as he tilted it upwards, forcing you to look into his eyes. He saw your grime and dried blood stained face up close. Your eyes flickered nervously as he turned your head to the side.

“Ain’t you gonna get on with it and turn me in? What’re you draggin’ this out for, huh? You caught me, mister. Go and collect your fuckin’ reward.” You spat defiantly into the dirt, a glob of salvia landing on the toe of his boot.

His grip tightened around your chin, jaw ticking sharp like a knife, eyes narrowing in on your face and the subtle wobble of your severely cracked and dry lower lip.

“What happened to you?” He finally spoke. His voice reminded you of fire crackling, ominous thunder and heavy rain. Thick, gravelly, deeper than the Grand Canyon itself.

“What’s it matter if I tell ya, huh? You gonna take pity on me or somethin’ mister?”

He was silent again, appearing deep in thought as he continued to study your face, searching through the grime and dirt for any clues..then, he saw it; The eyes of someone that suffered abuse. His grip around your chin softened

“Stand up.” He commanded.

You struggled to your feet, confusion etched in your features, the obvious sway in your step before two strong hands grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

“We’ll have to move fast.”

“What’re you—” You were still confused, head spinning from his words and malnourishment.

“I don’t turn in folks that killed outta self defense, Chickadee. And certainly not a woman that killed her abusers.” He gave you a curt, tight nod. “Better you than I cause I woulda tied those sons a bitches up and dragged them through the fuckin’ desert.” He rasped.

“You’re..not turnin’ me in?”

“No. Ain’t morally right for me t’do so.” He said softly.

And that’s how you ended up riding through the countryside with Joel Miller to protect you. You’d patch up his shiners, his wounds, keep his belly full with hearty stews that kept him strong and alert. You’d clean his gun, shine his leather till you could see your reflection in the fabric. And in return, he protected you. He never asked for any sexual favors, or for your hand. He viewed you as his equal, his partner.

It hurt sometimes, to flirt with the man you owed your life to and for him to brush your attempts off everytime. As if you were a pesky horsefly, or insignificant gnat. Yet, you couldn’t help it. Joel was handsome, ruggedly so and you’d often find yourself fantasizing about kissing him, feeling his fingers touch you in places you craved to be touched in. To feel his caress on your skin, the bite of his leather, the scrape of his scruffy beard. The stretch of his cock inside of your wet cunt.

You were driving yourself mad with want for a man that didn’t want you back, or so you assumed that was to be the case.

That couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Joel Miller was on the edge to finally just give in when he caught you one night with your skirts hiked above your thighs with your boot clad feet firmly planted in the dirt. Under the pale glow of the moonlight above, and the glittery shining stars, he could see your hand between your thighs, touching yourself and moaning his name.

It felt wrong to watch you, to invade your privacy and your modesty. But he’d be damned if he’d go another night without feeling the hug of your pussy around his aching cock. Or to feel the taste of your kissable lips on his tongue. Damned. Damned. Damned. Fuck, he couldn’t survive another second without knowing what it was like to be loved by you.

For years he had pushed you away despite knowing the pain it caused both you and him. A man could only last so long pretending to not love a woman that he’d throw his life down for in a heartbeat. That’s the kinda love Joel Miller had been dreaming of all his life.

Your head snapped at the sound of a twig snapping behind you as your hand stilled between your thighs. Your heartbeat rattled wildly in your rib cage at the fear and excitement of being caught.

Oh, please. Please let tonight be the night.

“Don’t stop on my account, Chickadee.” He drawled deeply before stepping closer to where you sat.

The heat rushed to your cheeks like a wildfire spreading, your stomach clenched inwards as you began to touch yourself once more, eyes staying locked on his own.

When he was close enough, you used his shins for support as you rubbed your swollen clit in tight, fast circles.

“No.” He shook his head. “Slower. Take your time, darlin.’ There ain’t no rush. Let me see you.” He rasped, before slowly sinking into the dirt behind you. His strong thighs corralled your own almost possessively as his hands gently grasped the hem of your skirts, pulling them up higher. You felt the brush of his beard against your cheek when his chin came to rest along your shoulder. “Nice and slow for me.”

“I’m—sorry, Joel.” You whispered ashamedly through the cool darkness of the desert night. You slowed your fingers, dragging them through the building slick that pooled between the seam of your cunt.

“Sorry for what, Chickadee? Sorry for touchin’ yourself? For moanin’ my name? Why would you be sorry for that?..” His deep tone sent sparks flying through your body as you leaned back into his strong chest.

“Because—you don’t want me, and this is wrong for me to do. To touch myself and moan a man’s name that doesn’t desire me the way I desire him.” A whimper was clawing up your throat, begging to be released, but you wouldn’t allow it.

He dropped the fabric of your skirts briefly only to dip his hand between your thighs and place his massive palm over the top of your hand, guiding your fingers over your clit once more. “This man desires you plenty, Chickadee. I was only tryin’ to protect your modesty..and our hearts.” He whispered against your ear, lips ghosting across your exposed skin. “Been wantin’ to love you all these years we’ve spent together.” He admitted. “I’m a terrible, rotten man for keepin’ you starved this long..” he trailed off, pressing open mouthed kisses at the spot where your jaw met your neck. “M’sorry.”

Those were the last words you ever expected a fucking bounty hunter to whisper..let alone to you?

A shuddered breath slipped past your parted lips, just for him. Your head lolled to the side, granting him easier access as your lashes fluttered shut. “I’ve felt like..such a fool, Joel. A dirty little fool for a bounty hunter.” You took your lower lip between your teeth, biting down harshly and drawing blood to the surface. You let him take full control of your hand, letting him guide and manipulate your fingers to play with yourself just right.

“Shh..I know now, Chickadee. M’sorry, truly. But I’m here now, ain’t I? M’here. Here forever if you’ll have me. I understand if I've bruised and neglected your heart far too many times..I can accept your rejection if it is coming.”

You could detect the edge of sadness in his tone, the acceptance already settling into his bones and heart.

“Joel, please kiss me.” You nearly begged him, dying to finally know what his lips would feel like on your own.

“Why didn’t ya just say that sooner, Chickadee.” He chuckled. “I wish ya woulda just grabbed me by the breeches years ago and knocked some sense into my thick skull. Woulda taken your ache away a long time ago, darlin.’” He said in a hushed whisper. “But I know you were afraid..can’t blame ya for that. Not really. ‘Specially since I ain’t the nicest of men to come by.”

He was taking too long, and you were an impatient woman.

“Joel.” You huffed, fighting the urge to curse him out before you decided to take matters into your own hands, finally. Tomorrow was never promised, not when you and Joel were constantly on the run.

He kept rambling on until he felt the soft touch of your fingertips brushing against the patches in his scruffy beard and the magnetic pull drawing him in closer, closer till he could taste your mingled breath on his lips.

Here in the middle of the desert, with nothing but the moon and stars as a source of light, you finally knew what it was like to kiss Joel Miller. You learned his lips quickly, liking that they were both soft and a bit chapped. As you licked slowly into one another’s mouths you could taste the faint remnants of tobacco on his tongue. It was a bruising kiss, one that both ignited the fire deep within you, and sent a delicious tingle curving down your spine.

So, this is what the girls back home were all talking about. Being kissed by a real man.

And then you found yourself straddling him in the dirt, saying fuck all to your modesty because you had never wanted a man more than you did now. And you wished that your mother could see you now. To see what her perfect little daughter had turned into.

Fuck you, mother. Fuck you for forcing me to marry that monster.

Joel brought you back down to earth with both his lips and his words tattooed on your skin. He caged you with his body, acting as a shield from the chilly night ear that sent goosebumps rising.

He worked your blouse open, growing more frustrated by the minute when the clasps wouldn’t automatically give. He was desperate to feel more of you, all of you because he knew then that you were his, and he was yours. And if you’d end up being the death of him, so be it. At least he could go out being loved rather than unloved.

“You gonna fuck me now, mister? Gonna take what belongs to you, Joel?” You mumbled against his lips in a chasing kiss, growing more desperate as the seconds ticked by.

“Gonna do more than that, Chickadee.” He rasped. This was a promise, and a man such as Joel always kept his promises.

The howl of a Coyote far off in the distant sent uneasy nerves rolling through you, because the realization hit you then that you and Joel were out in the fucking wilderness, and you suddenly felt bare and exposed.

“Jus’ a coyote, doll. He’s singin’ to the moon. We’re safe here, I promise. Ain’t ever gonna let somethin’ happen to you again, Chickadee.” His strong calloused, yet gentle hands came to cup for your face. His deep brown eyes met yours through the pale glow of the moonlight casted over your faces. “I swear on my life, you will always be safe with me.”

and while the lone coyote sang his song to the moon, Joel Miller had you singing your own song, just for his ears too.

After that night spent together, you never had a night where you slept alone. Joel was always there. Holding you, kissing you, fucking you into a blissful state.

He still feared for your safety, and you feared for his. This would never change, but you refused to live in fear for the rest of your life.

It was a boiling hot day under the blazing desert sun. You and Joel were moving west towards California. Hearing about the gold rush there sounded like as good of an opportunity as any. Not even just for the gold, but the prospects of a new life. Joel had dreams of owning a ranch, sheep specifically and living out his days with you by his side.

“Come join me for a swim, cowboy.” You were sitting side by side under the one single tree along the river's edge. Your two horses were drinking their fill after traveling for days in these conditions.

Your cowboy had his arms crossed behind his head, biceps bulging under the thin fabric of his shirt. His hat was tipped down over his head. You only witnessed Joel being fully relaxed on a few occasions where he would let his guard down for just mere minutes.

“Mmm. That’s alright, doll. Y’go on and enjoy yourself.” He said with a lazy sigh.

“Just a quick one together? Please?” You reached over and gently lifted the brim of his hat just enough so you could see his closed eyes.”

“Chickadee..” he said in a low warning tone, peeking one eye open to look up at you before he shut it once more.

“You’re no fun.” You huffed while releasing your gentle grip on his hat.

“M’plenty fun, doll. I gotta keep watch, anyway. Can’t do that if I’m stark naked in the river with ya. What if someone tries to sneak up? Won’t have my gun at arms reach.” He sighed.

“I know, Joel.”

Maybe when we get to California..he won’t have to worry about all of that.

He sat up turning his body to face you before his palm came to rest upon your cheek in a gentle caress. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, tugging it down gently before he leaned in and kissed you sweetly. “Now go on and cool off, Chickadee.”

You kissed him back with the same amount of sweetness before you pulled away and gave his nose a light boop. His face scrunched inwards before he reached around and gave your ass a light and playful swat that sent you giggling as you rose to your feet.

You shot him a seductive wink before you raced down to the river's edge, kicking up a cloud of dirt with your boots.

Joel watched from afar with a hooded gaze as you stripped down from your skirts and blouse followed by your unlaced boots. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself when your one boot wouldn’t give right away and you nearly tripped before finally getting it off. He kept watch as you dove into the crystal clear waters and reameraged moments later.

He reached into his pack, pulling out an apple and pocket knife while you splashed around like a kid on Christmas. He cut off a small slice before biting it off on the edge of the knife, chewing thoughtfully as he leaned back against the sturdy tree.

When we get to California..I’m going to marry her.

He didn’t want to end your fun so soon..but it was time to get moving again. He brought his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, whistling to let you know that it was time to pack up.

You had been floating peacefully on your back with your eyes closed when you heard his whistle that immediately tore you from your daydream state.

He was just about to stand up from where he was resting against the tree when you emerged from the river. You reminded him of a goddess. Bare, beautiful, skin sprinkled in water droplets that were kissed by the sun. You looked unreal, and he was the luckiest man alive.

“C’mon, Chickadee. We gotta head out.” He called for you when you were within earshot.

“I’m coming!” You bent down to gather up your clothes before the idea struck you. “Can I dry off first, please?”

He let out a grumbled sigh before he ultimately nodded his head in agreement. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt..

“Jus’ till ya dry off, doll.”

With your clothes and boots gathered up in your bare arms, you approached him casually, setting everything down on your nearby saddle while he watched you with piqued curiosity.

“I was thinking about you out there..laying on my back and feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin..” you trailed off.

“Is that so? Hmm..what were you thinkin’ about, Chickadee?” His eyes slowly trailed down your bare body. From the swell of your breasts, down your tummy and thighs and what lay between them.

“Want to take a guess, cowboy?” You asked teasingly.

His brow raised as a grin tugged along the corner of his lips. A game is what you were playing, and he was the willing participant.

“Based on your tone, I’m gonna guess it’s got somethin’ to do with..my cock?” He wiggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner while his hand casually came to rest between his own thighs. Oh, he was playing alright.

“Mmm..perhaps I was thinkin’ of ridin’ your cock right under the shade of this tree..but that would be too obvious, Joel.” Your eyes drifted down to where his hand was before the traveled down the expanse of his strong thighs and ending at the toe of his leather boots.

He caught onto your drift almost immediately and you saw his pupils begin to darken. “Y’wanna ride my boot? Is’that it? Well, ain’t you a filthy thing, Chickadee. You wanna get ‘em all shined up for me? Drag that sweet cunt of yours over them?”

His eyes stayed locked on yours in a challenging stare while he palmed himself through his pants to relieve the growing tension.

“I do, sir. I really, really, really want to ride your boot.” You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks because never in your wildest dreams did you expect to take part in debauchery such as this.

“On your knees then, girl. Kiss ‘em for me.” He fell right into character with a flip of a switch.

You found yourself lowering onto your knees without a care in the world about the dirt while you bent down over his boots, pressing a kiss to the leather, dragging your tongue down the stitched seam.

“That’s it, doll. Get ‘em nice and shined up for me.” He said while popping the button on his pants open and pulling his cock free from the confines.

“You gonna touch yourself while I ride your boot, mister?” You were sitting upright again before you crawled closer, letting your hands rest along his thighs as you positioned yourself right above his left boot. The imprint of your kiss had already begun to dry from the scorching heat.

“Yeah, doll. I’m gonna fist my cock while you ride my boot like the dirty Chickadee that you are.” He spat into his palm before he wrapped his fist around the base of his cock just as you lowered yourself over the expanse of his boot, taking your lip between your teeth when you dragged your clit right across the smooth leather.

“Fuuck me. Ain’t that a sight. Look at you, fuckin’ filthy girl. S’feel good, Chickadee?”

You rolled your hips forward slowly at the rate that he was pumping his fist. A soft whimper slipped past your lips while your eyes stayed locked on his.

“Feels so good, mister. So—so good.” You moaned freely with each steady roll of your hips, chasing that high. Nothing would ever compare to Joel’s cock. You knew this, he knew this, and you also were aware that this little game would only last so long.

And then he watched you lose yourself completely on his boot with each roll and grind of your hips against the dampened leather. Crying out his name, nails digging into his covered thighs, head thrown back, tears nearly flooding your eyes.

He had the same sense of urgency and realization that nothing would ever compare to the warm hug of your pussy around his cock. That’s when the game ended as his strong arms came to lift you into his lap by your thighs. His lips met yours in a bruising kiss filled with intermingled moans and teeth clashing together when he finally slipped into your warmth.

California could wait a little longer, he wanted to savor this moment for as long as it lasted because now he had the love that he had been dreaming of all his life. Right here in his arms, cock buried to the hilt under the shade of this very tree. Right here with his Chickadee.

That’s the kinda love I’ve been dreaming of

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[rubyuji]

Where the Roses Bloom (Joshua Hong) ✞⋆⭒˚.⋆

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Genre: Slowburn, Angst

AU: 1950s AU

Pairing: Friar!Joshua x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Working unconventional jobs (Reader is a dancer in the red light district because she's a run away), Seungcheol is an asshole

Synopsis: A wealthy runaway seeking freedom and a devout seminarian devoted to faith find an unexpected connection in Crimson Lane, where love becomes their greatest salvation and torment. Torn between their hearts and the lives they are destined to lead, they are forced to confront sacrifice, identity, and the cost of their choices.

Note: I've been obsessed with Hilda Furacão lately and am currently watching it because the story is so intriguing, so why not publish my own take on Hilda and Malthus' story you know? Also, I'm so glad I've found the time to publish a few more works in my busy schedule because I've missed writing. I hope you guys enjoy reading! Don't forget to like + reblog as always.

W.C: 7.2k

You are the beloved daughter of a wealthy, conservative family, a fragile porcelain doll meant to adorn the halls of high society. Every word you speak is measured, every gesture rehearsed, every smile carefully crafted to maintain the illusion of perfection your family has built around you.

You have always known your place in their world—a tool to be wielded in their quest for status and legacy.

But tonight, the cracks in that porcelain threaten to shatter completely.

“You bring shame to this family!” your father’s voice thunders through the drawing room, his face flushed with fury. He paces back and forth like a predator circling its prey, while your mother sits rigidly on the velvet settee, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you understand the humiliation you’ve caused us?”

Your fiancé stands off to the side, his arms crossed and a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He says nothing, content to let your parents do the dirty work of berating you. 

You can still feel the sting of his earlier words, the way he dismissed your reluctance as childishness and called you ungrateful for even questioning the life planned for you.

“Humiliation?” you finally snap, your voice trembling but strong enough to cut through the oppressive atmosphere. “The only humiliation here is being forced into a marriage with a man who sees me as nothing more than property!”

“Watch your tone!” your father bellows, slamming his hand against the mahogany table. “You will marry him, and you will do so with dignity. That is your duty to this family.”

“And what about my duty to myself?” you demand, your voice breaking. “Don’t I deserve to choose my own life? To be something more than just a pawn in your plans?”

“Enough!” your mother interjects sharply, her icy gaze locking onto yours. 

“You are selfish, ungrateful, and disgraceful. Do you think anyone else would have you after this display? Your childish rebellion ends now. Tomorrow, you will apologize to your fiancé and prepare for the engagement ceremony.”

The room falls silent, the air thick with unspoken threats and unrelenting pressure. You look at each of them—your father, red-faced and seething; your mother, cold and unyielding; and your fiancé, smug and victorious. It feels as though the walls are closing in, the weight of their expectations suffocating you.

“I’d rather die than live like this,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Your father stiffens, his face twisting with rage, but you don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and storm out of the room, the sound of your mother’s sharp voice calling after you fading into the background.

You run to your room, grabbing a small bag and stuffing it with essentials—money, jewelry, a coat. 

The thought of staying here one more night, of bowing to their will and losing yourself completely, is unbearable. With shaking hands, you throw open the window and climb out, your heart pounding as you disappear into the cool night air.

The city is a blur as you wander, your breath visible in the chilly air. Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You’ve made your choice. There’s no turning back now.

By the time you reach Crimson Lane, your feet ache, and your throat is raw from the cold. 

The district looms before you like a forbidden dream—a world of sin, danger, and freedom. Smoke rises from narrow alleyways, mingling with the faint strains of music and the chatter of strangers.

You stumble, and a hand reaches out to steady you. A woman with painted lips and tired but kind eyes looks you over, taking in your disheveled appearance and the fine fabric of your coat.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks, her voice gentle but wary.

You shake your head, your voice faltering as you say, “I… I have nowhere else to go.”

She studies you for a moment, then gestures for you to follow her. “Come on, then. You’ll freeze out here.”

She leads you deeper into the district, where the streets glow with lantern light and the scent of spice and smoke fills the air.

The people here are rough around the edges, their laughter loud and unapologetic, but there’s a warmth to them—a sense of camaraderie that you’ve never felt in your old life.

The woman introduces herself as Lucia and takes you to La Rosa, a club that feels like the beating heart of Crimson Lane. The velvet curtains, the glittering chandeliers, the sound of laughter and music—it’s a world so far removed from the one you left behind that it feels almost dreamlike.

“You’ll be safe here,” Lucia says. “We take care of our own.”

For the first time in your life, you feel a flicker of hope. Here, you are not a disgrace or a disappointment. Here, you are free to be whoever you want to be.

Joshua steps hesitantly onto the cobblestone streets of Crimson Lane, his polished shoes carrying him into a world that seems to pulse with temptation and sin. The air is thick and heavy with the mingling scents of smoke, cheap liquor, and perfume. 

Neon signs flicker above the doorways of clubs and gambling dens, casting the streets in a kaleidoscope of red and gold. Laughter and music spill out into the night, wild and unrestrained, unlike anything he’s ever known.

He grips the cross hanging from his neck, the smooth metal cool against his palm, as if to remind himself of who he is and why he’s here. 

This place feels godless, a maze of excess and indulgence, yet it is precisely where he believes his mission lies. Beneath the vice, he is certain there is still humanity—still souls waiting to be saved.

Joshua’s purpose tonight is clear: to bring a young man, barely more than a boy, back to the fold. The boy has been seen frequenting La Rosa, a club infamous even in this district.

Its reputation precedes it—a place of opulence and decadence where rules are rewritten nightly. Joshua’s breath quickens as the club comes into view, its crimson façade glowing like an ember in the darkness.

The doorman eyes him with suspicion as he steps inside, but no one stops him. The moment he enters, the atmosphere changes. It’s warmer, almost stifling, and alive with sound. 

The low hum of a saxophone weaves through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The scent of wine and something floral—jasmine, maybe—lingers in the room, intoxicating and overwhelming.

He scans the room, searching for the boy, but his attention is drawn to the stage. The lights dim, and the murmur of the crowd fades as a figure steps into the spotlight.

And then he sees you.

You command the stage with an effortless grace, your every movement exuding confidence and allure. The dress you wear shimmers under the soft glow of the lights, its fabric hugging your figure in a way that makes the audience hold their breath. 

You are radiant, magnetic, and utterly otherworldly. But what strikes Joshua most is your voice—a sultry, melodic sound that seems to reach deep into his chest and pull something loose.

His heart stirs in a way it never has before, and for a moment, the weight of his faith feels distant. He forgets his mission, forgets the boy, forgets where he is. All he can do is watch as you weave your spell, your voice filling every corner of the room.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, you look at him.

The moment your eyes meet his, time seems to slow. You’ve seen countless faces in your time at La Rosa, most of them predictable—men with hungry eyes and insincere smiles, women with envy or admiration etched into their expressions. But he is different.

There’s something pure in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. His gaze doesn’t linger on your body like the others; instead, it searches your face, as if he’s trying to understand you. It unnerves you, yet you can’t look away.

Joshua’s grip on his cross tightens, a silent prayer forming on his lips as his mind races.

Who are you? How can someone so captivating, so seemingly untouchable, exist in a place like this? He feels a pang of guilt for the way his heart beats faster, but there’s something deeper, something undeniable, that draws him to you.

The song ends, and the applause erupts, breaking the spell. You step back from the spotlight, but your gaze flickers toward him once more before you disappear into the wings. Joshua stands frozen, the world around him fading into a blur.

Later that night, as the crowd thins and the music softens, Joshua lingers near the edge of the stage. He tells himself it’s to wait for the boy, to fulfill the purpose that brought him here. But his eyes keep darting toward the backstage entrance, his mind replaying the moment your eyes met his.

When you finally approach, your footsteps soft against the polished floor, he feels a jolt of panic and something else—anticipation. You stop in front of him, your head tilted in curiosity. 

Up close, you’re even more stunning, but there’s something in your expression that takes him by surprise. Beneath the confidence, there’s a flicker of vulnerability, a depth that the stage lights couldn’t fully reveal.

“You don’t look like the type to spend your nights in places like this,” you say, your voice softer now, laced with intrigue.

Joshua clears his throat, his fingers brushing against the cross again. “I’m… not,” he admits, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “I’m here for someone. A young man from my parish.”

“Ah,” you reply with a wry smile. “A shepherd in the den of wolves.”

Your words are teasing, but your tone isn’t cruel. There’s a warmth in your gaze that disarms him, even as his instincts tell him to tread carefully. “I believe there’s good here,” he says, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. “Even in a place like this.”

Your smile falters, just for a moment, and Joshua catches the shadow that crosses your face. “Goodness,” you murmur, almost as if testing the word. “Not many would think so.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you step closer, your presence enveloping him in a way that makes the world feel impossibly small.

“So, what’s your name, shepherd?” you ask, your eyes studying him with genuine curiosity.

“Joshua,” he answers, his voice barely above a whisper.

You repeat his name, letting it roll off your tongue as if savoring its simplicity. For a moment, you forget about the performance, the crowd, the life you’ve built in La Rosa. There is something about this man, something untainted and sincere, that draws you in despite yourself.

And as you stand there, the weight of your respective worlds pressing against you, neither of you realizes how deeply your lives are about to intertwine.

The first time you and Joshua meet outside of La Rosa, it’s in the quiet corner of a small café tucked away from the chaos of Crimson Lane.

You arrive first, your coat wrapped tightly around you to ward off the chill, though you know it does little to shield you from the prying eyes of those who recognize you.

When Joshua enters, his presence shifts the room. He isn’t dressed in his cassock but in simple, clean-cut clothes that make him seem less like a devout seminarian and more like a boy trying to blend into a world he doesn’t belong to.

Still, his earnest gaze gives him away, and the way he hesitates before sitting across from you tells you he’s nervous.

“You came,” you say softly, sipping your tea to mask the flicker of relief in your voice.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” Joshua admits, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “But I thought… maybe you needed someone to talk to.”

The words catch you off guard. Most men come to you with expectations—of entertainment, of distraction, of something shallow and fleeting. But Joshua looks at you as if he genuinely wants to understand, to know the real you beneath the performance.

“I’m not used to people wanting to just ‘talk,’” you reply, your lips curling into a small smile.

He smiles, too, and for a moment, the tension between you eases. “I’m not like most people.”

Your meetings become a routine, a secret shared only between the two of you. Sometimes you meet in quiet cafés; other times, it’s in the park just as dawn begins to break, the city still cloaked in silence.

Joshua asks you questions no one has ever dared to ask. “Do you ever miss your old life?” he asks one morning, his voice gentle but probing.

You pause, your gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun spills golden light over the rooftops. “I miss parts of it,” you admit. “The security, maybe. The certainty. But not the suffocation.”

Joshua nods, his expression thoughtful. “And now? Do you feel free?”

You turn to him, meeting his earnest gaze. “Freedom isn’t as simple as leaving behind what holds you back. It’s… complicated.”

He doesn’t push further, but the way he looks at you lingers, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing too many pieces.

The conversations shift over time, becoming deeper, more intimate. Joshua talks about his faith, his calling, and the doubts that sometimes creep in despite his unwavering belief in something greater.

“I’ve always wanted to help people,” he says one evening, the two of you seated on a bench under the soft glow of a street lamp. “To give them hope, to remind them that they’re not alone. But sometimes… I wonder if I’m enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” you say, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. He looks at you, startled, and you feel a rush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I mean… you’ve already helped me, haven’t you?”

Joshua’s expression softens, and for a moment, the distance between your worlds feels smaller.

The unspoken desires between you grow harder to ignore. There are moments when your fingers brush as you walk side by side, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. 

When he speaks, his voice low and full of conviction, you can’t help but imagine what it would be like to pull him closer, to feel the weight of his devotion turned entirely toward you.

For Joshua, the temptation is both exhilarating and terrifying. He tells himself that he is here to guide you, to help you see the light. But with every meeting, every shared smile, he feels the foundation of his faith tremble. 

You are not the sinner he expected to find in Crimson Lane. You are complex, brave, and endlessly captivating.

In you, Joshua sees a reflection of his own humanity—the doubts he wrestles with, the longing for something more than the rigid path he has chosen. And in him, you see the purity and sincerity you thought the world had forgotten.

One night, after hours of quiet conversation and stolen glances, the silence stretches between you. The streets are unusually still, the usual hum of Crimson Lane reduced to faint murmurs and the occasional clatter of footsteps in the distance. 

You’re seated on a weathered wooden bench beneath a streetlamp that flickers every so often, casting fleeting shadows across your faces. The glow illuminates Joshua’s profile, highlighting the soft curve of his jaw and the furrow in his brow that deepens when he’s lost in thought.

The air between you feels heavier tonight, charged with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you has dared to fully acknowledge.

You’re no stranger to silences, but this one feels different, as if the words trapped within it could change everything.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice barely audible against the stillness. 

His name lingers on your tongue, familiar and strange all at once. It feels too intimate, like a secret you’re not sure you should share, yet you’ve never been able to call him anything else.

He turns to you, his eyes meeting yours with that quiet intensity that has always disarmed you. His gaze is steady, but there’s a vulnerability in it tonight, a crack in the armor of his resolve.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your voice trembles slightly, betraying the depth of your hesitation. “That you could… choose a life that wasn’t already decided for you?”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks away, his eyes following the faint outline of smoke curling from a nearby chimney. His fingers toy with the cross hanging around his neck, the movement absentminded yet telling.

“I think about it,” he says after a long pause, his voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder what it would be like to live without all the expectations. To… to make choices just for myself.”

His confession surprises you, and you feel a pang of something you can’t quite name—relief, perhaps, that even someone as steadfast as Joshua isn’t immune to doubt. “And what would you choose?” you ask, leaning closer without realizing it.

He hesitates, his gaze flickering back to you. For a moment, you see the walls he’s built around himself falter.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think about you.”

The words hit you like a storm, sudden and all-consuming. Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak. “Me?” you manage, your voice unsteady.

Joshua nods, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, perhaps, or courage. 

“I think about the way you talk about freedom, about wanting to find yourself. I’ve spent my whole life trying to give myself to something greater, to serve a purpose beyond myself. But when I’m with you… I don’t feel lost. I feel like I’m finally being seen.”

The honesty in his words is almost too much to bear. You feel your throat tighten, your chest aching with the weight of emotions you’ve tried to suppress.

“You see me, too,” you say, your voice trembling. 

“Not the person I pretend to be at La Rosa, or the daughter my family wanted me to be. You see the parts of me I thought were long gone.”

The silence that follows is deafening, every breath, every heartbeat magnified. You want to reach for him, to close the small distance between you, but you’re paralyzed by the fear of what it might mean.

“Do you ever wonder if we were meant to meet?” you ask quietly, your words tentative, as if afraid to give them too much power.

Joshua’s lips curve into the faintest smile, a mixture of sorrow and something almost like hope. “All the time,” he says. “But I also wonder what it means. If this—if we—are a test or a gift.”

You don’t know how to respond. You don’t know how to tell him that the mere thought of him has become both your solace and your torment, that he’s made you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

“I don’t have the answers,” you say softly, your gaze dropping to the ground. “But I know that being with you makes the world feel less heavy. And maybe that’s enough.”

Joshua reaches out then, his hand hovering between you as if he’s fighting an internal battle. Finally, he lets it rest gently on yours, the touch warm and grounding. You look up at him, startled, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe it is,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

In that moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of Crimson Lane replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe in the possibility of something more.

The change in Joshua is subtle at first, almost imperceptible to those around him. He still attends his daily prayers and still preaches sermons that touch hearts and inspire hope, but there’s a new uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitance in his voice when he speaks of his calling. His mentor at the parish, Father Miguel, notices the shift and questions him one evening.

“You seem troubled, Joshua,” Father Miguel says gently, his gaze steady but not unkind. “Is there something you wish to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his secret relationship with you pressing heavily on his chest. He shakes his head, offering a polite smile. “No, Father. I’m just… reflecting on my work here.”

Father Miguel doesn’t push, but his concern lingers. “Remember, doubt is part of faith. But so is discernment. Pray on it, Joshua, and trust that you’ll find your way.”

Joshua nods, but the advice feels hollow. He doesn’t need to pray to know what troubles him—it’s you.

For you, the change is more visceral. The armor you’ve worn for so long, the persona you’ve carefully crafted at La Rosa, begins to crack.

Joshua’s faith and kindness, so foreign in a world that has often shown you cruelty, force you to confront truths you’ve buried.

One night, after a particularly vulnerable conversation, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror backstage at La Rosa. The vibrant makeup and glittering costumes no longer feel like a shield but a mask you’re desperate to shed. 

You think of Joshua’s words, his belief that goodness exists even in the darkest places, and wonder if you could ever truly believe that about yourself.

Later, as you and Joshua sit on the steps of a quiet chapel he’s introduced you to, you let the words spill out. “I’ve spent so much of my life pretending,” you admit, your voice trembling. 

“Pretending to be the perfect daughter, pretending to be strong, pretending that none of this bothers me. But with you…” You pause, struggling to find the words. “I feel like I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t,” he says quietly. “You never did. You’re enough just as you are, Y/N.”

His words undo you, tears slipping down your cheeks as the weight you’ve carried for so long begins to lift.

But the fragile connection you’ve built with Joshua doesn’t go unnoticed. In a world as tightly knit as Crimson Lane, whispers spread faster than wildfire.

At La Rosa, the staff begins to exchange knowing looks, their smiles laced with curiosity and judgment. Madame Maria, always watchful, pulls you aside one evening after a particularly dazzling performance.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she says, her voice light but with an undertone of steel. Her sharp eyes bore into you, assessing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. “Is there something—or someone—you’d like to tell me about?”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to remain composed. “I don’t know what you mean,” you reply, carefully neutral.

Maria’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Be careful, darling,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “You may think you’re invincible, but the world outside these walls has a way of tearing people like you apart. And men like him…” She trails off, shaking her head. 

“Men like him don’t belong here.” The warning lingers in the air, unspoken yet clear: your relationship with Joshua is a risk, not just for you but for him as well.

Joshua also faces his share of scrutiny. His absences and distracted demeanor don’t go unnoticed by the parish elders, who begin to question his commitment. 

One evening, as he prepares to leave for another secret meeting with you, Father Miguel intercepts him at the church doors. 

“Joshua,” the older priest says, his tone firm but kind, “it’s clear that something is weighing on you. You’ve always been a man of conviction, but conviction without clarity can lead you astray. Is there something you need to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m… just trying to help someone,” he says, the words feeling both true and insufficient.

Father Miguel’s expression hardens, though his voice remains gentle. “Sometimes, the greatest tests of faith come disguised as acts of kindness. Be sure you are not mistaking temptation for charity.”

Joshua looks away, guilt and longing warring within him. 

“She’s not a temptation,” he says quietly. “She’s someone who’s lost, someone who deserves to be seen, to be valued. I can’t turn my back on her.”

Father Miguel sighs deeply, his disappointment palpable. “Then you must ask yourself, Joshua, if this is the path you truly wish to walk. Because once you choose, there may be no turning back.”

The scrutiny grows, and the walls around your relationship begin to close in. You find yourself plagued by doubts late at night, wondering if holding on to Joshua is selfish, if you are pulling him away from a life he was meant to live.

One evening, as you and Joshua sit together in the dimly lit chapel, the weight of everything finally becomes too much to bear.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “People are talking, and I… I can’t let them ruin you, Joshua. You’ve worked so hard for this life.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’re not ruining me,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion.

“You’ve made me question things I was too afraid to question before. You’ve shown me that there’s more to faith than rules and expectations. There’s… love. Compassion. Humanity.”

“But what if I’m a mistake?” you ask, your voice breaking as tears threaten to spill. “What if loving me ruins everything you’ve built?”

Joshua’s gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “And if loving you is wrong, then maybe everything I’ve been taught about right and wrong isn’t as simple as I thought.”

His words hang in the air, a declaration that feels both like a promise and a challenge. 

As the night stretches on, the line between what is right and what is necessary blurs, leaving the two of you caught in the fragile, intoxicating space in between.

The fragile world you and Joshua have built begins to teeter as the shadows of your past and the expectations of his present loom closer.

It begins with the sudden arrival of your former fiancé, Seungcheol—a man you thought you’d left behind forever. He finds you at La Rosa one evening, standing in the crowd with a smug, self-satisfied smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. 

You’re performing when you see him, your practiced poise faltering ever so slightly as his face registers in the crowd. Panic coils in your chest, but you force yourself to finish the performance, smiling and bowing as though your world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

Afterward, he waits for you in the dimly lit corridor outside your dressing room, leaning casually against the wall as though he belongs there.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or should I say, Scarlet?”

You glare at him, your pulse racing as you step closer. 

“What do you want, Seungcheol?” You hiss, his name slipping off your tongue like venom. He chuckles, his smirk widening. 

“What I’ve always wanted. Control. You humiliated me, Y/N—running off like that, abandoning your family, your responsibilities, me. Do you have any idea what kind of scandal you caused?”

“I don’t care,” you snap, though your voice betrays the fear bubbling just beneath the surface. “You don’t own me, Seungcheol. You never did.”

His smile hardens, his tone growing cold. “Maybe not. But I do know things about you—things the world would love to hear. And I imagine your new… friend wouldn’t fare too well if they knew he was involved with someone like you.”

The threat hits its mark, your breath hitching as dread seeps into your bones. 

“Leave him out of this,” you say, your voice firm despite the tremor in your hands.

Seungcheol shrugs, his eyes glinting with malice. “That’s up to you, darling. You come with me, quietly, and I’ll forget about this sordid little chapter of your life. Stay here, and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are—and what you’ve done.”

Meanwhile, Joshua faces his own challenges. His growing absences and distracted demeanor have not gone unnoticed by his superiors at the parish. Father Miguel, once quietly concerned, now takes a firmer approach.

“You’ve been neglecting your duties, Joshua,” he says one evening, his tone sharper than usual. “The parish is a sacred commitment, one that requires your full devotion. I’ve given you time to reflect, but it’s clear your heart is no longer here.”

Joshua stiffens, guilt flickering across his face. “That’s not true, Father. I’ve been serving the people, just… in a different way.”

Father Miguel narrows his eyes, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Serving them? Or serving yourself? I’ve heard the rumors, Joshua. About her. Is it true?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his connection to you pressing heavily on his chest. 

“It’s complicated,” he finally says.

“Faith is not complicated,” Father Miguel retorts sharply. “It is a path of sacrifice and conviction. If you continue down this road, you will not only jeopardize your future in the church but also your soul.”

The tension between your two worlds becomes unbearable as Seungcheol’s threats grow bolder and Joshua’s superiors demand he sever ties with Crimson Lane entirely.

One evening, you and Joshua meet in the chapel, the only place you both feel safe enough to speak freely. The dim light of the candles flickers across Joshua’s face as he sits beside you, his expression a mixture of anguish and determination.

“He’s threatening you, isn’t he?” Joshua asks, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

You nod, your hands trembling as you grip the edge of the pew. “He wants me to go back with him, to leave this place—and you—behind. If I don’t, he’ll ruin both of us.”

Joshua’s jaw clenches, his fists curling in his lap. “You don’t have to go with him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“But what about you?” you ask, your voice breaking. “Your superiors are already suspicious. If Seungcheol exposes the truth, they’ll force you to leave the parish. Everything you’ve worked for will be gone.”

Joshua turns to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that takes your breath away. “I don’t care about that,” he says firmly. “I care about you. I care about what’s right. If staying in the church means abandoning you, then maybe I’m not meant to stay.”

His words stun you into silence, your heart pounding as the gravity of his declaration sinks in. “Joshua,” you whisper, tears pooling in your eyes. “You can’t just give up everything for me. It’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s the truth,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You’ve made me see things differently, Y/N. Maybe this is the test I’m supposed to face—not of my faith, but of my humanity.”

The decision weighs heavily on both of you. Seungcheol’s presence looms like a storm cloud, and Joshua’s faith is tested as he grapples with the idea of leaving behind a life he once thought was his calling.

In the quiet moments you share, there’s a sense of both urgency and tenderness, as though every touch, every word, could be your last.

Together, you must decide: will you stand against the forces threatening to tear you apart, or will you sacrifice your love to protect each other from a world that refuses to understand?

The days that follow Seungcheol’s threat and Father Miguel’s ultimatum feel like an unending storm, pulling you and Joshua in opposite directions. The quiet haven you had built together becomes fraught with tension, every meeting tinged with the unspoken knowledge that your time is running out.

You find yourself haunted by Seungcheol’s words. Every glance from a stranger feels like suspicion, every shadow a threat. At La Rosa, the staff are growing more curious, their whispers louder.

Even Madame Maria, who has always been fiercely protective of her own, seems hesitant now, her sharp gaze following you with a caution that wasn’t there before.

“Whatever you’re planning, darling,” she says one night after a show, her tone uncharacteristically soft, “be sure it’s worth the cost. Men like your Joshua—they don’t survive in places like this. And if you’re not careful, neither will you.”

Her words cut deep, but it’s the truth you already know.

Joshua, too, is unraveling. His prayers feel hollow, his faith no longer the comforting constant it once was. The parish feels foreign, its walls oppressive. Father Miguel’s disappointment lingers like a shadow, his words echoing in Joshua’s mind.

“This is your moment of truth, Joshua,” he had said during their last conversation. “You must choose. Your faith or this… distraction. You cannot serve both God and your desires.”

But how could he explain that you weren’t a distraction? That what he felt for you was not temptation but something more profound—something that made him question the very foundations of his beliefs?

Still, doubt claws at him. He wonders if loving you is selfish, if he is abandoning his calling for something fleeting. Yet every time he sees you, every time your eyes meet his, he feels that his path might lie not in the church but in the simple, devastating truth of his feelings for you.

One evening, as the tension reaches its breaking point, you meet in the chapel again, both of you weighed down by the decisions looming ahead. The air between you crackles with unspoken words, the silence heavy and suffocating.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice trembling, “we can’t keep doing this.”

He turns to you sharply, his expression a mix of desperation and sorrow. “Don’t say that. Don’t give up on us.”

“It’s not about giving up,” you reply, your voice cracking. “It’s about doing what’s right. Seungcheol’s not going to stop. Your superiors are already suspicious. If we keep this up, it’ll destroy us both.”

“Let it,” he says fiercely, his hands curling into fists. “I don’t care about the church, about their rules. None of it matters if I can’t be with you.”

“But I care,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “I care about what this will do to you, Joshua. You have so much good in you—so much to give. You’re meant for something greater than this. Greater than me.”

“Stop it,” he pleads, his voice breaking. “Stop saying that. You’re the one who’s shown me what faith truly means. You’ve made me see the world differently, made me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. How can you say you’re not worth it?”

“Because I love you,” you cry, your voice raw and aching. “And because I love you, I can’t let you throw your life away for me.”

The words hang between you, a devastating truth neither of you can escape.

Joshua’s shoulders slump, his resolve crumbling as he looks at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors your own. “So this is it?” he whispers. “After everything, we’re just… walking away?”

You nod, though it feels like your heart is being ripped from your chest. “We have to. For both our sakes.”

He takes a shuddering breath, stepping closer to you. For a moment, you think he might argue again, but instead, he reaches for your hand, holding it tightly as though trying to memorize the feel of your touch.

“I’ll never forget you,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter where I go, no matter what I do… you’ll always be with me.”

You choke back a sob, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “And I’ll always carry you in my heart, Joshua. But we can’t keep holding on to something that was never ours to begin with.”

The days that follow are excruciating. Joshua resigns from his post at the parish, choosing to leave Crimson Lane entirely. He doesn’t return to the church but instead travels to another city, seeking to rebuild his faith and his purpose in the quiet solitude of helping others.

You remain at La Rosa, but everything feels different now. The lights seem dimmer, the music hollow. The mask you wear grows heavier with each passing day.

Seungcheol eventually loses interest, his threats subsiding as he realizes you’ll never return to him. But his presence leaves a scar, a reminder of the life you escaped and the one you can never fully leave behind.

Years later, you hear the whispers of Joshua. He has become a quiet figure of inspiration, dedicating his life to working with the marginalized. His name is spoken with reverence in places far from Crimson Lane, but the man who loved you remains a ghost in your memory.

For him, you remain a lingering ache, a lesson in love and loss that shaped the man he has become. And though you’ll never see him again, you carry him with you—a reminder of the man who taught you to believe in something greater, even if that belief meant letting him go.

In the end, your paths diverge, but the love you shared leaves an indelible mark—a bittersweet testament to what could have been and what was sacrificed for the sake of survival.

Epilogue:

The grand ballroom is bathed in golden light, chandeliers casting their glow over a sea of elegantly dressed guests. The hum of polite conversation mingles with the soft strains of a string quartet, creating an atmosphere of sophistication and calm.

The gala, held to raise funds for a foundation supporting marginalized communities, is a testament to second chances—a theme that seems almost poetic as you step into the room.

You’ve come far since your days at La Rosa. The years have transformed you, though the fire in your spirit remains. Now a philanthropist in your own right, you’ve built a life dedicated to helping others reclaim their dignity, much like you once reclaimed your own.

Dressed in an understated yet elegant gown, you move through the crowd with quiet confidence, exchanging pleasantries and offering kind words.

But then, as you glance across the room, you see him.

Joshua.

He stands near the edge of the ballroom, deep in conversation with an elderly patron. Time has softened his youthful features, but his presence is as commanding as ever. His tailored suit fits him impeccably, and his familiar calmness radiates outward, drawing others in with his sincerity.

Your breath catches, memories rushing back in vivid detail—the warmth of his voice, the way his hand felt in yours, the bittersweet goodbye that had shattered you both. You had imagined this moment countless times but never truly believed it would come.

Joshua turns as though sensing your gaze, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you. For a moment, the noise and motion of the gala seem to fade, leaving only the two of you in a shared silence.

His eyes widen briefly, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips before his expression softens into something more unreadable—nostalgia, perhaps, or quiet wonder.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or retreat. But then, he takes a step forward, and the decision is made for you.

“Y/N,” he says when he reaches you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Joshua,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

The world seems to slow as you take each other in, noting the changes time has wrought and marveling at the things that remain unchanged.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his tone warm but tinged with surprise.

You smile softly, glancing around the room. “I could say the same about you. But then again, it doesn’t surprise me. This… this is exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound stirring something deep within you. “And you? What brought you here?”

You shrug, your smile turning wistful. “Purpose. A second chance. I’ve learned a lot about how much people can overcome when someone believes in them.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze filled with something like admiration. “You’ve always had that strength. Even when you didn’t see it in yourself.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, the tenderness in his voice tugging at old wounds and forgotten hopes. “And you?” you ask quietly. “Are you happy?”

He nods, his smile reaching his eyes. “I am. Life isn’t what I thought it would be, but… it’s good. I’ve found peace in helping others. It’s fulfilling in ways I never imagined.”

You nod, feeling a bittersweet mix of pride and sadness. “I’m glad. You deserve that, Joshua.”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken words. There is so much you could say, so much you could ask, but you both know the answers won’t change the past—or the choices you made.

“I’ve thought about you,” he admits suddenly, his voice quiet. “Over the years. Wondered how you were, what you were doing. If you were happy.”

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile.

“I’ve thought about you too. More than I should, probably.”

His expression softens, and he takes a half-step closer, his voice dropping. “Do you regret it? Walking away?”

You take a deep breath, your eyes meeting his with a mix of honesty and pain. “I don’t regret loving you, Joshua. Not for a second. But I think we both know it couldn’t have ended any other way.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “You were right,” he says. “About everything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourselves pulled back into the current of the gala. But even as you move among the other guests, you’re acutely aware of his presence, as though some invisible thread still connects you.

At the end of the night, you see him again, standing near the exit. He catches your eye, and this time, his smile is lighter, more peaceful. You return it, a silent acknowledgment of what you once shared—and what you’ve both become.

As you leave the gala, you carry the moment with you, a reminder that some connections endure even when paths diverge. Though you’ll never be together, the love you shared has shaped you both, leaving behind a legacy of strength, purpose, and bittersweet beauty.

© rubyuji 2025’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[inkandtension]

Blade and Blossom

samurai! Minho x runaway! Reader

The brothel was a mix of silk and sin, its perfumed air heavy with promises whispered into ears that were too willing to listen. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the flicker of dim lanterns and the soft, swaying women who moved like spirits of the night.

Lady Itoh's brothel.

Minho walked in, his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his katana, its sheath worn from years of use but polished with care. The room hushed for a heartbeat, every pair of eyes drawn to the lone samurai.

The women started to flock him like petals on the wind, their decorated faces adorned with coy smiles. One, stepped forward, her kimono slipping just enough to reveal a teasing glimpse of her collarbone.

“Welcome, traveler,” she purred, her voice as smooth as aged sake. “You look weary. Let us take care of you tonight.”

Minho’s dark eyes met hers. “I’m not here for entertainment,” he said.

Another woman, draped in crimson silk, circled around him, her hand brushing against his arm. “Oh, but surely a strong warrior like you deserves to relax. Let me pour you a drink.”

He stepped aside smoothly, evading her touch like a blade slicing through water. “No need.”

Not giving up, the women pressed closer,

“Perhaps a dance?” “Or a song to ease your mind?” “Your shoulders look tense. I could massage them for you.”

Minho’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience wearing thin. He moved toward a low table in the corner, his steps deliberate and measured. Sitting down, he set his katana beside him and folded his arms across his chest.

“I’m waiting for your lady, lady Itoh,” he said firmly, his voice cutting through the room. “Until then, leave me be.”

The women exchanged glances, their smiles faltering for a moment before returning with renewed determination.

“Surely, you’ll change your mind,” one murmured, kneeling beside him. Her fingers ghosted over his forearm, but the icy glare he gave her stopped her cold.

“I said no.”

His tone held the weight of finality, and the room seemed to breathe a collective sigh of defeat. The women withdrew, though their eyes lingered, curious and intrigued by the man who had resisted their charms.

He was here for information. He will be there for that and that only.

*

The brothel buzzed with life that evening, the soft hum of music lacing the air. You stood in the shadowy hallway, your fingers clutching the thin strap of your bag. Your heart raced as the mistress's piercing gaze swept over you, a sly smile tugging at her painted lips.

“So, you’re the chief’s runaway little bird,” the mistress said, circling you with the languid grace of a predator. “Bold move coming here. But tell me, why should I take you in? This isn’t a sanctuary for wayward daughters.”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet the mistress's gaze. “I have no place else to go,” you said, your voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. “I’ll do whatever it takes to stay.”

The mistress chuckled, low and sharp, like the glint of a blade in moonlight. “Whatever it takes, hmm?” She tapped a nail against her chin, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. With a swift gesture, she pointed toward the main room, where muffled laughter and clinking glasses spilled into the hallway.

“There’s a man in there,” the mistress said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A samurai. Untouchable, uninterested. He’s a challenge no one here has conquered. If you can break his shell, earn his favor, you’ll have proven your worth. If not…” Her crimson lips curled into a smirk. “The streets are always waiting.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the weight of her challenge pressed down on you like a stone. But you refused to waver, nodding with determination.

The mistress clapped her hands sharply, summoning two attendants. “Good. Dress her in the best silks. She needs to make an impression.”

You were led away, your bag slipping from your fingers as the attendants began their work. The cheap fabric draped over your skin felt foreign, unlike those luxurious ones you would wear, almost suffocating, but you wore it like armor. Standing before the gilded doors to the room, you inhaled deeply, steeling yourself for the task ahead.

This was your chance. Your only chance.

You put some sleeping powder in the drink before entering. The soft rustle of your robes catches Minho’s attention as you step into the room. He sits cross-legged at a low table, his katana resting within arm’s reach. His sharp features are half-lit by the warm glow of a lantern, his expression unreadable.

You hesitate but gather yourself, approaching him with a graceful sway. “You look like a man with a lot on his mind,” you say softly, lowering yourself to kneel opposite him.

Minho glances at you briefly, his gaze flickering with disinterest. “I didn’t request company.”

You smile gently, pouring a cup of sake. “Sometimes company helps,” you offer, placing the drink in front of him.

“I prefer solitude,” Minho replies curtly, his tone laced with finality.

Your smile falters, but you persist. “I don’t mind being quiet,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll just sit here. You won’t even know I’m here.”

Minho exhales, shaking his head. “I don’t need any female attention.”

Your heart sinks, but you steady yourself, your hands trembling slightly as you reach for the sake bottle again. You pour him another drink, your movements slow and deliberate. “Just a sip,” you urge softly.

Minho’s gaze sharpens as he takes the cup, lifting it to his lips. He hesitates, the faintest glimmer of recognition flickering in his mind. Your face… it looks familiar.

The missing posters outside the brothel flash in his memory. The runaway daughter of the respected chief, a drawing. A “beauty unlike any other,” they had said.

If you’re her, then you probably drugged him. He takes a sip but only lets the liquid touch his lips, setting the cup down.

Your voice cuts through his thoughts. “Please, drink more,” you urge, leaning forward. “I can help you relax.”

Your insistence tips him off. Minho’s hand tightens on the hilt of his knife, his senses on high alert. When you offer to bring the cup to his lips yourself, your hands shaking as you reach for his, he acts.

In one swift motion, he pushes the table aside, the sound of it hitting the wall filling the room. He grabs your wrist, yanking you closer. His knife glints in the low light as he presses it against your neck.

“Who are you?” he asks coldly, his voice low and dangerous. “What is a maiden like you doing in a place like this?”

You freeze, your heart racing as the blade presses against your skin. “I… I’m just a woman working at the brothel,” you stammer, your voice trembling.

Minho’s grip tightens, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t lie to me. You’re the chief’s daughter, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” you gasp, your voice rising as the blade presses closer. Your breathing quickens, and the sound carries through the thin walls.

The women outside hear the commotion, their laughter and chatter fading into silence. One by one, they begin to gather near the room, murmuring.

The muffled gasps and faint rustle of movement from inside the room sent waves of excitement through the women gathered outside.

“He must’ve finally caved,” one of them whispered, a sly grin spreading across her lips.

“No way,” another said, folding her arms. “The samurai? Giving in to someone? I don’t believe it.”

“You heard her,” a third chimed in. “That’s not the sound of someone getting turned away. I bet he’s good at it.”

They huddled closer to the door, giggling and murmuring amongst themselves, eager to catch a glimpse of what they thought was a momentous event: the untouchable samurai finally giving in to a woman.

“I bet she’s got him wrapped around her finger already,” one of the women said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Good for her,” another added. “We’ve been trying for hours!”

“If she really managed to get him to open up, maybe we should ask her for tips,” someone else joked, eliciting a round of laughter.

Minho’s piercing gaze doesn’t waver, his grip tight on you.

“If you scream,” he warns, his voice a dangerous whisper, “I’ll make sure you never leave this place alive.”

You gasp again, the sound loud enough to draw a few knocks at the door. Minho’s eyes flick toward the noise, his expression hardening.

“Answer carefully,” he says, his tone deadly. “What are you really doing here?”

The sound of stifled giggles from outside the room interrupts him. His jaw tightens. He glances toward the door briefly before returning his attention to you. “They think I’ve fallen for your act,” he mutters, his tone dripping with disdain.

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your pulse thunders in your ears as Minho leans in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“You’ve caused quite a scene,” he says, his tone almost mocking. “Tell me, should I let them believe their little fantasy? Or should I drag you out there and let them see the truth?”

Your breath hitches, your panic growing. “I… I didn’t mean for this to happen,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I swear.”

“And yet, here we are,” Minho says coldly, his grip on your wrist unyielding. You let your voice soften, desperation lacing your words. “Please… I’ll do whatever you want. Just… let go of the knife.”

Minho’s eyes flicker, but his expression remains hard. Slowly, he eases the blade away from your neck, though his grip on your wrist doesn’t loosen.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he warns.

Minho’s lips curl into a humorless smirk. “That’s your story, is it? A chief’s daughter, running away from her gilded cage, hiding here among courtesans?”

Your pulse pounds in your ears. His words are too close to the truth, and your silence only deepens the tension between you.

“Still not talking?” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. He leans in closer, his dark eyes searching yours. “What are you afraid of? That your father will find out you’ve been hiding in a place like this? Or that I’ll drag you back myself?”

Your breath hitches, your voice shaking. “I’m not afraid of you.”

A low chuckle escapes him, “Brave words, for someone trembling in my arms.”

You flinch, and your hands press harder against his chest, but it only makes him more aware of you. His gaze flickers, lingering on your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to your eyes.

“What’s your game?” he asks, his tone quieter now, but no less menacing. “Why did you drug me?”

“I wasn’t trying to drug you!” you interject quickly, your voice earnest.

His eyes narrow. “Lying again? That drink reeked of sleeping powder.”

You bite your lip, realizing he’s seen right through you. “I didn’t have a choice,” you admit quietly.

Minho releases your wrist abruptly, standing up. His towering presence looms over you as he sheaths his blade.

“If you think you’re clever enough to manipulate me, think again,” he says, his voice sharp.

Then, with deliberate slowness, he lowers the blade, though his grip on your waist remains.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” he demands. “And don’t even think about lying again.”

You hesitate, your lips parting as if to speak, but no words come out.

“You have until the count of three,” Minho warns, his voice a deadly whisper.

“One.”

“Two.”

Your breaths come shallow and quick, your mind racing for an answer that might save you.

“Thr—”

“I ran away,” you blurt out, cutting him off. Your voice is trembling, but your gaze holds his, defiant despite your fear. “I ran away from my father. From a life I didn’t want, from a stupid marriage with an old man who wants my teeth blackened later. That’s the truth.”

Minho’s eyes narrow, his grip on your waist loosening slightly. He studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your surprise, he releases you entirely, taking a step back.

“You’re reckless,” he says coldly, sheathing his knife. “Hiding in a place like this. Do you have any idea how much danger you’ve put yourself in?”

Your legs feel unsteady, but you straighten, your voice firmer now. “I can take care of myself.”

Minho scoffs, his gaze flickering with a mix of irritation and something softer, something almost like admiration. “You’ve got a lot to learn.”

He turns toward the door, pausing just before stepping out. “And stay out of my way. Next time, I won’t be so forgiving.”

He pauses again, hearing the women outside giggling. With a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, he glances back at you.

“Let them believe whatever they want,” he says. “You’ll regret it more than I will.”

[confessedlyfannish]

Six Years Ago

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Fortunately for them, the kid isn't good at subtlety. When he appears it is usually with a delayed boom announcing his arrival, like a crack of thunder to his lightning. And a hood pulled low over someone's face doesn't mean much when there's only one preteen in the world who can blow a fire out with his bare breath while floating in midair.

Unfortunately for them the kid is fast, see aforementioned "sonic boom". That is not to say Danny could not follow him anyway, but after the eighth time he heads to one of the kid's rescues and he flees before Danny can get a word out, Ellie is sitting at his kitchen counter heating up his leftovers.

"You need to cool it," she says, using her fang to pop open a sapporo. "He doesn't want to be found right now."

"Yeah, I got that." Danny says, swiping the beer out of the hands of what is technically a fourteen year old. She shoots him a scowl as the microwave dings.

"He's a child, and he's sick, Ellie." Even if Frostbite hadn't said as much, it hasn't escaped Danny's notice that in the past two months his speed has ever so slightly slowed. A particularly brave emergency worker had scolded Phantom for scaring him off this time around, concerned about his thin wrists.

"Gee, a sick child runaway, I wonder who that reminds me of," she says, tapping at her chin. She douses the chicken lo mein in sriracha.

"That's different. You knew to come find me, when it got bad. This kid is afraid of me." And he was. Whenever he and Danny met eyes the kid would go pale(r) with fear before zipping away.

"So make him less afraid."

Danny gapes at her. "Gee," he says slowly, a mimicry of her earlier sarcasm. "Why didn't I think of that."

"You're literally stalking the kid right now, you think I don't know about Tucker's alert system? Right now you must seem like the boss monster that shows up at the end of the level," Ellie says. "You need to approach this differently. Go slow, the way you did with me." She pauses, mouth twisting in a way that signals she's about to be reluctantly vulnerable with him.

"I didn't know what it was like to be...cared about. Properly. Before you guys. Even with the memories," she taps her head with the chopsticks, "It didn't click. But you showed me you would be there for me, even as you respected that I needed my space. You taught me how to trust you."

Danny takes a lengthy pull from the bottle he's still holding. "I can't be patient with him, Ellie," he says. He fiddles with the edge of the peeling label. "He's going to get worse."

"Yeah." Ellie says. "And I think you should let him."

---

The first time the backpack appears, Jon takes one look at the post-it with the scribbled stylized D and ":)" on it and tosses the whole thing in the trash before taking off.

He does the same the next four times, even as the backpack gets bulkier, its contents crashing together as it hits the nearest available dumpster.

He's in New York City after he saves a window washer from falling twenty stories when he sees his face plastered on a Times Square billboard. A hotdog stand owner in New York City offers him one on the house which he reluctantly accepts, trying to ignore the man's searching gaze.

He's not an idiot. He knows he's starting to look like crap, if the way the people react when they see him means anything. It's not like he smells, he regularly bathes in clean streams and lakes, but even when he eats coconuts and mangos and wild raspberries until his stomach is bursting and he has spent the last five minutes petting a giraffe on the head, feeling so giddy he almost forgets how his family is gone—he feels...strange. Weaker. The cuts on his side and face from the evil robot with the green eyes have slowly scarred pink, and they still pull and sting if he stretches. Jon's never had a scar before, and now he has six. And he's losing weight.

A lot of the people he meets have been super nice about it, offering him food and, in a particularly cold area of Alaska, a zip up hoodie he now wears over his recognizable family crest. Not that doing so has stopped the white-haired guy from finding him. But it has allowed Jon to move around more freely when he isn't out rescuing people. He even made some cash in Wisconsin cleaning up a grocery store before the night shift manager had recognized his face.

This and the billboard means he stops to buy a pair of cheap glasses and a large t-shirt with the NYC skyline and shorts on it from a tourist shop. After, he takes a bus to New Jersey with the last of his money and changes in the bathroom. He bites back a sniffle when he peels his superhero costume from his body. He's suddenly overcome, poking a finger through the slashes in the side, and spends the rest of the trip with his head buried in his knees, trying to keep his hiccups quiet.

When he exits, he heads to the library he's already visited three times before. It's bad, to develop a routine like this when he is actively being hunted, but he can't help himself any more than he can help the way he sometimes sleeps in that barn in Kansas, the few times he feels like he can actually rest, surrounded by the familiar smell of animal and hay.

As he searches a few more terms that predictably turn up nothing on the public computer, he notes bitterly it's not like the man can't find him anyway. Just because he's backed off doesn't mean he isn't around, silently threatening Jon with randomly appearing backpacks. Each backpack is different too, as if Jon might be taking issue with the color purple rather than the scary guy providing them.

Jon pushes away from desk, waiting for the inevitable wave of despair that hits him after each Google session proves fruitless. He's even, in one moment of lunacy, searched Talia Al Ghul, thinking if anyone can find him after his search pings her servers it's her—

But she never did come.

No one has.

Except for him.

The wave today is muted, lapping at his ankles rather than bowling him over, and somehow the resignation that accompanies it hurts more. He wants to do something, anything, and so he scoots back to the cubicle and types in white haired flying man, d symbol.

This is the first time he learns about Phantom.

---

The boy has started taking the backpacks.

Each one is filled with fresh meals in glass tupperware, meant to last for a while even without refrigeration (though with the boy's ice breath, maybe it's not a problem), as well as ziploc baggies filled with pretzels and carrots and goldfish and celery sticks.

("no peanut butter, he might have a nut allergy!"

"Wouldn't that have come up in Frostbite's scan?"

"You think Frostbite would've thought amidst scanning a little boy's half-alien body to check for a peanut allergy?"

"...Fair enough")

Alongside the meals are cash in the form of U.S. dollars, pounds, euros, yen, yuan, and an extreme hail mary in the form of an ATM card that Ellie rolls her eyes at every time Danny packs it.

There is also a miniature first aid kit, sans medicine but including ice and heat packs you can shake to activate. Danny wedges folded clothing in the spare edges of the bag, a blanket, and forces the zipper closed over a pair of high top sneakers similar to the ragged ones the boy wears. He tops every one with the same post-it drawing of his symbol, and a smiley face.

The boy is still weakening, beginning to look like a strong wind could blow him over even as he zips through mudslides in Colombia and scoops a father and son out of a rip current in Italy, but as he accepts the backpacks Danny listens to Ellie and waits.

And then one day Danny is watching him push a bus away from the edge of a sinkhole in Mexico, school kids pressed against the rear windshield watching him, and Danny hears the creaking of his bone right before the kid's arm snaps.

"Okay, fuck this," Danny says into the Fenton comms as the child wails, swooping down to grab the boy with one arm and the bus with the other.

The boy is too stunned to react, sobbing with pain as he cradles his arm protectively, and Danny shamelessly takes advantage of that as he gently but hurriedly places the bus beside the crowd of spectators.

A very small woman who immediately beelined for him as he landed smacks him in the shoulder, hissing at him in Spanish while several people try to hold her back. She smacks him again.

"I'm trying to help him. I promise. Ayuda." Danny says, shifting the boy into a more comfortable bridal carry.

"Ayuda? Help? You, you bad! El pobre niño." The woman sneers. "Bad! ¡Mal Fantasma! ¡Eres un padre horrible!"

Danny knows what padre means, and even if he didn't, he's heard the rumors and conspiracies (and maybe even leveraged them in a conversation with the U.S. government, who can say) and he doesn't bother denying it, because the truth is he has let this child down from the moment he allowed him to be hunted on Skulker's island, and he deserves every nasty word and more.

"Yeah. I know," he tells the woman. In his ear, Sam demands to know what's happening. The boy is incoherent with pain, the outline of the bone pressing against his skin.

"It's going to be okay," Danny tells him, lifting off the ground. Regret is sour in his gut, bile on his tongue. What was he thinking? In the curl of his arms, the child is so small. This isn't a stray cat one coaxes into their home. This is a terrified little boy.

Danny isn't a fourteen-year-old too young and stupid to recognize he shouldn't let a two-month-old clone explore the world with his blessing. He's twenty-eight. He needs to get a grip.

He needs to be better.

The world stops. Everything goes quiet.

A blue portal unwinds via the hands of time.

"I see you're ready now." Clockwork says to him.

Danny wants to deny it, but the words are stuck in his throat. What use is denying what Clockwork already knows to be true?

"This is the right choice, Danny. Everything will be as it should be. Help him," Clockwork nods at the child. "Then find me."

Danny's tongue unsticks from his mouth. "Only if you tell me. If I do this, will he be safe? Will I have the power to protect him?" An echo of what waits to be unlocked drapes over his words, cracks appearing in the ground at his feet. "Tell me."

"Yes. You will keep him safe. Until he no longer needs you to do so. Here."

With a wave of his staff, a neon green portal rends through the air.

Clockwork drifts back to his own portal. "I will see you in Time, Danny."

Danny nods at him as he leaves, feeling a contract snap into place as time restarts at a crawl.

"Shh kiddo," he says as the boy, gradually unfreezing, trickles tears. "I've got you. You'll be okay. I'm going to fix this. I promise."

He steps through the portal, towards whatever comes next.

Part 5

[pinkcelestialstar]

I write only Bada Lee x Reader (or maybe OC) fics; 'Cause I'm a jealous bitch T-T(how can that woman be so perfect and not mine?!) Anyways...

｡･:*˚:✧｡𝓡𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓷 ｡･:*˚:✧｡

I always look at her and go, "damn, I'm so gay"

Requests would be taken one at a time, so your requested story might take a while to be released but it sure will be ♡

☆゜・。。・゜゜・。。・゜★

☆ 𝙋𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙘𝙚𝙡𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙡 𝙨𝙩��𝙧'𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ☆

𝑭𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇:

Upgrade to girlfriend

My wife, The singing burrito

The Blossoming mess

𝑆𝑚𝑢𝑡:

Jealousy

From Boardroom to bedroom

Runaway bride

Let it go.....under the covers

Fear, Trust and Thunder

The cheeky survivor

Warm-up routine

From seduction to submission

Dinner first, then you

𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡:

Love signed in ink

・✦▭▭▭✧◦✦◦✧▭▭▭✦ ・

[telephonedear]

additional things i think the Archons would be gods of (feel free to add your own):

BARBATOS, god of:

wind

poetry

song

freedom

hope

children

sleep/rest

death (also grief and mourning)

MORAX, god of:

rock/earth

contracts

marriage

trade

wealth

strategy

BEELZEBUB, god of:

lightning

thunder

eternity

storms

virgins

runaways

BUER, god of:

plants/flora

wisdom

dreams

memories

wonder

youth

purity

FOCALORS, god of:

water (seas, rivers, etc)

justice

fairness

decisions

truth

MAVUIKA, god of:

fire

lava

war

warriors

dance

festivities

TSARITSA, god of:

ice

love (sexual, romantic, familial, etc.)

relationships

marriage

childbirth/fertility

madness (?)

i made both morax and tsaritsa the god of marriage because i feel like they’d be different types- morax would be more arranged (contracted) while tsaritsa’s would be out of love.

i also think that both buer and focalors could be gods of purity, so lmk who you think it should be

again, feel free to add some more!