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pa1nrema1ns · 9 months ago

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Master and Apprentice || Sung Jin-woo (Part 1 of 3)

Siren!Jin-woo x Deaf!Omega!reader

A/N - Hello everyone! This fic was inspired by the lovely @forbidden-sunlight's siren!au. We both collaborated on this piece and it serves as a direct sequel to her imagine, so do be sure to check it out first! This story picks up right where her imagine left off.

╰┈➤ Chapter Index

🪸 Prequel by @forbidden-sunlight 🌊 Part 2: Two Intertwining Melodies 🦈Part 3: In a Sea of Fire

Content warnings: 18+ MDNI, mythical creatures au, canon divergent, a/b/o dynamics, afab!reader, suggestive themes, obsessive thoughts, slightly ooc Jin-woo (he's very reverent towards Ashborn), mentions of violence, death, and despair, forbidden romance (humans and sirens are natural enemies), eventual yandere!Jin-woo.

Word Count - 3.6k

Summary - Sung Jin-woo seeks answers about his potential mate from Ashborn in the deepest depths of the abyss.

Dividers by @anitalenia and @firefly-graphics

After what feels like an eternity, Jin-woo comes to an abrupt stop. He wasn’t tired in the slightest, but he couldn’t finish this journey unless he was in the right frame of mind. If he was going to face the sea monarch, Ashborn, then he needed to compose himself. He was his mentor’s prized disciple, after all.

Resolute in his decision, Jin-woo pinches his brow, shuts his eyes, and releases a deep, suffering sigh. He had to stop ruminating over the useless ‘what ifs’ of his current situation and focus on the matter at hand. You emitting pheromones in his presence was proof enough that you were a compatible mate, but this would be meaningless if you were unreceptive to him. It also begs the question, was humanity even capable of consorting with sirens? In search of an answer, he reminisces about the tales of old passed down by generations of his kin, as well as the many speculations made by humans.

No one knew the exact origins of his species. Most humans assumed the progenitors were Persephone’s handmaidens, punished by Demeter after Hades had taken her daughter to the underworld and forced her into becoming his queen. Some stories also claimed that seafoam birthed them, but Jin-woo scoffed at this particularly ridiculous rumor. A scholar had recently published an article on how sirens may actually be the offspring of the river deity Achelous and a divine songstress, citing notations from various mythos on this theory. In truth, reality was far simpler than any of these far-fetched narratives.

There was just no definitive explanation for the existence of sirens. They were not interchangeable with the peaceful denizens of the ocean, known as mermaids and mermen. While all fell under the umbrella of the term ‘merfolk,’ the sirens had a far more hostile and bloodstained relationship with humans.

Since time immemorial, his brethren were viewed as nothing but a scourge upon this world of humanity. Beautiful as a raging typhoon and every bit as devastating, the sirens served as harbingers of doom and destruction for those foolish enough to risk the perilous waters. Their heavenly voices were tantamount to the funeral dirges used to usher the dead into the afterlife. It would be understandable to believe that the sirens were the monsters in this baleful story. However, human nature at its core is fraught with wickedness, and men soon grew wise to the machinations of merfolk.

Odysseus was the first to survive an encounter with sirens. During his voyage to Ithaca, the cunning man had instructed his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, effectively blocking the intoxicating songs that had ended the lives of so many before them. Emboldened by the success of Odysseus’s scheme, other sailors began using this method to conquer the sea and establish trade routes. Within a matter of a couple hundred years, humans not only overcame their fear of sirens, but they also poached them. Huntsmen would capture, torture, and kill Jin-woo’s ancestors simply for crossing paths with them. Worse yet, these scoundrels would often murder merfolk solely to harvest their organs, bones, and scales. They would then use the defiled corpses as ingredients for commodities, medication, and even aphrodisiacs. It was truly grotesque, if not outright barbaric, and more than justified the ire his kind felt towards humanity. While they hunted for the noble sake of survival, men did it for bloodsport and money.

The horrific fates suffered by many of their beloved brothers and sisters particularly infuriated the alphas, with their robust constitutions and natural sense of leadership. With a thirst for vengeance, they began targeting and attacking ships, ports, and even beaches. The alphas considered any place or vehicle that harbored humans as eligible targets. The less temperamental betas remained neutral and avoided the bloodshed, opting to prey upon shoals of fish and other maritime animals instead. Omegas could not join in the hunt, as they were far too precious to lose. They were the most cherished and talented singers amongst the sirens and required around-the-clock protection because of their significant rarity. These were the origins of the current hierarchical structure Jin-woo adhered to.

After recalling the tumultuous history of his people in its entirety, Jin-woo clenches his fists until his knuckles turn white. This was so damn frustrating! Rather than granting him an understanding of his attraction, it just proved all the more why it was so illogical.

Defeated, Jin-woo raises his head, opens his eyes, and continues to swim.

Another hour passes before he finds himself at the ingress of Ashborn’s lair. His enigmatic teacher lived in almost complete obscurity. Devoid of any light, and enveloped by a suffocating aura, this nautical cavern intimidated all who dared to approach it. Well, almost all that is apart from Jin-woo. He effortlessly permeates the invisible barrier designed to keep intruders at bay and ventures into his master’s spiritual domain.

Despite being an ancient and powerful king of the sea, Ashborn made the strange decision to emulate a land-like environment in his personal chambers.

As Jin-woo manifests into the realm, his appearance gives way to a form more befitting of a land dweller. His tail separates into two legs, his scales smoothen into skin, and he loses the winged fins on his ears and back. Once finished with this metamorphosis, Jin-woo takes a deep breath. Fresh pine, grass, and flowers perfume the air as he’s greeted by a lush valley. It had been a while since he had visited, and the setting had required him to transform into a human. Interestingly, transfiguration was one of the first skills Ashborn taught him. Speaking of his mentor –

“My disciple, it is good to see you again, though you appear…troubled. Tell me, what ails you so?” A rumbling voice rings across the horizon, signaling Ashborn’s approach; the tenebrous essence of the powerful deity contrasting with the greenery of the land. He appears in front of Jin-woo as a great dark knight. Much like his surroundings, Ashborn’s current visage was nothing but an illusion. Even the bravest of warriors said that his lifelike image invoked sheer terror in their hearts.

Many speculate he possesses a massive stature, at least several leagues in height and breadth alone, with piercing eyes and endless tendrils of dark hair. Others claim he is the son of Poseidon, one of the twelve Olympians, and a God of destruction who presided over the sea. However, Jin-woo never once witnessed this side of his teacher in all the years he’s been under his mentorship. Ashborn certainly exuded dignity, but he still displayed a humble attitude. And without fail, he would always appear in that strange, armored suit whenever he was in Jin-woo’s presence.

“My teacher, I must ask for your help on an urgent matter,” Jin-woo starts, anxiously running his tongue across his bottom lip. “This morning, while I was scavenging, I stumbled across the unmistakable aroma of an unmarked omega. It…it was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. As if I was being beckoned by someone or something. I wanted, no, I needed to heed its call.”

Ashborn listens in silence, his expression indiscernible. Jin-woo continued.

“When I arrived, I was in front of a monstrosity of a ship – a yacht right by the sandbanks. At first, I assumed that someone had taken an unfortunate siren captive. But when I finally saw her–”

“You recognized she was human. Not only that, but she belongs to the lowest level of the hierarchy, an omega. Speak if I am wrong, my dear pupil.” Jin-woo lowers his head in shame, fringe obscuring his eyes. This action all but confirms it.

“I don’t know what to do or how to proceed, teacher. Everything I’ve learned about these creatures has made me detest them. But I can’t bring myself to hate her. How could this even be possible? We are not even of the same species. She’s my enemy, my prey…. At least, she’s supposed to be.” His voice lowers into a near whisper as he ends his confused rambling.

“And yet you don’t view her that way, do you child?” Ashborn poses a question he already knows the answer to but needs to hear in his pupil’s own words.

“No, I don’t,” Jin-woo replies grimly. “I yearn to know more about her. And not just that. I want to meet her, court her, and make her mine. If she’ll even have me, that is… So please, teacher, tell me if there is any meaning behind what I feel. Am I destined for something that bears no place in reality?”

Ashborn remains uncharacteristically quiet while faced with such a loaded question. All is eerily silent for a few moments, save for the cheerful chirping of the illusionary songbirds. At last, the monarch gazes at Jin-woo and gives him the answer he so desperately desires.

“It is entirely possible Sung Jin-woo, alpha of Jindo island, for I am proof of such a fantastical circumstance. My first and only love was also a human omega. A woman I devoted my entire being to over a millennium ago.”

Jin-woo’s eyes widened in shock at this revelation. His mentor had fallen in love at some point, and it was with a member of the human race? This was unheard of.

“I never knew you had a lover,” Jin-woo murmurs softly. “What was she like? Do you still remember everything about her after so many years?”

“Let me show you, my disciple. It is a tragic tale that words alone cannot properly convey.” With a wave of Ashborn’s hand, their surroundings began to morph and alter. The valley transforms into a spacious, yet quaint medieval village composed of several wooden houses with a bustling marketplace at its center.

When Jin-woo regains his bearings, he notices his mentor has also metamorphosized. A man with a sun kissed complexion, long dark hair, and a beard stands where he once stood. Though visibly unrecognizable, he was unmistakably Ashborn. A crimson cape was clasped to the pristine silver armor he wore. A paladin. Jin-woo recalls. He had some knowledge of the past lives of men through his rare excursions onto the Mainland. While disguised as a human, Jin-woo once traded in his goods for a textbook on history. He was loath to admit just how intriguing he had found it.

Ashborn speaks, his voice no longer resonating within the confines of shadowy steel.

“It was here in this village that I came across her. She was the only daughter of a peasant farmer. A strong-willed, rapscallion of a woman with a wit sharper than any blade. I can remember her beauty, her warmth, and her tenacity as clear and concise as the day we met.” He says with a wistful gaze. The scene then shifts to a woman in a pure white gown. Her eyes remained hidden, but it did nothing to impede upon her loveliness. The woman runs animatedly towards a man who looks identical to Ashborn’s borrowed likeness and leaps into his arms. The man then effortlessly spins her around before bringing her into a kiss. Jin-woo watches on, mesmerized by what was unfolding in front of him.

“I feared her rejection once she knew the truth of my identity,” Ashborn admits. “On the night we first made love, I finally revealed to her my status as ruler of the sea. However, it did not matter. She loved me wholly and unconditionally, regardless of who or what I was. Such was the strength of her resolve.” In the next instance, they return to the same valley from earlier. What differs this time is that the man and woman are there, unacknowledging of Jin-woo and Ashborn’s presence. Lost in their own special world. The woman has a flower crown on her head, and she sits on the grass, holding the man’s head in her lap. Both appear happy and at ease.

“For the first time in my existence, I experienced true contentment. I long to return to those days, but alas, our bliss did not last.”

Ashborn solemnly shuts his eyes as darkness overtakes the sky and rain falls. The man is now shown standing at a grave with an expression of anguish marring his face. The woman is nowhere to be seen, although Jin-woo knows exactly where she’s at.

“A plague was scourging the land and indiscriminately ending the lives of thousands. I tried to protect her with my magic, but it was to no avail. She fell gravely ill despite my best efforts. I discovered shortly thereafter that omegas were more susceptible to sickness than their contemporaries. If I had known beforehand, I would’ve brought her to the sea with me, away from that damned disease. But I was a fool who was willing to love and live with her as a man, not as a king. And as punishment for my hubris, an ailment snuffed out her life.”

At the end of his recollection, Ashborn’s lair returns to its original state. His mentor had also regained his shadowy exterior. The valley appears completely untouched by time, as if it were still one thousand years in the past. That’s why his lair looks like this. Jin-woo thinks as he finally recognizes its significance, It was their personal sanctuary. After a few moments of silence, Ashborn speaks.

“Although our circumstances are similar, you still have the privilege of choice. I cannot turn back time, nor can I change the past, but I am grateful. I experienced unspeakable grief, yes, but I also would have never encountered such love, tenderness, and passion had I not taken a chance on my omega. You, my disciple, still have free rein over your decision. Should you choose to pursue this woman, you have my blessing and irrefutable proof that she is a viable mate for you. If not, you will still receive my unwavering support in your future endeavors. The choice is yours to make.”

Jin-woo’s throat bobs. He feels an incredible sense of guilt at unearthing his master’s secret.

“My teacher, I apologize for prying into your past. I – I did not mean to bring up painful memories for you. I cannot imagine what you have endured. As of right now, I am not sure what it is I want, but I know for a fact I cannot give up on this human. I will need some time to contemplate and sort out my feelings. If you will excuse me.”

Jin-woo bows his head before turning to take his leave. As he approaches the exit, a sudden thought emerges at the forefront of his mind.

“Teacher, there is one more question I must ask. This human, she does not speak with words. She communicates with her hands and gestures. Is this some type of sorcery or spell that she’s casting?”

“It is most likely sign language, a manner of non-verbal communication used by humans who are unable to vocalize or hear. Perhaps she cannot speak, or has a hearing impairment, so she must express herself through other means.” Ashborn answers, curiosity lacing his voice.

Jin-woo feels his heart sinking. A siren’s serenade played a pivotal role in the mating ritual and was performed just prior to consummating an eternal bond. If what Ashborn said is true, then there is a possibility you could be immune to his song. This meant he wouldn't be able to use it on you when the time came…

He grits his teeth as he remembers your smiling face. Try as he might, Jin-woo just could not get you out of his head, nor was he willing to let you escape his grasp. You may not have realized it yet, but you had unknowingly sunk your fangs into him and the seeds of obsession were already beginning to take root. Rather than being discouraged by Ashborn’s observation, he instead finds himself reinvigorated.

“Teacher, disregard everything I said earlier. I now know what it is I must do.”

Ashborn peers into the eyes of his disciple, relieved by the determination that lights them. This was much more like the obstinate young man he knew.

“I choose to seek this omega and stake my claim, no matter what challenges may await the two of us,” Jin-woo proclaims proudly. “I will make her mine, but only if she consents to my proposal. And if not through song, then through other courtship methods. I am strong, stronger than any other alpha in my territory, and I know I can protect her from all who would wish her harm. I won’t let my mate slip through my fingers.”

“But what of maladies and the passage of time? You can fight against gods and monsters until the end of your days, but sickness or her ephemeral lifespan will not spare this young woman. In the end, your time with her shall be fleeting.” Ashborn ruthlessly counters Jin-woo’s declaration of protection.

Jin-woo bites his lip, not expecting this development. However, before he can muster a response, his mentor graces him with an answer.

“I know of one way you can overcome this. There is a recipe for an elixir known as the Holy Water of Life. It is a miraculous potion that can imbue invulnerability to communicable diseases, extend lifespan, and transform the consumer into a siren. I unfortunately did not have knowledge of such a panacea while I was with my love. Of course, I live with the regret of not discovering it sooner, as now I have no such use for it, but this does not mean I will idly stand by and let history repeat itself with my protégé.”

With a flash of light, an ancient scroll appears in front of Jin-woo. It unravels by itself to reveal its contents to him. Jin-woo’s eyes widen as he reads. Is this…?

“Behold. The ingredients for crafting the Holy Water of Life. I bequeath this boon unto you, my disciple. However, heed my warning as the acquisition of these components requires you to conquer all 100 floors of the Demon’s Castle and to defeat its king, Baran. This is a treacherous dungeon that may claim your life if you are unprepared for it, but it can also impart you with unspeakable power should you prevail.”

Jin-woo perks up at this information, his interest now fully piqued. “Tell me, master, where can I find the Demon’s Castle?”

“It hides far away, in the city of Seoul, within an incorporeal dominion. It is a flame-ridden landscape that will require you to assume the form of a human to enter the castle. Knowing all the risks it entails; do you still accept my offer?”

“I do,” Jinwoo confidently states.

“Very well,” Ashborn nods his assent, and a key materializes into Jin-woo’s palm.

“Use this key to open the gate to the Demon’s Castle. I have also implanted it with the coordinates to the dungeon’s location. You need only close your eyes and grasp onto the key to visualize it.”

Following the instructions, Jin-woo sees a map that details the exact distance from his current whereabouts to the metropolitan area of Seoul. It will be a lengthy trip, even with his impressive swimming prowess. He estimates it will take roughly half a day to arrive at his destination. Undeterred, Jin-woo presses onward.

“Teacher, I cannot thank you enough for all your help and guidance over these last few years. I give you my word; I will return alive and well, both with the elixir and Baran’s head. And then I will meet with the omega and court her in earnest.”

He departs without another word, although his promise relays an unspoken farewell between them. After some time passes, Ashborn stares at the vast skies of his domain and muses to himself.

“You have grown so much from when I rescued you from the Cartenon Temple all those years ago, Sung Jin-woo. I could not be prouder of you, my disciple. Till our next encounter.”

12 hours later...

Jin-woo finally emerges from the dark, briny waters that frame Seoul’s coastline.

After leaving Ashborn’s lair, he briefly returned home to pack and prepare for the journey ahead. Both Jin-ah and his mother were worried about his sudden departure, so he did the best he could to assuage their fears by giving them a sanitized version of the truth.

Jin-woo claimed Ashborn had provided him with a list of rare ingredients that were only available for purchase in the human markets at Seoul. He even promised to bring back a box of chocolates as a souvenir, something his mother and little sister had enjoyed during one of his return trips to the surface. He then traveled the full 413-kilometer distance from Jindo-gun to Seoul, stopping only for a few hours to rest and recuperate.

As he approaches land, he assumes the form of a naked human man and walks inland from the sea. However, Jin-woo comes to a halt when he becomes more aware of his current state of nudity. While it didn’t bother him, it would cause a lot of unnecessary trouble if any nosy beachgoers happened upon him and asked questions. It is also…pretty embarrassing to admit that he is…wobbly on these legs. Very much so.

He quickly summons his magical inventory and grabs a simple black t-shirt, boxers, fitted jeans, and athletic sneakers (‘Adidas’, the portly sales attendant had called them). As worthless as he found human decorum to be, Jin-woo needed to remain as inconspicuous as possible while he was in disguise. Once dressed, he strolled into the city. After 45 minutes, he found himself at the designated street junction on the map. Taking a deep breath, he brings forth the key, turns it, and unlocks the gate.

⚓︎ To be continued...

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viperify · 2 months ago

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oneshots | ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⚔︎ You Promised.

Short Summary: he is ruthless when he kills, doesn’t show an ounce of mercy. Cold and quick with it—if you are lucky. Because for most captured Order members, he likes to drag it out. Not because they are the only remaining resistance against his father. He’s stopped caring about that a long time ago. No. They took something from him. The only person he has ever truly cared about. You.

Warnings: 18+ only! angst, mentions of death, violence, murder. Tom is Voldemort’s son. dub con if you squint? brief rough sex, praise, unprotected piv, creampie

A/N: I think I bent the meaning of assassin a tiny bit. Anyway, this is my participation for week three of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs!

wordcount: 3,1k

You were aware going out to hunt that one rare potion ingredient that night was a mistake. Yes, it was only available during full moon and then only for two to three hours—but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be the only one looking for it. And running into Snatchers really wasn’t something you wanted to risk.

But when Harry himself came asking whether you could look for them that night, you knew how urgent it was. The Order was so close to running out of healing potions, and if you denied—

You sighed and agreed.

Later that night, you and three others made your way to the Forbidden Forest, the only place nearby where you could find the rare flowers you were looking for. Not too deep into the forest, you find what you were looking for—blooming in bright purple, surrounded by fireflies.

The forest was eerily quiet at that time, except for the crunch of branches each time you took a step and the occasional screeches of birds nearby. Though, when you heard the distinctive sound of apparition somewhere not too far away, you stilled, froze. You tried to convince the others to leave, as you’d surely have enough for the month to come—yet nobody wanted to listen, there were more—just a few more—just a little further into the forest—

Until you were surrounded by the very people you warned them about before you left.

Outnumbered by at least five.

There was nothing you could do—your wand was taken faster than you could react. And without a wand—you were helpless.

—

Hours later, and you all find yourselves lined up in a basement—knees scraping against the cold, rough ground beneath you. Hands tied behind your back, scratchy cotton material secured over your head, blocking your vision.

This is it. You are going to die today.

Back when rumours spread that most killings are done by one single person, you didn’t believe them. Surely no human could muster up the strength to kill day in, day out.

Right?

Except—

No.

Tom wouldn’t.

Couldn’t have—

However, the longer you are left waiting, the more time you have to think about it all—you haven’t seen him since you left Hogwarts, since the war started. It’s been more than a year, and a lot has happened since. A lot has changed. He might have changed.

Then, your thoughts slip to just Tom.

How people, including yourself, would be afraid to even look at him—Voldemort’s son.

How he’d always be top of the class—except for that one time you were.

And the next time too.

How it would turn into a rivalry, a bitter fight over who would score higher on the next exam.

How most of your nights were spent in the library from that point on.

Tom would be there too. Never leave before you did.

How he would steal glances at you from the other side of the library.

How glances would turn into stares, stares that you noticed, that made your cheeks grow hot, that made you question whether you actually hated him as much as you told yourself you did.

And how that hatred turned into something completely different when you outscored him on a Defence Against the Dark Arts paper. His subject. The one nobody had ever even come close to him. When you smirked at him as soon as you realised, and he had this unreadable expression etched on his face.

How, as soon as that class ended and everyone had left, he pushed you against the cold stone wall of the corridor. Accused you of cheating. Accused you of Merlin knows what.

“I hate you,” he whispered, and then, just a second later—his lips crashed on yours. And it was even better than what you had imagined all these nights in the library—how your lips moved in sync with his, how eager he was to feel more of you, hands slipping under your blouse, leaving goosebumps in their wake. How you leaned into his touch as though this wasn’t the son of the most feared wizard of Great Britain, probably the entire world.

Fuck, you wanted this more than anything else.

And when you broke apart—both of you gasping for air—he would breathe a soft “Merlin, I hate you so much.”

“I hate you too.” You replied, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

And you’d kiss again.

How from that point on, you’d study together. You were just trying to help each other—that’s what you told anyone asking. Tom would always tell you how nobody could know.

Students started giving you strange looks. Because how could you possibly spend time with someone who seemed to care about no one and nothing except himself and his studies?

They didn’t know. It was better that way, you told yourself.

How, in free periods, he’d always come to find you. Push you into the nearest classroom, lock the door behind you. Lips on yours before you could even complain. Ripping your blouse open because he was too damn impatient to unbutton it—and you’d scold him for it every single time—and he would just do it again next time.

“There is a simple spell to repair it. There is no spell to spend more time making you feel good, sweetheart.”

And with his lips trailing kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, right at the spot he knew would have your knees grow weak—any rational thought left your brain in an instant.

He’d kiss down the valley between your breasts, fingers slowly making their way underneath the lace of your panties, preparing you for him.

He treated you like you were made of glass—which even surprised you sometimes. The quiet, nerdy boy who’d have witty answers to all questions. Who’d only have to look in the direction of students nearby to silence them, make them leave.

Tom was always careful with you.

Except if you outscored him on an exam. Then, he wasn’t as careful.

You didn’t mind that, though.

It all had to stay a secret, he liked to remind you of it. That nobody could know, not even your best friend, who would pester you with questions if you came back past curfew from one of your “study sessions”. You couldn’t tell her. Nobody. Not even your parents, who didn’t know anything about the wizarding world. You wondered if it was because of that. Judging by the way the corner of his mouth twitched whenever you mentioned your muggle parents, you had your answer.

Your love was forbidden—but so, so delicious.

—

You hear the door to the basement creak open, and what you guess to be five Death Eaters approach you with heavy footsteps.

You don’t know if you are lucky or unlucky when they pass you, instead start on the other side of the line.

Make you witness the death of some of your closest friends.

Their blood-curdling screams and unheard pleas as they are left bleeding to death on the cold, wet stone floor.

Because—whoever does the killings—and you are pretty certain it is only one of them—doesn’t use their wand, but a knife.

Too many killing curses are known to have long-term effects, after all.

But with each victim more—you feel as though they do it with pleasure.

And Merlin, you weren’t ready to die that way.

You don’t have much time left to think about it before a firm hand tugs at the material over your head, tilting your head backwards.

“Last one.” An unfamiliar voice remarks somewhere to the left of you, and not even a second later, you feel the cold, unyielding metal of a knife press against your throat.

You don’t want to give whoever it is the satisfaction of any reaction—but when the sharp blade scrapes against your skin, drawing the first drops of blood—you can’t help the soft, pained whimper escaping your lips.

As if stunned, the hand holding the knife stills, and they let go of your head.

Instead, the material covering your face is cut, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the different lighting—and when they focus, your heart skips a beat.

You are met with a pair of dark brown eyes you would recognize under thousands of others—his.

Tom’s.

“Fucking hell.” He mutters under his breath and doesn’t waste another second thinking. He draws his wand and turns around. Spells fly in all directions, and you duck—the room lighting up in green, red, buzzing with electricity.

Then—silence.

For just a moment.

He takes your hand in his, and the next second you apparate away, finding yourself in a small, cozy place hidden somewhere in the woods. The wound on your skin burns, but he doesn’t let you touch it.

“Let me do this.” He insists, and with just two or three spells muttered, it stops bleeding and the pain fades.

You study him for a moment. It’s really him.

“Tom.” You whisper. Silent, careful.

He finally looks at you. Not like he did back at Hogwarts. He looks different now. Sharper features, older, more mature, with a scar right above his left eyebrow. You want to ask what happened, want to trace it with your finger, want to kiss it.

Kiss him.

His eyes are cloudy now, and he’s lost the spark he used to have whenever it was just you two. And—he has become what he promised you he wouldn’t.

Just like his father.

Maybe they were right, after all.

His grip on your shoulder tightens, and you wince softly as the rough wood bites into your back.

“You told me you wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. That you would be careful.” He raises his voice, and it almost breaks. “Merlin, you fucking promised me.”

He sounds more disappointed than angry when he says it.

He’s right. You did promise him. Right before the war, you promised each other two things. One, you’d be careful, wouldn’t take any risky tasks, would do anything to stay alive. Two, he would come back for you. Would find you after the war. Although he was aware that the chance of both of you surviving was rather slim.

You shake your head softly.

“It was always supposed to be like this, Tom. Us. Enemies. We fight for two very different things.”

He scoffs softly at that.

“You think I still care about any of this? He’s ill. He’s dying. Barely gets up nowadays.” Tom takes a step back, and you swallow. “He has been using me for— this for months. And if you think—“ his hands clench into fists as the muscles in his fingers twitch at the mere thought, and he pauses briefly. “If you think I get any better treatment than others when they don’t act according to his instructions, you are mistaken.”

You sob.

“You killed them. All of them.”

He takes your face into his hands.

“They took you from me. They let you get these ingredients when they knew how dangerous it was. You almost died at my hands. Because of them. You left me for them. I offered you a safe house, far away from here. Yet, they convinced you to stay. If you believe even for a second that I would shy away from killing them— think again.”

Tears are streaming down your face by the time he is done.

“I chose this, Tom. Nobody forced me.” You hiccup. “This was my choice, and my choice alone.”

One of his hands slips to your neck. They are cold. Not warm like they used to be when they roamed over your bare skin. You miss the warmth.

He pulls you closer again, eyes narrowing at your words.

“And fuck— a part of me wants to hurt you for this. Punish you. But I— I can’t.”

His gaze drops for a second, and his voice softens.

“I missed you. I thought of you every day, wondered whether you were doing alright. Wondered whether you were thinking of me too.”

You exhale a shaky breath, trying to find the right words. Of course you did too.

“Tom, I—“

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“You have moved on, haven’t you? Found someone else.”

Your heart aches at his words.

“No!” You gasp, shaking your head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t—“

Then, without letting you finish your sentence, he pulls you closer to kiss you. Soft at first—giving you space to draw back—but when you don’t, he holds you close, kisses you like it’s the first time all over again.

When you separate, there is this all-too-familiar fire behind his eyes—the one he used to have. And as much as you wanted to—

“We have a lot to talk about.” You try, but he merely shakes his head.

“That can wait. Let us have this.”

Before you get to object, his lips are on yours once more, and he guides you towards the bed in the centre of the room without once breaking the kiss.

Shirt torn open, button of your pants clinking as it drops to the floor.

Old habits.

“I hate you,” you murmur against his lips, and his mouth lifts into a smirk. “I hate you so much.”

It all happens quickly after that. Moments later, you are on the bed and he’s on top of you, trailing kisses down your neck—just like he used to do.

Then, you feel him pressing against you—already hard, tip swollen and leaking. You gasp when he swipes through your folds and instinctively squirm at the contact—but Tom is quick to reposition you, pinning your hands above your head with ease.

“No. You don’t get to run from me anymore. You’ll stay right here and take it. Take it like the good girl I know you are.”

He doesn’t wait much longer. He’s been waiting too long for this, and now that he’s finally got you back—he is going to utilize every single second he would get to spend with you before he’d have to leave again.

He pushes inside with one singular thrust. Doesn’t give you time to adjust.

And God—it’s been a while. You forgot how big he is—the burn of the stretch so overwhelming that your nails dig into his back and your breath catches in your throat.

He doesn’t feel you tensing beneath him. Doesn’t spot the strained look on your face. Instead, he has already set a rhythm. Hips slamming against yours so harshly, the headboard hits the wall with each thrust.

You don’t want him to stop. You really don’t. But when he shifts his angle to reach even deeper—a strained whimper slips from your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

The moment Tom hears the soft sound spilling over your lips, he lifts his head and stills inside of you.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, concern visible in his eyes as they search yours. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have— I will stop.”

You hold onto his arm when he begins to pull away, shaking your head no.

“No. Please don’t. Please don’t stop.” You plead as his eyes scan your face. “Just don’t— I haven’t— you know.”

Tom gives you a tight nod, taking it slower with you after that. Carefully giving you inch after inch, kissing along your jaw. Praising you for how well you are doing for him.

“Forgot how amazing you feel wrapped around me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his hips stay flush against yours for a second—before he continues his slow and steady thrusts.

His hand slips between the both of you when he feels your walls flutter around him, rubbing your clit in tight circles—just how he knows you like it.

“Tom— Tom, please—“ you moan against his lips, and he rests your legs on his shoulders, allowing him deeper, brushing against that one sweet spot that has you see stars with every single thrust of his hips.

“Come for me, pretty girl. Let it all out.” He tells you, and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. You whimper-moan as the knot in your lower abdomen snaps, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your walls pulse, clamping down tight, drawing a low groan from him.

He helps you through it, prolongs your pleasure for as long as possible—then, gently, shifts your legs to either side of him, allowing him to lean in close once more. And when he’s close, cock twitching inside of you—

“Where— where can I—“ he rasps, hot breath against your neck, and your legs lock around his waist, keeping him pressed against you.

“Inside. Inside, please.”

“Fuck�� so long— been waiting so long for this— “ he drawls, and with one more rough thrust, he spills inside of you—deep, painting your walls white with his release.

His body rests on top of yours after, catching his breath. None of you talk, not until he rolls off to lie beside you, and he takes your hand in his.

You look at him when you feel the muscles in his fingers spasm.

“Cruciatus Curse? Have treated many people with the same symptoms.” You say softly, thumb easing along his index finger.

“I told you. It doesn’t matter to him.” He retorts, voice calm as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Oh, Tom. I am so sorry.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. You rest your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath you—eyelids slowly fluttering closed as his fingers brush through your hair.

It’s not long until he wakes you, though.

“I am being called,” he tells you, sitting up after placing your head on the pillow next to you, and your gaze drops to the mark on his arm. “Means they found the bodies.”

You too sit up, taking his wrist in your hand as you look up at him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.”

“If I don’t, they’ll be here within the next five minutes. Neither you nor I would want that. You will stay here.”

Your hand grips his tighter.

“You’ll be back?”

He gives you a nod. “Yes.”

“Promise?”

He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I promise.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

#ᯓᢉ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ #festivalofaus #I don’t like this and it bothers me.#tom riddle #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle fanfic #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle fic #slytherin #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys smut #harry potter #harry potter fandom #viperify #dividers by strangergraphics #dividers by saradika

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literaryvein-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Writing Ideas: Magical & Mystic Locations

Abyssal Depths: The deepest, darkest, and most treacherous part of the abyss.

Ancient Observatory: A centuries-old observatory with mystical stargazing abilities.

Astral Observatory: A tower where seers gaze into the astral plane.

Celestial Gauntlet: A place connecting different celestial realms.

Celestial Realm: A realm bathed in divine light and inhabited by celestial beings.

Clockwork Village: A community where clockwork automatons coexist with magic.

Cloud Castle: A fortress floating amidst the clouds, home to skyward adventurers.

Cloud City: A metropolis suspended in the clouds accessible by airships.

Cosmic Wormhole: A portal to the far reaches of the cosmos and beyond.

Crystal Caves: A labyrinthine system of caves adorned with luminescent crystals.

Crystal Coast: A stunning coastline adorned with iridescent gemstones.

Crystal Spire: A towering spire made of crystalline material.

Crystalline Caverns: A series of interconnected caverns adorned with shining crystals.

Cursed Swamp: A creepy swamp home to cursed beings.

Dark Abyss: A seemingly bottomless chasm shrouded in darkness.

Dragon's Lair: A cavernous home to a colossal, slumbering dragon.

Dragon's Nest: A safe haven for dragon eggs and their young.

Dragon's Roost: A mountaintop lair where dragons dwell and guard their hoard.

Dream Realm: A surreal realm where dreams come to life.

Dreamcatcher Grove: A grove where dreamcatchers capture and store dreams.

Dreamcatcher Trees: Trees where dreamcatchers grow, capturing the dreams of the forest.

Dwarven Mines: Underground tunnels where dwarves mine precious gemstones.

Elemental Plane: A realm where the elements take on sentient forms and powers.

Elemental Portal: A convergence point for elemental forces and magic.

Elemental Sanctuary: A sanctuary where elemental beings find refuge.

Elven Enclave: A secluded and mystical enclave of elven culture.

Elven Kingdom: An elegant realm ruled by noble and immortal elves.

Enchanted Forest: A sprawling woodland where trees whisper ancient secrets.

Enchanted Garden: A flourishing garden filled with magical, sentient plants.

Enchanted Tides: A coastal area where the tides are influenced by magic.

Enchanted Treetops: Canopy of an enchanted forest where treetop dwellings are built.

Enchanted Waterfall: A waterfall with the power to purify and heal.

Eternal Garden: A garden where time has no effect.

Ethereal Castle: A castle that materializes and dematerializes in the ethereal plane.

Fairy Ring: A circle of mushrooms where fairies gather to dance and celebrate.

Fairy Village: A charming settlement inhabited by tiny, mischievous fairies.

Fire Elemental Forge: A forge where fire elementals craft fiery weapons.

Firefly Forest: A forest where fireflies light up the night with their glow.

Floating Islands: A realm of floating landmasses suspended in the sky.

Floating Gardens: Gardens suspended in the sky, nurtured by air and magic.

Forbidden Tomb: A tomb filled with ancient curses, traps, and treasures.

Forgotten Ruins: Crumbling remains of a once-great civilization.

Ghost Ship: A spectral vessel crewed by ghostly sailors sailing eternally.

Gnome Workshop: A bustling factory where gnomes invent fantastical gadgets.

Gnomish Workshop: A lively workshop where gnomes tinker with fantastic inventions.

Goblin Kingdom: A mischievous kingdom ruled by cunning goblin royalty.

Goblin Market: A chaotic bazaar run by cunning goblins selling magical wares.

Goblin Tunnels: A network of underground tunnels and caverns inhabited by goblins.

Haunted Castle: A spectral fortress filled with restless, ghostly inhabitants.

Haunted Manor: A mansion haunted by restless spirits and poltergeists.

Haunted Marsh: A desolate and ghostly marshland.

Haunted Sea Passage: A narrow sea passage known for its eerie, haunting sounds.

Hidden Valley: A secluded valley with a serene and mystical ambiance.

Hidden Waterfall: A secluded cascade concealed behind a shimmering veil of illusion.

Hidden Waterways: Subterranean rivers and water passages hidden from sight.

Ice Palace: A palace made of ice and snow.

Isle of Echoes: An island known for echoing whispers and eerie sounds.

Labyrinth: A maze filled with twists, turns, and perplexing puzzles.

Lost Oasis: An oasis hidden deep within a desert, holding hidden wonders.

Lost Shipwreck: The remnants of a ship lost to time, holding forgotten treasures.

Lost Temple: An ancient temple concealed in a dense jungle, holding untold treasures.

Magic Bazaar: A marketplace overflowing with enchanted trinkets and artifacts.

Magical Market: A bustling market where magical goods and creatures are sold.

Mermaid Lagoon: A vibrant underwater lagoon inhabited by merfolk.

Monolith Structure: A monolithic black structure with mysterious powers.

Moonlit Grotto: A subterranean cavern bathed in the ethereal light of the moon.

Moonstone Quarry: A quarry where precious moonstones are harvested.

Mysterious Well: A well said to reveal glimpses of the past and future to those who peer into it.

Mystic Library: A vast repository of otherworldly knowledge guarded by sentient books.

Mythical Mountain: A towering peak said to be the home of mythical creatures.

Nightmare Realm: A nightmarish dimension where fears and terrors manifest.

Pirate Cove: A hidden haven for swashbuckling pirates and their treasure.

Rainbow Bridge: A radiant arch connecting different realms.

Serene Glade: A serene glade where the boundary between realms is thin.

Shadowy Forest: A forest cloaked in eternal night and inhabited by shadowy creatures.

Shifting Sands Dunes: A desert where the sands are in constant motion, hiding ancient relics.

Sorcerer's Tower: A towering structure where a powerful sorcerer resides.

Space Nexus: A place in the stars where all galaxies converge.

Spirit Sanctuary: A haven where spirits of the departed find peace and rest.

Starfall Lake: A serene lake under a constant meteor shower.

Stargazing Grove: A tranquil grove illuminated by the light of countless stars.

Stargazing Ridge: A ridge that experiences frequent meteor showers.

Steampunk Airship: A fantastical flying vessel powered by steam and gears.

Steampunk City: A technologically advanced city with a Victorian aesthetic.

Sunken Ruins: The remnants of a once-mighty civilization beneath the sea.

Timeless Realm: A place where time stands still, frozen in eternal beauty.

Time-Warp Tavern: A tavern where time travelers gather to swap tales.

Troll Bridge: A bridge guarded by trolls, demanding a toll from travelers.

Underwater City: An illuminated metropolis beneath the ocean's depths.

Underworld: A realm ruled by dark deities and inhabited by the deceased.

Underworld Abyss: A chasm leading to the deepest, darkest depths of the underworld.

Underworld Citadel: A citadel deep within the underworld, home to dark powers.

Unicorn Meadows: Fields where graceful unicorns roam freely.

Vampire Castle: A foreboding castle inhabited by ancient vampire lords.

Whispering Pines: A tranquil forest where the pine trees whisper secrets.

Witch's Cauldron Room: A room with a bubbling cauldron said to grant potent magical brews.

Witch's Cottage: A crooked, mysterious dwelling surrounded by enchanted herbs.

Witch's Labyrinth: A twisting maze filled with magical traps and challenges.

Wizard's Academy: A prestigious school of magic where wizards are trained.

Wonderland: A surreal landscape filled with whimsical and absurd wonders.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#settings #fantasy #worldbuilding #writing ideas #writeblr #literature #writing reference #dark academia #writers on tumblr #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #light academia #writing inspiration #writing resources

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darknight3904 · 3 months ago

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tommyxfemreader thigh riding🫦 maybe in her home in Jackson lowkey forbidden since he’s with Maria (love u queen but…)

Pretty Boy

Jackson!Tommy x Fem!Reader

Summary: Cursed to watch him from afar, you finally make a move on Tommy one day when he's stuck in your house due to a thunderstorm.

Warnings: Language, Smut 18+, Dom/swtich!reader, sub/switch Tommy, thigh riding, dirty talk, handjobs, cheating (don't do that irl.)

TLOU Masterlist

Word Count: 2.2k

I got carried away with this one, whoopsie. Went a bit off the rails, but I hope you enjoy it, anon. @xodilfluvr No pressure tag, but I think you're going to like this one.

You had a major problem.

You couldn’t get him out of your fucking head. Tommy Miller was eating up every spare nook and cranny your brain had to offer.

You arrived in Jackson nearly a year ago. With its quaint town and even nicer people, you were finally comfortable here at the end of the world. The issue though had started about six months ago, your first patrol run was led by none other than the ex-Firefly himself. You at first hadn’t thought much of him, probably just another guy with a big mouth and no skill to back it up. Instead, you were astounded when he brought down three infected, all head shots, from atop a large hill. Then, he’d wrapped his arms around you, repositioning your elbows in the best way to hold a gun so you didn’t get knocked on your ass by the kick back. His deep voice had your head spinning as you tried to focus on what he was saying about aiming right.

Since then, you’d become a woman obsessed. But truly it wasn't your fault, Tommy Miller was just really fucking pretty, a pretty boy if you will. Dark curls and big brown eyes to go with, god, he was gorgeous, who could blame you for being so interested?

Now, most people would bite the bullet, ask their crush out instead of pining like some teenage girl, and you would, you really would, except there was one issue. Tommy Miller was a taken man.

Maria had scooped him up a few months back, right when you realized your feelings, too. How convenient. You had no interest in being a homewrecker, but admiring never hurt anyone, right? You could look all you wanted, just not touch. Kind of like a fancy museum, Tommy was the artwork and you were the observer, content with staring and imaging what that piece might look like above you each night, sweaty and with loud moans coming out of his pretty-

“You alright?”

“Oh, yeah, m’ fine.” You say

The loud sound of rain beating down on the twenty-something-year-old roof had you nervous, hopefully, it wouldn’t cave in tonight while you slept. The storm had come out of nowhere. One minute, you and Tommy were standing in your kitchen; he had swung by to tell you that the patrol shift was changing since Eugene had pulled a muscle in his back, the next, it was raining like a fucking monsoon was coming through Jackson.

“Damn it.” Tommy curses as he stares out the window over your kitchen sink, “M’ gonna get drenched going out there.”

“You could just stay here,” You blurt out, “Just till the storm blows over.”

Tommy looks at you, obviously weighing his options: go outside, get drenched, and probably end up sick since it was a twenty-minute walk between your place and his, or sit down and just wait it out.

“Alright, fine, better than getting soaked to hell.” He grumbles

Tommy had been in a sour mood all week, you had picked up on it after he hadn’t had his usual pizzaz during your Thursday shift with him down in the greenhouse. You motioned for him to sit down on the couch, handing him a glass of brandy.

“Where the hell did you get this?” He sniffs the glass

“It’s a secret.” You smile, sitting across from him in the big armchair you loved, “You look like you need to relax, figured it’d help a bit.”

Tommy sighs, sipping the amber liquid, his adams apple bobbing as he does, you squirm in your seat, fuck you hadn’t been alone with him like this since well…ever.

“Yeah, it’s been a long couple of weeks. Maria’s been busy, council shit new buidlings and then that roof that caved in on Leona’s house.” Tommy sighs, “Haven’t seen much of each other.”

You hum in acknowledgement, feeling sorry for how lonely he must’ve been.

“Sorry, you don’t wanna hear my shit.” Tommy gives you a small smile

“No!” You counter, “I like hearing you talk.”

“Is that so?”

True to your request, Tommy talks to you. As he sips at his drink you refill it twice, loosening him up a bit as you pour yourself some listening to him talk about how he found some fancy new scope for his gun.

“You wanna watch a movie?” You ask

“Tired of listening to me, sweetheart?” He smiles, a faint blush on his skin from the drink

“Nah, just got something I think you might like,” You grin, waving a DVD case that reads Alien on it, “It’s the directors cut.”

“Well, shit, pop it in.” Tommy grins

The movie hazily plays in the background as you sit beside Tommy on the sofa a single throw pillow separating the two of you as he rests his arm on it. You’re too focusied on the man beside you to take any note of whatever the hell Ripley was doing on screen. You’re too focused on the way Tommy’s thighs shift every few minutes the muscles straining against the tight denim of his dark blue jeans.

Without thinking about it, you reach out running a delicate hand up his thigh, brushing the fabric of the pocket before he jumps back.

“What the hell’er you doin’?” His loud voice bounces off the wall

“Shit, sorry!” You fumble, jumping back as if he’s burned you, tears whelling in your eyes. You hadn’t expected him to be so well repulsed by you “I didn’t mean to, fuck.”

Tommy eyes you, the flickering screen illuminating him for a second. His eyes scan over your figure, probably thinking you were some pathetic loser, crying cuz’ he raised his voice for second.

“Sorry, you just uh scared me.” Tommy doubles back, “Didn’t mean to make ya cry, sweetheart.”

Tommy’s next move has you shocked, he inches closer to you, a big hand cradles your face as he wipes a few stray tears that have escaped your burning waterline. He lets out a low hum, one that spreads warmth across your stomach and down to your lower belly.

“Pretty.” He softly whispers like it’s a secret no one can know, if only he knew you thought the same about him.

You nuzzle into his touch, elated to finally feel his hands on your bare skin again. You never want to leave this moment.

Tommy pulls back abruptly, hands falling down, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…I should leave, got shit to do at home, theres this leaky faucet and the basement door is broken.”

He’s rambling still as you place a small hand on his chest, keeping him on the sofa beside you. You grab the remote, muting the TV and switching it off, you’ll pop the disc out later on. The alcohol has you bolder than ever as you push him back down when he goes to stand. Your legs straddle his hips, using your weight to keep him right where you want him.

“But it’s still raining.” You whisper, leaning in so your nose brushes his

Under you, you can feel something hard beginning to form, his cock twitching against you as you slowly begin to shift a bit, pretending like you don’t know what you’re doing. Tommy’s hands rest on your hips, his eyes fluttering shut, a soft fuck leaving his lips as you move.

“Darlin’ this isn’t…I’m…Maria and I…”

You push a finger to his lips, “Shhh…It’s alright.”

You push yourself off his lap, knees hitting the soft carpet as you pull the zipper of his jeans down, the pretty sight of his green and blue boxers greeting you, “You’ve been so stressed, Tommy, let me take care of it.”

You push the band of his underwear down, his hard cock springing up from the fabric, it’s drooling head leaking as your eyes widen. You expected him to be big, just not this big.

You’ve only pressed a kiss to the pink tip of it before Tommy is hauling you back up into his lap, settling you on one of his thighs.

“What’re you doing?” You ask

“I wanna watch you.” He mumbles, skin flushed as he stares at you, fingertips tugging at your shirt

A coy smile lines your face, you hold all the cards now, he was yours. You free yourself from your shirt, unclipping your bra as you go and then you stand only for a second to wiggle your pants off. Your hands have just hooked under your panties when he stops you.

“Keep 'em on.” A deeper blush paints his pretty face, “Wanna watch you with them on.”

You smile, pressing your lips to his as you settle back on his thigh, cunt weeping when you feel it flex under you.

“What do you want me to do, cowboy?” You softly whisper into his ear, teeth nipping the sensitive skin there., "Hmm? Gonna ask me? Y'look so damn pretty like this, mmm pretty boy."

“Fuck…” Tommy whispers voice just barely there after all your compliments, “Ride my thigh, baby, get yourself off on me.”

You softly hum, “What do we say? Gotta ask nicely, pretty boy.”

Tommy’s eyes scan your face, he clearly isn’t used to be treated like this for just a split second you think you’ve over stepped but then he’s opening his mouth again, falling into your hands.

“Please.” He softly asks

You press a kiss to his cheek and then to the tip of his nose, “Good job.” You mumble.

You’re not sure what’s come over you tonight, you could blame it on the brandy, the alcohol is the reason you’re dominating your crush of a whole year, the same man who was in a relationship with the literal laader of your town. Perhaps it’s just the result of buried feelings, all you know is that this feels good, and it seems like you’re not the only one.

Each roll of your hips along his thigh has Tommy’s lips falling with a groan as his cock weeps for you. A loud moan leaves your lips when the muscle beneath you flexes, Tommy’s deep voice fills your ears.

“Fuck you’re pretty like this. Christ, always knew you’d look good ontop of me.”

Your head spins. Tommy Fucking Miller had just admitted to having sexual fantasies of you. You hips roll more argressively against him, the cotton of your panties is soaked, proably seeping into his jeans as you get yourself off on his thigh.

“T-Touch me, touch me please.” He mumbles, hips jumping up towards your hand when one lands on his belly

“You sure?” You mumble a smirk on your lips, “Thought you were a taken man, what we’re doin’ right now is certainly forbidden.”

Tommy’s head falls back onto the couch when your run a finger over the slit of his cock, a fucking whimper leaving his lips.

“Fuck, I don’t care.” He groans, eyes squeezed shut

“Look at me.” You say, you’re not going to miss one second of this

The thick muscle of his leg presses up to your clothed clit and you bite your lip, Tommy’s deep brown eyes meet yours and you feel a bit sorry for him.

Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping him at the same pace your hips roll into him. He groans your name loudly as you twist your wrist.

“Baby, fuck…” Tommy’s forehead glistens with sweat as you press a warm kiss to his neck, nipping at his skin, “M’ not gonna last.”

“Go on.” You smile, “Cum for me, I don’t mind.”

“Not til you get yours.” He affirms, his stomach tightening as you steady yourself by placing a hand on his shoulder

Big hands find your soft chest, thumbs flicking at your nipples as you try to keep your cool, wanting to maintain your dominance over him.

“You gonna cum? Gonna cum all over my fucking thigh?” Tommy grins, your hand still pumping him, “Yeah, you are, it’s like you’re in heat, girl. Knew you wanted me, always starin’ like I’m some piece of meat you wanna strap down on your bed.”

“T-Tommy!” If he keeps this up, you’re going to lose it

"It's alright, I'd let ya." He laughs, "Yeahhh that's it, she's crying all over my fucking jeans, gonna havta' wash em' real good tonight."

A loud moan leaves your lips, your brain is blank as he talks to you, your climax is so close.

“Go ahead, pretty girl, cum on me,” His southern drawl fills your ears, “M’ all yours now, go ahead, stake your claim.”

Another roll of your hips and he roughly gropes your sensitive chest and you’re gone, wetness spilling into your ruined panties and his pants as Tommy groans into your ear. Warm cum spurts over your hand as he reaches his end, chest heaving as your his stutter into his thigh.

You bury your face in his neck, not wanting him to leave you again. The storm outside has stopped; you can tell by the way the sunlight has started to stream back through the windows.

“You alright?” Tommy whispers into the still air

“Fine.” You say, looking at him as he stares back

Tommy glances around, eyes scanning your nearly nude form, his ruined jeans, the discarded pile of your clothes, his softening cock and your hand covered in his spunk.

“Fuck.” He groans

You knew it, He regretted it, that line about him being yours wasn’t real. You’d fucked up majorly and lost a friend, god you were so fucking stupid sometimes. You go to stand, legs a weakened mess as you stumble. Before you can get far though, Tommy pulls you back down into his warm body.

“Where the hell are you goin’?” Tommy asks, “You’re stayin’ here with me. I’ll get you water in a minute, then we can go shower.”

Water? Shower? With him? What the hell was he thinking? Didn't he need to get home to his girlfriend and the broken basement door?

As if he’s a mind reader, Tommy presses a kiss to your lips, “ Don’t gotta worry about Maria anymore, I’m all yours now, baby.”

Liked this fic? Check out More Tommy Here

This is the product of listening to Sabrina Carpenter while writing. I think it turned out nicely :)

Requests are open, I love getting them, so if you have anything you really want me to write, don't be shy, come chat.

#tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x fem!reader #tommy miller smut #tommy miller fluff #tlou #the last of us #fanfic #smut #requests #tlou smut

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tommysversion · 3 months ago

Text

Forbidden Fruit [Part 2] - Joel Miller x AFAB!Reader

Summary: this is the fix it chapter. Joel and Reader are in an established relationship as he heals from his injuries, and the younger members of the family make a guest appearance for family movie night.

Contents & Warnings: spoilers for 2.02 but That didn't happen. Age gap unspecified but exists. Established relationship. Unprotected PIV. One (1) degrading pet name from Joel. Praise. One (1) spank. Mentions of traumatic injury. PTSD implied/briefly mentioned. Creampie/unsafe PIV. Reader is AFAB but no physical description beyond being able bodied (or at least moreso than Joel).

Notes: we can all collectively agree 2.02 was not a vibe, yes? Cool. I offer my contribution to the fix it stash.

Word Count: 2.7k. || Part 1 Here

- x. -

You've lost count of how many times you've thanked whatever God is still listening for Joel's life.

Having lived through and existing in the world of the outbreak, you thought you knew fear. Nothing could have prepared you for the sheer terror that had come with Ellie and Jesse riding back into Jackson after the blizzard, Dina half conscious with Ellie, and Jesse supporting a literally comatose Joel.

A group of five, they had explained. Military, maybe. Former Fireflies. One with a vendetta. She had beaten Joel half to death before Ellie and Jesse had arrived. Had had the element of surprise and sheer fucking luck on their hands.

He had been unconscious for the better part of a week, and you? You had felt frozen in time with him, barely moving from his side unless you had to, whilst the town doctor and medics moved around you like bees.

That was months ago now. Joel's eyesight was worse in one eye, it had taken him a while to recover from the concussion, and he walked with a limp - would walk with a limp for the rest of his life, if the doctor was right.

But he was alive. Alive and with you. Alive and reconciled with Ellie, who had not only managed to work out their issues, but had finally started calling him 'dad'. Joel hadn't made a huge deal out of it, but you knew it meant the world to him. More than the world.

He had expected you to leave; you're young, he had said. You didn't need to be saddling yourself with a broken old man, he had said. You had kissed him until he had shut up, changed the butterfly bandage on his forehead, pressed a featherlight kiss to his uninjured temple. And eventually he had realised you meant it. That you weren't going anywhere. That you, and Dina, and Jesse, were all a part of his family now.

The months ticked on; Jackson slowly rebuilt, Joel slowly healed, and you moved into his house. Every night that you fell asleep beside him, every morning you woke tangled together, and you didn't take a single one for granted.

Ellie wanted to make fun of you, wanted to tease in the way that only a young adult watching a parent fall in love could manage, but she had come so close to losing Joel too that any joke or comment about acting like it was the last day you'd get together seemed to hit a little too close to home.

The weather is warming, though it's still cold outside. Still a faint chill in the air. The day is slowly turning to evening, and you have a pot roast on the stove ready for later.

Dina has made coffee; everyone has a mug. Joel sits on the couch, his glasses a little crooked as he tips a spoon of sugar into his coffee cup. Ellie sits on one side of him, Dina with her head on her shoulder. You sit on his other side, leaning into him like you're one person instead of two.

All that's missing from this scene is -

"Fuckin' hallmark postcard in here." Jesse shakes snow off his boots on the porch and hangs up his coat as he walks in, ignores the middle finger he's given in greeting from Ellie.

"You're late. We were gonna start without you." Dina says, clearly ribbing him.

Jesse looks mock horrified, turns to Joel as if to clarify that such blasphemy would occur. Joel just offers the younger man a 'I just live here' sort of shrug and a grin.

You get up to fix Jesse a coffee, come back to him sprawled in the armchair, Die Hard loaded up on the television waiting. It's an old movie. A classic, really. The sort of thing you can all lose yourselves in.

Which you do, for the next few hours; the five of you lose yourselves in the action movie misadventures of John Maclane, quoting your favourite lines to one another back and forth over the dinner table long after the credits roll.

The five of you eat the pot roast, the strawberry tarts you made especially for movie night because they're Joel's favourite. It's close to nine when the girls - women, really, but they'll always be girls to you - retreat out to the garage for the night. You offer the spare room to Jesse but he just grins, says he has to be up early for a patrol anyway, and bids you goodnight.

You wash the dishes and Joel leans against the bench top to dry them, both of you packing everything away before you go up to bed for the night.

He's still a little slow on the stairs, much to his own chagrin, a step behind you with muffled cursing.

"Fuckin' leg. Bitch knew where she was shootin', dammit."

Wordlessly you stop so you can help him. Ignore the attempt to muffle the sigh he makes, because he hates needing help. Hates that he accepts it, even though he loves you dearly.

"I know what you're thinkin', that I'm damn lucky to still have my leg," Joel grouses as you reach the bedroom, help him with the flannel shirt that he's wearing.

"Actually, no." You say, as you hang up the well loved green and blue plaid, "I'm thinking I'm lucky you're still here, bad leg, complaints and all."

You turn around to see him shaking his head with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Make it fuckin' hard to complain about shit when you put it that way, sweetheart."

You sigh, worried you've upset him as you cross to the bed where he's sitting, wrap your arms around him.

"You can complain as much as you like. I'll be glad to listen. Because it means you're still here with me." You press a soft kiss to his mouth. Inhale the wood and gunpowder scent of him.

Joel wants to tell you that that's lame, that he's too old to be worthy of that sort of affection. But he doesn't, because he's been so close to death he can taste it, and if for some reason you feel the same way about him as he feels about you, well. That's your issue.

So what he says instead is:

"Sorry, sweetheart. Ain't getting rid of me that easy."

Wanting to make you laugh. Only, you don't. You manage a weak giggle, only your eyes well up a little and it makes him feel like shit, because while he's at a point where he can joke about how close to death he was, it still upsets the hell out of you and Ellie.

"Aw, shit. Don't cry, darlin', I'm okay..." he pulls himself up off the bed so he can wrap you up in his arms, pull you against his broad frame and let you feel the warmth of him, his steady breathing.

You bury your face in his chest and listen to his heart, strong and steady, until you don't feel like you're about to break into a million pieces or hyperventilate. Then and only then do you look up at him.

You want to tell him he scared the hell out of you, but what good is that? He knows that already, and it's not exactly his fault. So you go for something else instead, something equally true.

"I love you, Joel, you know that?"

His thumb brushes away a stray tear that's still on your cheek as he nods.

"Yeah, darlin', I know. I love you too."

Maybe before the incident at the lodge he might have taken your words less seriously, but now, with a far too close call under his belt, Joel knows how much he means to you. How much you mean to him.

How, as he had been sure he was going to die, he had hoped somehow you would feel that he loved you as he left the world. Only to come to a week later with you on one side, holding onto his hand like you thought he might disappear if you let go, Ellie on the other.

How the first words out of his mouth had been "my girls okay?" before you'd dissolved into relieved sobs and Ellie had begun berating him about how he'd scared her to death and was he stupid and how fucking dare he do that to them all, as if he had had any say in his own attempted murder.

"Joel-"

You barely get his name out of your mouth before he's on you, his lips covering yours, gathering you up in his arms again, because fuck if he isn't going to savour each and every one of these moments with you now.

The kiss is long, intense. Half because he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of kissing you, and half because he doesn't want to hear your protests about how he still needs to take it easy. He can take it easy when he's in his eighties and on his actual deathbed. Having been there before, he knows he's nowhere close at the moment, and nothing is going to stop him from being intimate with you.

"Joel, we have to - mm - be careful," sure enough, you get the words out as he pulls your shirt off, nuzzles into your collarbone and kisses the side of your neck.

"Fuck being careful." Joel growls into your skin, somehow soft even after the harshness of the outbreak and the weather. "Keep tellin' me to be careful I'll tie you to the bed and fuck you like the mouthy slut you're actin' like."

He's rewarded with heat rushing to your cheeks, the knowledge that he can toe the line between sweet and filthy just right without actually disrespecting you. Only -

"Your back would give out before you could, old timer." You tease, and he laughs, lays a heavy swat to your ass with his big hand.

He can't even be pissed about it because you're right. Twenty years ago he could have bent you over every surface in this house. Maybe even ten. But now, rough sex between you involves you on your hands and knees, maybe his hand around your throat.

He's become softer with age, more gentle in how he handles his lovers. Even moreso with you.

"Shut up," he mumbles, though he's still kissing your throat so you know you're off the hook this time as you thread your fingers through his soft curls.

Even between kisses and the slowness that comes with his damaged leg, you manage to get every layer of clothing between you off, tossed to the floor of the bedroom with very little regard for it. You'll probably grumble about it in the morning when you go to do laundry while he laughs at you, but for now it's the furthest thing from your mind as you collapse back onto the bed, tugging him with you.

He might still be recovering from an injury and older, but he's still strong, still able to prop himself up on one hand as he leans over you, cages you in.

Your hands wander, gentle, reverent almost, as you lightly touch each and every scar on his body. Less than a year ago, he barely let you see his torso, see the map of brutality time has left across his olive skin. Now he almost hums and purrs under your touch as your hands move back up to his face. Cup his cheeks as you lean up to kiss him, moan when he licks into your mouth.

His free hand moves between your thighs, finds you soaked for him already, just from a few kisses, a few touches. Joel doesn't think he'll ever get over that, that feeling of elation that comes with being so easily wanted by someone, without any sort of stipulations.

"Joel..."

He doesn't think he'll ever get over that, either. That soft, whimpering plea of his name that somehow manages to be so full of equal parts love and lust.

Normally you both make an effort with foreplay, take pride in it, enjoy it. Taking your time with one another. But there are times like this where you just need each other, need to become one too much to bother with anything beforehand. All he cares about in this moment is that you're wet enough to take him, and God knows you are.

He slides into you in a single, fluid motion, grunting with satisfaction as your tight heat welcomes him, your fingers flying to his curls and knitting there as you inhale sharply.

Joel loves that fucking sound. That sweet little intake of breath when he fills you up with his cock, knowing it's almost too big for you. Almost too much, and yet you're always begging for him to keep going.

"You good, sweetheart?" He knows you are, can feel your warm inner walls constricting around his cock, can feel how wet you are. Can see the pleasure on your face even without him moving.

Still, you nod, confirm your pleasure with him before he moves, rolling his hips against yours. He has to be careful, doesn't want to piss off his stupid damaged leg, doesn't want you to worry, so he goes for slow and deep rather than fucking into you hard and fast like he once used to.

You don't mind; find you prefer this pace anyway, the intimacy of it, of his broad frame caging you in as he moves above you. You draw your knees up so he can get deeper, moaning when he hits your sweet spot.

"Fuck, good girl, such a pretty sound-" he groans, runs his thumb over your lower lip before he leans down to kiss you.

Eagerly you lean up to return the kiss before you fall back against the pillows, settle yourself there as you pull him close. His mouth finds yours, before he kisses down your throat.

Pressing his cock in deep, he grinds against you, drawing obscene moans from your lips as his mouth finds a peaked nipple, sucks it into his mouth greedily. Only when you're trembling beneath him does he release it with a lewd pop before giving its twin the exact same treatment, still grinding against you, getting the entirety of his thick length deep inside.

He isn't playing fair, is pulling every single trick he knows to make you cum, and it's working. Before you even realise it, you're almost there, a whimpering, trembling mess as he devours your mouth in greedy kisses.

"Go on, sweetheart. Go on an' cum for me now."

It's that soft, still dominant demand that sends you. Your entire body trembles beneath his as your pussy tightens around him, fluttering and weeping around the cock splitting you open.

Joel doesn't last much longer, knows you don't give a shit whether he lasts three minutes or thirty, groaning and cursing as he spills inside you, using the very last of the stamina he has to prevent himself from collapsing on top of you.

It's only after, when he's rolled off of you and you're curled under the blankets together, his arms around you, that the thought strikes you.

"Do you think Jesse didn't take the guest room because he knew?" You ask.

Joel fixes you with a look that can only be described as amused.

"Yeah, darlin', I think he knew."

You dissolve into a fit of laughter, mildly horrified by the idea that the younger adults in your lives are, God forbid, aware you have a sex life.

He shakes his head, presses a kiss to your forehead as you curl into his side. Maybe tomorrow you'll go into town, trade some strawberries from your garden for something. Bread, maybe.

One thing is for certain. Neither of you take these little moments for granted, nor the love you have for one another and your strange little family.

#my writing #my fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #tlou spoilers #joel miller smut #x reader #pedro pascal characters #hbo joel miller #hbo tlou

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 27 days ago

Text

The Tiger & The Moon

Pairing: Circus performer! Kwon Soonyoung x Artist! F. Reader

Wordcount: 12.7K

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Foreplay (F. receiving) - Slight Bodyworship - PIV - Unprotected intercourse - Use of petnames - Reassurances and clear consent (this is incredibly soft lovemaking)

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

It’s the sound of drums that draws you in.

Not hunger, though that gnaws in your stomach like it always does. Not the wind, though it hisses cold through the hem of your tattered skirt. Not even the need for safety—because that’s something you stopped believing in the moment your legs carried you across the city’s edge, away from the suffocating perfume and filthy hands of the brothel.

It’s the drums. Low. Rhythmic. Hypnotic.

You stumble across a dew-drenched field just past midnight, led only by the flickering glow of distant lanterns and the echo of music that feels like something ancient. It beats like a second heart inside you. Ahead, the tents bloom like massive, sleeping flowers—red and gold, navy and cream—sprawling beneath the stars in messy rows.

A travelling circus.

You’ve heard stories, of course. Dancers who bend like willow trees, men who swallow swords, tigers that leap through hoops of fire. But in the city, in the brothel, dreams were things beaten out of you with the back of a hand. Here, dreams seem to shimmer above the grass like fireflies.

You hover at the edge of the makeshift grounds, wrapped in a stolen cloak two sizes too big, fingers curled into the sleeves. You don’t belong here. You know that.

But then the drumbeat quickens, and something else begins—something theatrical and alive. A cheer from the crowd. The hush of anticipation. And the metallic snap of spotlights flooding the massive tent’s entrance.

You slip through the shadows, heart racing, eyes darting. No one sees you. No one cares to. But that’s the trick, isn’t it? Be small. Be quiet. Be nothing.

You crouch behind crates stacked near the back of the tent—costumes, ropes, props—and peer through a narrow flap left ajar. The scent of sawdust and sweat curls in the air, but it’s not unpleasant. Not like the sweet, rotting perfume they used to force on your skin.

Inside, the ringmaster stands in the centre, announcing acts with a booming voice and a sharp smile, cracking his whip-like punctuation. The audience roars as a woman juggles knives on horseback, her braid flying behind her. A man in glittering blue dives through a column of fire.

You watch, wide-eyed, breathless.

But then he appears.

Not from the center. No. From the shadows. From the ceiling. He swings down from a rope like gravity never applied to him at all—legs bent, body twisting midair, tiger stripes painted onto his chest in glittering gold and black.

You forget to breathe.

He’s wearing nothing but loose black pants, his shoulders flexing with each spin. His movements are sharp, primal, choreographed to the beat of the drums. When he lands, the entire tent goes silent, as if waiting for him to roar.

And he does. Not with sound. With movement.

A flip. A clawing gesture. A slide across the floor that ends with him kneeling, hand outstretched toward the crowd. They erupt.

Your pencil is in your hand before you realise it.

You pull a crumpled sheet of paper from your pocket and begin to sketch, hands working almost on instinct. Curves. Angles. His shoulders. The grace. You don’t think. You just draw.

And then his gaze flicks sideways, right to where you are hidden.

Your fingers still. Your chest goes tight. You convince yourself he doesn’t see you through the curtain of crates and outfits.

His eyes are impossibly warm and impossibly dark. And for a second—just a second—he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t grin. He just looks.

But then he’s gone again, dancing, spinning, leaping into the air as if the moment never happened. You watch him until the lights dim, the applause roars, and the ringmaster calls for the next act.

You don’t realise your drawing is finished until your pencil slips out of your grip.

Hours pass. You stay hidden.

When the crowd finally disperses and the lights begin to dim, you sneak through the back of the grounds—quiet as a shadow—until you find an empty wagon stacked with boxes. You curl into it, pulling your knees to your chest, using the cloak as a blanket. Your fingers still smell like pencil lead. You close your eyes.

And then a voice startles you. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

It’s his voice. Rough. Low. Accented in something lazy and teasing.

Your eyes fly open. He stands at the opening of the wagon, still shirtless, a towel around his shoulders and a smirk on his lips. His hair is damp.

“You know that, right?”

You sit up sharply, preparing to bolt. But he raises his hands in surrender.

“Hey—hey. Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.” He tilts his head. “You were watching me earlier.”

You stay silent. He saw you? He steps closer.

“You’re not a thief, are you? You don’t look like the type to steal. Except maybe hearts. But that’s a performer thing, too.” His grin widens. “Unless you’re here to audition. In that case, great hiding spot. But we don’t usually hire ghosts.”

You speak for the first time in what feels like days. “I’m not a ghost.” He pauses. Cocks his head, like a tiger curious about a mouse.

“No. I don’t think you are.” You glance at the door. He follows your gaze.

“If I was going to turn you in, I would’ve done it already. The ringmaster doesn’t like strays. But me? I’m a sucker for sad eyes and good timing.” You don’t answer.

He hops up into the wagon without asking. You flinch. He notices. The grin falters for just a moment.

“Sorry. I’ll stay over here.” He drops onto a crate across from you, towel still looped around his neck, eyes scanning you with less mischief now and more curiosity. “What’s your name?”

You shake your head.

“No name? Mysterious. I like it.” He leans back and stretches his arms behind him. “Alright, no-name. You look cold. And like you haven’t eaten in a while. You planning on sleeping out here all night?”

You blink. “I have nowhere else to go.”

He studies you for a long time. “Fine. You can stay in my wagon. Just for tonight. I won’t touch you. I talk a lot, but I’m not a creep.” He scratches the back of his neck. “You’re probably better off there than out here, where Rigo might see you.”

You hesitate.

“You trust me?” he asks. You shake your head.

He laughs. Loud and unashamed. It startles you. “Good. That’s smart. But I’ll still offer.” He hops down and gestures. “Come on, Moon.”

“Moon?”

“You didn’t give me a name, so I gave you one.” His eyes soften. “You look like the moon tonight. Pale. Quiet. Far away from all of us.”

You say nothing, but you follow him.

You tell yourself it’s because anything is better than the cold.

The inside of his wagon smells like lemon oil and dust.

Not in a bad way—just lived-in, like someone’s been here too long without changing anything. Crumpled shirts hang from hooks, performance pants tossed over a stool, and a tiny mirror edged with fairy lights blinks at you from the wall. There’s a faded photo stuck in one corner—him as a boy, maybe fifteen, grinning with his arm around a tiger statue.

You hover at the threshold.

“It’s not much, but it’s warmer than outside,” he says, flicking the light on with a sharp click. “You can take the bed.”

You shake your head immediately.

“Come on. I’ve slept in worse places. The hay pile behind the giraffe cart? Unbelievable back support.” He grins again. He does that a lot, it seems—too easily. Too brightly. You don’t trust it.

You settle into the corner farthest from the door, your cloak pulled tight. He doesn’t push. He just throws himself onto the small bench under the window and crosses his arms behind his head like he hasn’t just invited a total stranger into his home.

“I’m Soonyoung, by the way,” he says. “But everyone calls me Hoshi.”

You don’t reply.

“‘Hoshi’ means ‘star’ in Japanese. My mom called me that when I was little.” He lifts a shoulder. “Thought it sounded cooler on posters than ‘Kwon Soonyoung the dancing idiot,’ so I kept it.”

Still, you don’t speak. You don’t owe him anything—not your voice, not your name, not your trust.

He shifts, observing you. His tone changes—softens.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I know what it’s like to… want to disappear for a while.”

You watch the way he fiddles with a gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s shaped like tiger fangs. Sharp. Delicate. Probably fake.

“Everyone here’s running from something. That’s kind of the circus’s thing, isn’t it?” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You run away, you join the show, and suddenly you’re someone else. Someone shinier. Safer.”

He lays back again with a sigh that sounds too tired for someone who laughs so much.

“I’m happy here.”

The words hit the floor between you with a dull thud. You don’t believe him.

The next few nights pass in a hush of repetition.

You wake in silence, hide during the day, and slip out only when it’s dark enough not to be seen. Hoshi smuggles you small pieces of fruit, leftover meat pies, and, once, a package of coloured pencils he claims he “borrowed indefinitely.” You nod your thanks, never quite sure what to do with his kindness.

He talks a lot.

About the time he tried tightrope walking and fell into the cotton candy machine. About the fire-breather who accidentally singed her own eyebrows. About the night a tiger escaped its cage and wandered into his wagon like it owned the place.

“I offered it my dinner. We’ve been cool ever since.”

You don’t laugh, but your mouth twitches. He notices. He always notices.

You stay hidden, but he never questions it. Never asks you to explain. And each night, when the music starts and the big top floods with light, you creep to your place behind the crates and watch him come alive.

He moves like he’s been set on fire and only the rhythm can put him out. Like if he stops dancing, he’ll vanish.

You draw him every time. The curve of his spine, the snap of his arms, the wildness in his grin when he lands a perfect flip.

You sketch until your fingers ache.

Until you know him by lines alone.

It happens five nights in.

You can’t sleep. The roof drips, the blankets itch, and something inside you is restless. Hoshi had told you he’d be late—extra rehearsals, he said. You slip from the wagon quietly, boots soft in the mud, coat pulled tight around your frame. The circus grounds are mostly dark—tents closed, wagons locked, fire pits reduced to embers.

You walk past a row of cages—empty now—and head toward the supply wagons when you hear it.

“You said it’d be done by now.”

It’s Hoshi’s voice. You freeze and duck behind a barrel.

“And I said the debt doesn’t clear just because you’re popular,” replies another voice—older, crueller. “You still owe me three hundred thousand. You want to leave, Soonyoung? Pay up. Until then, I own your name. Your act. Your body.”

"I’m trying. I’m performing every damn night—”

"And drinking away your cut by morning.”

"That’s not—”

"Don’t lie to me.”

You peer around the edge. Rigo—the ringmaster—stands with his back to you. Hoshi is in front of him, shirtless again, glitter smeared down his jawline. He looks smaller. Angrier.

“You said I’d be free by the Paris tour,” Hoshi mutters.

“And maybe you will be. If you keep earning.” Rigo steps closer. “But if you try to leave early, if you even think about running—I’ll find you. And I’ll break every bone you use to dance.”

Silence.

“Don’t forget who gave you a stage when the world laughed you off it.”

The ringmaster walks away. Hoshi stays still for a long time, fists clenched, chest heaving. When he finally turns, you’re already gone.

Hoshi comes back late that night, humming some off-key melody, sweat dripping from the nape of his neck.

“Moon, I brought—hey, you okay?”

You’re sitting on the floor, paper and pencils scattered around you. One sketch lies in your lap, the most detailed one yet.

You don’t answer. You just hand it to him. He looks down.

A tiger in a cage.

Its shoulders are hunched, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Its paws are bruised. Its tail is curled tight against the bars. But its eyes… its eyes are still burning.

He blinks. “Is this… me?”

You look up at him. And for once, you don’t hide the sadness in your face. “You’re not happy here.”

He doesn’t smile this time. He just kneels down slowly beside you, gaze never leaving the drawing. He places it gently on the bench, then leans back on his heels.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not.”

One morning, without warning, he throws a scarf at your face.

“You need air,” Hoshi says, grinning as he pulls on his boots. “And you’re gonna get it.”

You flinch when the scarf hits your cheek, even though it doesn’t hurt. He notices. His grin falters but doesn’t fade completely.

“You’ll come with me. I’ll show you around. Just don’t tell anyone you’ve been living in my wagon rent-free.”

You hesitate. Fear creeps into your stomach like spoiled wine. If they find out what you are—who you were—there’s no telling what Rigo will do. Or worse, who he might call.

Hoshi holds out his hand. Open. Steady.

“I’ll tell them you’re the new sketch artist. That the boss approved it. No one questions my mouth anymore. Too loud to argue with.”

You don’t take his hand, but you follow him anyway.

The circus in the daylight is nothing like the spectacle at night.

The glitter is dulled. The costumes hang in long rows on wires, limp and sequined. Elephants bathe lazily near buckets of water, and smoke curls from frying pans where breakfast burns on open fires.

You walk closely behind Hoshi, the scarf clutched tight around your neck, chin tucked low into the fabric. He’s all motion and brightness—waving, laughing, tossing casual greetings around.

“Morning, Andrei!”

"Hey, Mira! Save me a biscuit this time!”

People nod. Smile. Some glare. He doesn’t seem to care.

When he finally introduces you, it’s with a flippant gesture and a wink. “This is Moon. She’s our new sketch artist. Bit shy, but brilliant. Like a raccoon with talent.”

You keep your eyes down. Offer a small nod. Most people nod back with vague disinterest—too tired or too wary to care. Some squint.

A few notice the tension in your shoulders.

One of the acrobats—a tall, wiry man named Luca with sharp cheekbones and a cruel smile—lingers. He steps close. Too close.

“Didn’t know we were letting in strays now,” he says, eyeing you like a spider eyes a fly. “You get her off the street, Hoshi? Or also into your bed?”

The words land sharp and cold. You stiffen. Hoshi goes quiet.

Then he steps between you and Luca, shoulders squared. His voice loses its brightness.

“Watch your mouth.”

Luca raises an eyebrow, smirking, as he walks off.

“I’m just saying—Rigo won’t like it when he finds out you’re hiding runaways. You know how he feels about… damaged goods.”

That word—damaged—splits something open inside your chest.

You turn away, hands shaking, throat closing around the ache that’s been building since you stepped out of the shadows.

“He’s got the personality of spoiled cabbage,” Hoshi mutters as he catches up to you. “Ignore him.”

But you’re already spiralling.

As the tour continues, a juggler brushes too close behind you. A fire breather claps a hand on your shoulder in greeting, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been burned. Hoshi sees it. Every time.

When you finally slip away after dinner, you think no one notices.

You sit behind the main tent, knees drawn up to your chest, arms wrapped around your ribs like you’re trying to keep your bones from shattering. The sounds of rehearsal echo nearby—drums, whip cracks, the creak of wires overhead—but they feel far away.

Your breathing’s shallow. Your cheeks are damp with fallen tears. You hate how familiar this feeling is.

Powerless. Exposed. Vulnerable.

You thought you were past this. Thought the circus would be different.

A shadow moves in the corner of your vision.

You tense, expecting harsh words, maybe worse—but it’s just Hoshi.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t ask what happened.

He just sits cross-legged beside you, arms resting on his knees, not touching. Not pressing. Just breathing beside you like it’s the easiest thing in the world to share the same air with someone breaking.

You wait for questions. There are none. The minutes pass in silence, broken only by the occasional shout from the tent or the distant bray of a donkey.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your breath evens out.

And then—“I hate his guts.”

Hoshi’s voice is low. You glance at him.

“Luca,” he adds, as if it needs clarification. “Always sniffing around like he’s the ringleader’s favourite pet. I’m gonna replace his shampoo with glue one of these days.”

Your laugh comes unexpectedly. A real one. Crooked. Barely there. But it’s enough. He grins, but not in a triumphant way. In a relieved one.

“Better. That suits you more than silence, Moon.”

You don’t reply.

But when he rises and offers his hand again, you take it.

And when the two of you curl up that night in opposite corners of the wagon—backs to each other—there’s something binding in the silence.

And you sleep. For the first time in years.

You’ve never had someone bring you gifts before.

Not ones that weren’t dripping in expectation. Not ones that didn’t come with strings wrapped around your throat.

But Hoshi doesn’t tie bows around his kindness. He just… offers.

First, it’s a bundle of dried flowers—pressed and quirky, the kind that only bloom in colder months. He drops them beside your sketchpad one morning with a wink and a shrug.

“Found them near the trapeze wagon. Figured you might like dead things that look pretty.”

You don’t react. But you take them.

Then it’s a tin of coloured charcoal blocks—half-used, dull at the tips, but vibrant in your hands. The reds are bright, the blues deep. You don’t ask where he got them.

“Artist tools for my artistic shadow,” he says. “Now you can sketch me with proper flair. Make me taller, okay?”

Later, two perfectly peeled oranges, tucked in a napkin.

“You don’t eat enough,” he says, plopping beside you on the wagon step, his shoulder close but not touching. “You’re gonna float away at this rate. Then who’ll sketch my dramatic death leaps?”

You split one in half and hand it back to him without a word. He grins. Like he always does.

That night, he lights a candle in the middle of the wagon and sets it between you. The wax pools golden, flickering against the walls, throwing soft shadows across his face.

He talks while you draw. He always talks.

About his tiger routine, and how he once landed wrong and cracked two ribs but didn’t tell anyone. About a show in Prague where the audience threw roses—and one pair of underwear—onto the stage. About the time the tightrope snapped mid-performance and the crowd thought it was part of the act.

“I stuck the landing, though. Obviously.”

You glance at him.

“Barely broke my ankle. Ten out of ten.” He winks.

Your hand pauses on the page. A laugh itches in your throat but doesn’t come out.

“You’re hard to crack, Moon,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “I’m trying not to pry, I swear. But sometimes I look at you, and it’s like... I dunno. Like you’re made of glass, but all the sharp parts are turned inward.”

The candle flickers. So do you. He doesn’t ask anything else that night. Just hums while you sketch.

You don’t show him the drawing, but he smiles like you did.

You start watching him at night.

When the circus sleeps, and only the stars keep time, you slip out barefoot and perch behind the tent. He practices long after the others have stopped. Moves with a fever in his body, like he’s chasing something no one else can see.

Tonight, his shirt is discarded in a heap on the floor, and sweat slicks his spine as he flips, lands, stretches—again and again. No music. Just the beat of his breath and the slap of his feet against the pallet floors.

He stumbles. Not hard, but enough that he swears under his breath. You hear it—“Shit.”—followed by the dull sound of him sitting heavily on the edge of the platform.

He doesn’t notice you at first.

Then—“Moon?”

You freeze. He turns toward your hiding place, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

“You always watch from the dark, don’t you?”

You don’t move. But he doesn’t seem upset.

“I don’t mind,” he says, softer now. “Just wish I knew what you saw when you looked at me.”

You step into the candlelight. Not fully. Just enough to be seen.

He smiles, but it’s tired. Raw.

“Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly. “Not running. Just… stepping out. Free. New city. New name.”

You say nothing.

He looks down at his hands.

“I wanted Paris.”

The words are quieter now. Less Hoshi, more Soonyoung.

“I used to dream about it every night. Dancing in Montmartre. On a stage that mattered. I wanted to be someone people wrote about. Someone remembered.”

He chuckles bitterly. “Instead, I sold my soul to a man who locks animals in cages and calls it art.”

You take another step forward. He doesn’t look at you. Just continues to stare at his palms.

“I owe him too much. Money. Time. My best years. I perform, and he lets me breathe. That’s the deal. That’s the cage.”

Your heart twists. Because you understand. More than he knows.

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, “I think I could just disappear. Walk out into the night and never stop walking. But then I remember—no one would come looking.” He says it with a crooked smile.

Your voice is rough when you speak. Barely a whisper. But it slices through the night like a thread of silver.

“I would.”

He freezes. His head lifts. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

You’re not sure why you said it. Or maybe you are. Perhaps you’ve known since the first time he called you Moon and smiled like he meant it.

The silence that follows is the kind that lands heavily on your skin.

“Say that again,” he breathes.

You shake your head. He doesn’t ask again.

Instead, he stands. Walks over. Stops a step away. You brace—but he doesn’t touch you. He sits down beside you. Cross-legged in the dirt.

Like he did the other night. No questions. No explanations.

Just two lonely things pretending—for a moment—that they are not alone.

They call it The Velvet Night.

Once a month, the circus throws a masquerade for its wealthiest patrons—aristocrats in velvet, merchants with too many rings and not enough kindness, and strangers with mouths that never smile unless they’re closing a deal. The ringmaster loves them, of course. Their wallets are heavier than their morals, and they pay for illusions like addicts pay for Nirvana.

Tonight, the tents are lined with gold silk. Wine flows like water. Lanterns flicker from every beam and rope. The world smells like roses, sweat, and something sour beneath.

You spend the day in the costuming wagon, where Mira and the others chatter and laugh around you, unaware—or uncaring—that your hands shake every time you touch lace or ribbon. The feel of silk between your fingers makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of curtains. Of rooms that locked from the outside.

You sew quietly. You keep your head down.

Hoshi pops in at one point, barefoot and smiling. “Moon,” he says, eyes lighting up. “Come watch tonight. I’ve got a new finish. It’s dramatic as hell. Might pull a muscle for it.”

You nod. He winks and disappears.

Night falls; the masquerade begins.

You don’t risk going near the centre tent where the patrons gather, but from a side flap, you catch glimpses. Silk gowns. Flashing jewelry. Glasses filled with golden liquid. Painted lips and empty laughter.

You know this kind of party. The kind where you aren’t a person—just something to look at, to own, to touch if no one’s watching. Your stomach turns.

Still, you stay. Because Hoshi is in there. And for reasons you can’t name, you need to see him. You lean against a pole, hidden in the dark, mask in your hand, breath held.

And then he steps into the ring.

He wears black tonight. A fitted, sleeveless top that sparkles under the lights and tight pants that hug the strength in his legs. His face is hidden behind a white and gold mask that glints with each movement.

Every turn, every snap of his limbs is poetry. He spins for them. Leaps for them. Smiles for them. And none of them know how much it costs him.

You know. You see it in the way his shoulders dip just a fraction too low when the music fades. How his chest rises with effort, not excitement.

And then— It happens.

A woman in red—older, tall, with lips the colour of blood—pulls him in with her fingertips. She slips folded bills into the waistband of his pants. Laughs. Says something you can’t hear.

And he—He kisses her hand. Grinning. Flashing that perfect, practised smile.

You stagger back as if struck. The breath leaves you in a rush.

You turn before you can see anything else and walk—fast—into the darkness behind the wagons.

You don’t stop walking until your legs shake.

You end up behind the animal cages, near the row of hay bales where the fire breathers warm up in the mornings. No one comes here at night. It’s too quiet, too far from the music and the masks.

You sit. And the tears come.

You don’t mean to cry. Not like this. Not because of him. Not because he kissed someone’s hand and smiled like it meant something. But it pulls at a memory buried so deep inside you, you had almost forgotten about it.

You curl your knees up. Bury your face in your arms. Try to pretend you’re somewhere else. But the memory creeps in anyway.

Men with cold rings and even colder hands. A room that smelled like wine and roses. The sharp click of heels. The way they’d touch your face like you weren’t even there.

Used. Brushed aside. Forgotten. Always forgotten.

You thought it might be different here. And that makes you hate yourself more.

“Moon?”

Your body jolts, instinct screaming hide—but it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Hoshi approaches slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal.

“I saw you leave. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he says softly. “Can I… sit?”

You nod without looking up. He lowers himself onto the hay beside you, hands between his knees, gaze turned away. Silence stretches.

Then, in a voice you barely recognize as your own—“They used to make us smile, too.”

He stills.

You don’t look at him. You can’t. But the words keep spilling out, hoarse and thin, like something cracked inside you and finally let loose.

“At the brothel. We were supposed to laugh. Greet them like old friends. Let them touch us. Call it work. Call it love.”

You swallow hard. “They paid for what they took. That made it okay, they said.”

The air grows heavier with every word you whisper.

“Some of them liked it when we cried. Said it made us look real.” You feel your hands shake in your lap.

“I learned not to cry. Not to move. Not to exist, if I could help it.”

You finally look up. And he’s watching you. Not with pity. Not even with shock. Just quiet, fierce grief. Tears fill his eyes but don’t quite fall.

“Moon,” he whispers.

You flinch when he reaches out. His hand hovers near yours. But he stops.

“Can I hold you?” he asks.

Your throat closes. Your nod is barely a twitch. But he sees it.

He wraps his arms around you. Not tightly. Not hungrily. Just… safely. You don’t know the last time someone held you like this. Not to use. Not to consume. Just to be there.

He doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or, promises or empty words.

He just breathes. You feel his chest rise and fall. Feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek. His hand rubs gentle, slow circles across your back—no pressure. Just presence.

You cry again. This time, without shame.

And he stays.

The circus rolls into another town. Another foggy field. Another string of faceless patrons with fat wallets and vacant eyes. You’ve stopped caring where you are. All that matters is the tent. The rope lights. The sketches you leave scattered across Hoshi’s wagon table.

You sketch him constantly now. Not just onstage.

As he braids Mira’s hair between acts. As he sleeps curled on his side, hand under his cheek. As he rubs ointment onto his bruised knees.

Your pencils know the shape of his body like religion.

One night, you wait behind the curtain as the show ends.

He finishes his routine, glittering and breathless, but tonight, he’s a half-second off. His landings are sharp, but not as sharp as they should be. His final pose holds less punch, like his mind is somewhere else.

And Rigo notices.

As the crowd erupts into applause, the ringmaster stalks over to him like a storm cloud.

“What the hell was that?” Rigo snaps, grabbing Hoshi’s arm before he’s fully off-stage.

“It was fine,” Hoshi mutters, panting slightly.

“No. It was distracted. Sloppy. You’re better than that—so what’s got your head up your ass lately?”

Hoshi wrenches his arm free, jaw clenched. He sees you, just over Rigo’s shoulder, and his eyes soften for half a second.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” he offers.

“Then wake up,” Rigo growls. “You don’t get tired. You get perfect. That’s the deal.”

He walks off before Hoshi can reply.

You slip back into the shadows, heart hammering. The guilt feels sudden. Sharp. You wonder if you’re the reason his landings aren’t clean anymore.

You wonder if you’re unravelling him.

That night, you sit together outside the wagon.

The stars are unusually bright—clear for once, not clouded by fog or smoke. Hoshi sits beside you, hands clasped in front of his knees, chin resting on them. You watch the wind curl through his hair.

“We’re going to Paris next month,” he says suddenly.

You glance at him.

“It’s our biggest show. Rigo’s been hyping it for years. We’ll be at the Palais Garnier, if you can believe it.” He laughs once. “Me. In a building with gold ceilings. What a joke.”

You nudge your shoulder against his gently. He sighs.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it.

“After the Paris show. Slipping out during the night. Starting over. No more debt. No more cages. Just a train. A map. A backpack. I’ve saved enough. Barely, but enough.” He finally turns his head toward you. His voice is quieter now. More vulnerable. “I want you to come with me.”

You freeze.

His eyes search yours—not pleading, but open.

“I know you’re scared. I know you don’t trust easily. But I trust you.” A beat. “You’re the first real thing I’ve found in years, Moon.”

You stare at him, and your heart twists.

Because you want to say yes. You want to leave.

But part of you still believes you’re a shadow. Something cursed. You don’t want to ruin whatever light he has left.

So you lower your gaze.

He just whispers, “Think about it.”

You don’t sleep that night.

And by morning, everything has changed.

Hoshi bursts into the wagon, jaw tight, eyes furious.

“He knows.”

The words are like ice in your veins.

“Rigo. He knows about you.”

You rise slowly, heart pounding. “How?”

"Luca.” His mouth twists. “Little bastard must’ve told him last night. He told Rigo everything. That you’re not crew. That you’ve been staying in my wagon.”

You swallow hard. He sees your fear. Tries to soften it.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll—”

A voice cuts through the air like a whip.

“So this is the little stray.”

Rigo stands at the entrance, dressed in dark green and gold, his ringmaster cane tapping ominously against the threshold.

You shrink back. Rigo steps into the wagon like he owns it. Because he does.

“No name. No papers. No protection. You know what that makes you, sweetheart?” His voice drips like poison. “Sellable.”

Hoshi steps between you, blocking Rigo’s path.

“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”

Rigo lifts a brow.

“Brave words for someone still owing me two hundred grand.”

"Take me instead,” Hoshi spits. “Whatever it is you want from her, I’ll do it. I’ll clean cages. Dance double. Fucking wear a leash if you want—just don’t touch her.”

You’re trembling.

Rigo narrows his eyes. Then—without warning—he strikes.

A backhand. Brutal. Fast.

Hoshi stumbles back with a choked sound, blood already blooming at the corner of his mouth.

You scream. Instinct. Terror. Rage.

You move forward, but Hoshi lifts a hand, even through the pain.

“Stay back.”

"You want to keep her?” Rigo sneers. “Fine. She’s your debt now. Double it. Four hundred grand. Pay it, or I send her back to the brothel myself.”

He turns, storming out as the door slams shut behind him.

And the silence that follows is deafening.

You wait until Hoshi falls asleep in his bunk—after you’ve cleaned the blood from his lip and kissed his forehead so softly he doesn’t stir—to leave. You pack nothing. Take nothing.

Just your cloak, your boots, and a sketchbook filled with drawings of him.

You run. To protect him. To protect yourself.

He might hate you for leaving, but that’s a price you’re willing to pay.

You don’t know the name of the city you end up in.

The circus had stopped on the edge of somewhere cold, grey, faceless—one of those in-between places that no one dreams about and no one stays in unless they have nowhere else to go.

You walk around with your cloak pulled tight, eyes darting with every step you take. No one notices you. That’s good. That’s the goal.

Disappear. Blend in. Be nothing again.

It’s easier than it should be.

By mid-afternoon, your stomach is growling with hunger.

You pass a street market where vendors shout over one another, hands waving, eyes hawk-sharp. You linger near a bread stall. Time it. When the seller turns his back to argue with a customer, you slide a roll off the edge of the cart and disappear into the crowd.

You do the same with an apple not long after. Your hands still shake when you tuck it into your pocket. But your feet don’t stop moving.

You’ve learned that survival means guilt becomes background noise.

That night, it rains.

You find shelter beneath a wide stone bridge, its arch stretching over a river that smells of metal and sewage. You press your back to the cold wall, knees drawn up, the stolen bread long gone. The apple you save for tomorrow.

You watch the raindrops trace lines across the river’s surface and pretend you’re okay. You’re not. You miss the wagon. The scent of lemon oil and warm blankets. The candle he lit each night—flickering against wood-panelled walls. You miss him.

The way he called you Moon like it was sacred. The way he let you be quiet without demanding answers. The way he looked at you like you weren’t broken.

You don’t allow yourself to cry.

You just press your forehead to your knees and breathe through the ache of everything.

The next morning, you wake soaked, sore, and starving.

You spend the day trying to find a way out.

You walk into a café, asking if they need help in the back. They glance at your dirty clothes and shake their heads.

You try a laundry service. A florist. A small bookshop with dusty windows.

Every time:

“We’re not hiring.”

"No experience?”

"Come back another day.”

You leave each time with your head lower than before.

By sundown, your apple is gone, and your coin purse is empty. You can feel the panic start to creep in again—sharp, familiar, suffocating.

You turn a corner, not even sure where you’re going, and walk faster.

You’re trying to think, trying to plan, when you hear it.

“Angel?”

The name slices through the air like a whip. You haven’t heard that in a long time.

“Angel, is that you?”

Across the street, under a flickering lamp post, stands a man in a long coat with a hat pulled low around his eyes. Older. Heavy. His mouth curls into a grin you know too well.

“Thought I’d recognise that little walk anywhere. Been years, but damn. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Your heart launches itself into your throat. You turn and keep walking.

“Don’t be like that, Angel!” he calls louder. “Come say hi to an old friend!”

You walk faster.

“Come on, you remember me, don’t you? You used to like me. Said I was your favourite.”

That sets you off. Your feet slam against the pavement. Your eyes scan for an escape. Shops are closed. The street is empty. You don’t dare look back.

“ANGEL!”

The shout becomes a bark. A threat. You start running.

Your breath comes out sharp and ragged. Your boots slip on the slick stones. You round a corner, then another. Behind you, footsteps thunder.

He’s chasing you.

And this time, it’s not for a transaction. You stumble past an alley and are about to keep going when a hand grabs your arm.

You scream—but another hand clamps over your mouth, and you’re yanked into the shadows and dragged underneath a rusted fire escape.

Your body thrashes until you hear the voice.

“Shh. It’s me.” Your blood stills.

“Moon. It’s me.” The voice presses against your ear like a balm. “It’s me. It’s Hoshi.”

You don’t believe it—not for a second—until you turn your head and see his eyes in the dark. Wide. Familiar.

And then footsteps pass.

“Angel! Where the fuck did you go?”

You go rigid. Hoshi’s arm around your waist tightens just a little. His other hand stays over your mouth, steady but gentle. You both breathe as silently as you can.

“I know you’re out here!” the man shouts, voice slurring now. “You can run, but I will find you. You’re mine, you little—”

The words cut off as his footsteps fade down the street.

You wait. Long after he’s gone. Until the only sound left is the wind shaking loose a gutter pipe above you.

Hoshi finally lowers his hand. You suck in a breath like you haven’t in hours. Your heart is hammering inside your chest. Your fingers tremble as you look at him—really look at him.

He’s soaked. Panting. His shirt is half untucked. Eyes brimming with worry.

“You—how—what are you doing here?” you whisper.

He exhales through a shaky laugh.

“Looking for you, obviously.”

You stare, stunned. “How did you find me?”

"You’re not exactly subtle when you run away in the middle of the night with nothing but your coat.”

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the sketch you made the first night you saw him. The one you left behind.

“I figured you wouldn’t go far.” His voice is softer now. “And I couldn’t—” He breaks off. Looks down. “I couldn’t let you leave like that.”

Your throat is thick. Your hands curl at your sides.

“But Rigo—he’ll kill you if you keep protecting me. He said—”

"I don’t care what he said.” His voice sharpens. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll work twice as hard. I’ll sell my ring, my shoes, I don’t care. I’ll dance until my legs break.” He steps closer. “But I’m not letting you disappear again.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. He keeps going.

“You said once that you would come looking for me.” His hand brushes your sleeve. “So now I’ve come looking for you.”

You don’t mean to. You don’t plan it.

But you step forward, fists balling into his shirt, and you crash into him like the sky’s falling.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his chest.

He melts around you instantly. His arms wrap around you, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

“I’ve got you now,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Moon.”

The wagon looks exactly as you left it.

Your coat drapes over the corner of the bench, the coloured charcoals still lay scattered across the table beside a stack of half-finished sketches. The candle is fresh now, a new stub melting quietly in the jar you used to stare at every night.

You sit down in the same spot you slept in for weeks, staring at the flame until your hands stop shaking.

Hoshi hovers like he’s afraid you might vanish again. He doesn’t touch you—but he doesn’t take his eyes off you either. You don’t mind. For once, it’s comforting. A tether instead of a chain.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You’re safe. That’s what matters.”

The circus moves two days later.

Another town. Another dirt lot. Another field where fog clings low and the ringmaster’s voice cuts through the morning like a cleaver.

No one knows you’re back except for Mira and the twins from the rigging crew, who catch glimpses of you slipping into Hoshi’s wagon at odd hours. They don’t say anything.

Hoshi’s return, however, doesn’t go unnoticed.

The moment he sets foot near the main tent, Rigo is on him.

“Gone two nights,” the ringmaster growls through gritted teeth. “Two full shows missed without a word.”

"I was scouting a location. Spoke to the fire-breather about it weeks ago,” Hoshi lies smoothly, with just enough annoyance in his tone to pass for truth.

You listen from behind a canvas divider, heart in your throat.

Luca stands nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look smug.

Rigo eyes Hoshi but doesn’t press.

“If it happens again,” he says, voice dropping, “I’ll have another very interesting conversation with a friend of mine back in the city. Runs a brothel. Says he’s been looking for one of his girls. Thought she’d vanished. Sad story.”

Your blood runs cold.

“You leave again without permission,” Rigo continues, “and I’ll be sure to point him in the direction of our last stop. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Hoshi says nothing. But his fists are clenched. You can see it even from here. The trap is set.

And there is nothing either of you can do.

Because if he leaves, you’ll be taken back.

And if he stays, he’ll be ruined.

When he finds you later, you act as if you haven’t heard anything. You reassure him, a smile gracing your lips that doesn’t reach your eyes. “All good. Nothing to worry about.”

On your way to the next stop, Hoshi tells you he wants to debut something new.

“A solo,” he explains, eyes lit up. “But not just me. I want it to be our piece.”

You stare at him, confused.

“Your sketches,” he explains, stepping closer. “You capture me better than any mirror ever could. I want to bring that version of me to the stage.”

You hesitate, he notices.

“Come on, Moon. We’ll choreograph it together. In secret. It’ll be just ours.”

You nod. Because how could you not?

You spend nights in empty tents and behind curtains, moving with him. Not dancing, not really—but guiding. Sketchbook in hand, you draw each frame. Each leap. Each reach. He watches your eyes more than your lines, and listens when you say “Again”. It becomes something else. Something that belongs to both of you. Not the circus. Not Rigo. Just you.

The night of the performance, he doesn’t tell anyone what he’s doing.

He steps into the center ring in silence, no music at first. The crowd murmurs. Rigo frowns from his usual spot near the edge of the tent but says nothing.

Then the lights dim. A spotlight blooms. And Hoshi begins to move.

It’s slower than his usual routines. Less about spectacle, more about story. Every line of his body carries emotion—grief, yearning, rage, release. He uses space like it’s water, shifting in and out of it with the grace of something both wild and controlled.

You watch from the shadows, breath caught. Because this—this is not a cage.

This is art. This is flight. This is freedom.

He ends on his knees, back arched, chest heaving, arms thrown wide like he’s asking to be struck by lightning.

And for the first time in months, the audience is silent.

Then—Thunderous applause. They stand. They shout.

Yet, Rigo doesn’t smile.

While you help Mira gather some of the costume bins behind the dressing tent, you hear voices again.

You duck behind a rack of sequined jackets, crouching low.

“What was that tonight?” Rigo snaps. “That wasn’t the act we approved.”

"You said as long as he performs, you don’t care what it looks like,” Luca mutters.

“I said I want obedience. That little stunt was defiance dressed up in glitter.”

A pause. Then—

“How much does he owe you again?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Rigo growls. “I’ll change the amount however I want. Interest, late shows, fines. He’ll never pay it off. That’s the point.”

“And if he tries to leave again?”

"We remind him what happens to little strays who don’t know their place.”

You don’t hear the rest. You’re already slipping away, eyes wide, chest tight.

Hoshi doesn’t know. He thinks the debt is manageable. That there’s an end to it. But there isn’t. There never was.

The next city is louder than the last.

Cobbled streets overflow with carriages and clamour. Street performers clog every corner. Posters for the circus flutter on every lamppost.

You help him dress backstage that evening, hands tightening the clasps of his costume as he stretches his arms above his head. He hums off-key, as usual, pretending not to wince when his shoulder cracks.

“Nervous?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Always,” he says with a grin, though the tremor beneath it betrays him. “But it helps that I know you’ll be watching.”

You smile. It’s faint. But real.

He cups your chin with one gloved hand, eyes searching your face like he’s trying to memorise you again. You lean into his palm before he can pull it away.

“Come back to me after,” you murmur.

“Always.”

You don’t see the man in the suit approach him.

You don’t hear the words exchanged at the edge of the ring after the show when the lights are dimming, and the crowd is dispersing.

You don’t see the glint of a silver card passed from one palm to another.

But Luca does. And that’s enough.

Hoshi returns later than usual that night.

You’re in the wagon, seated cross-legged on the bench, one of his shirts in your lap. Mending it. Or pretending to. Every sound outside sends your heart leaping.

When the door finally creaks open, you look up—and freeze.

He’s pale. His mouth is drawn tight. He walks like he’s trying not to breathe too deep.

“You’re late,” you whisper, rising quickly.

“Got caught in the crowd,” he replies, his voice hoarse.

You cross the floor in two strides and reach for his arm. He jerks it back instinctively. Your heart drops.

“What happened?”

"Nothing, Moon. Really. I’m just tired.”

You narrow your eyes, and you step closer.

He won’t meet your gaze.

“Take off your shirt.”

"What? No, I—”

"Take. It. Off.”

His jaw tightens.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you add, softer now. “Not here.”

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Then, without a word, he reaches for the hem and pulls the shirt over his head.

Bruises bloom like dark petals across his ribs and chest. Long, red welts streak across his back—angry, raised, and recent. Some are still bleeding. Others already begin to purple.

“Rigo,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Hoshi says nothing. Just stands there, eyes closed, like he’s waiting for you to flinch away.

Instead, you reach out. Your fingers brush gently across one of the bruises, barely touching. He hisses softly—but not from pain.

“He beat you.”

"It’s not the first time.”

"Because of me?”

"No.” His eyes flash open, fierce. “Not because of you. Because I might’ve had a way out. Because someone else saw what I could be, and he can’t stand that.”

"A scout?”

He nods.

“Asked if I was under contract. Told me he’d seen my last two performances. Said I had something rare.” He swallows. “I didn’t even say yes. I just took his card.”

You don’t need to ask what happened next.

Your stomach churns. Rage bubbles in your throat, bitter and thick.

“I’ll kill him,” you whisper. “I swear to god, I’ll kill him.”

"It’s nothing.”

"Don’t say that.”

He finally looks up.

And it’s you he sees now—not the artist, not the runaway—but the woman who’s watched him from the shadows every night since he met her.

“This place will kill you before it frees you,” you say.

“Then what do we do?"

Your hands reach for his.

“We burn it down.”

It begins with Mira.

You approach her first. The seamstress with needles tucked into her bun and burns on her fingers. You show her Hoshi’s bruises. You don’t say a word. Just let her see. She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then she nods.

“It’s about time.”

Then Andrei.

The tall, silent strongman with eyes like storm clouds and a permanent frown. He’d always been kind to Hoshi. Had once given you half a sandwich without asking why you were hiding behind crates.

He listens. He nods once. Then he spits on the ground.

“I’ll handle the locks.”

Then, the twins—Illya and Ivan.

Aerialists with matching red hair and scars on their ankles from the silk ropes. They’d grown up in the circus. Their parents hadn’t been as lucky.

When Hoshi tells them the plan, they glance at each other—then smile, cold and sharp.

“We’ll give them a show they’ll never forget,” Illya says.

“And if Rigo ends up gagged in a lion cage, well…” Ivan shrugs. “Oops.”

It becomes something more than revenge. It becomes a rebellion.

One by one, performers start pulling their weight for Hoshi, stalling for him, hiding you in plain sight.

You and Hoshi begin mapping out everything.

You sketch the grounds, mark the weak points, the tent poles soaked in oil, the ropes fraying after years of neglect.

Hoshi studies fire escapes like choreography. Practices his flips in silence. His eyes burn with purpose again.

And every night on your way to Paris, before the candle goes out, you sleep with your hand in his.

The Palais Garnier gleams like a dream—its chandeliers sparkle, marble stairs echo with polished footsteps, and every guest inside wears something that costs more than your entire life.

It is Paris. And tonight, the circus burns.

You stand just outside the main tent, your body cloaked in dark rain-slick fabric, the matchbox clenched in your hand.

The performers pass around each other like whispers—disguised in their roles, eyes meeting in split seconds of silent code. Tonight isn’t a performance. It’s a war.

Mira helped you lace your boots extra tight. Andrei handed you the rope soaked in kerosene. Illya gave you a pocket knife, “just in case.”

No one says goodbye.

You’re not sure if that’s superstition, or fear.

Across the field, on the opposite end of the canvas, Hoshi slips into the beast tent. You catch one last glimpse of him. His white and silver costume shimmers against the lighting. No mask. Just his face, taut with focus, damp hair clinging to his temples.

He looks back once. His eyes find yours. And you nod.

Then, he vanishes into the shadows.

Inside the ring, the final act is about to begin.

The guests—drunk on champagne and artificial wonder—roar in their seats. Rigo stands just behind the curtain, adjusting his cuffs and sipping dark liquor from a cut-crystal glass. His cane, tiger-head-topped and gold-plated, rests against his thigh.

“They think they’ve seen a show already,” he smirks to Luca. “Wait ‘til the beast steps out. Solomon’s presence raises the price of the ticket by tenfold.”

"Are you sure it’s wise?” Luca murmurs. “He was twitchy this morning.”

“They’re all twitchy before a crowd.” Rigo scoffs. “That’s what makes them pliable. And Soonyoung knows better than to disappoint me again.”

He chuckles, cruel and smug. “Besides, the tiger knows who owns him.”

You circle the outer rim of the tent now, fingers trembling as you reach the section Mira marked in chalk—just behind the main structure, near a weak seam in the canvas wall. It’s here you strike the match.

The sulfur flares with a hiss, gold against the grey.

The flame eats the rope greedily.

The wind carries the flames faster than expected, wrapping around the edge of the tent. The fire is elegant at first—just a shimmer. A flickering glow.

Then, the fuel kicks in. And the tent goes up like a furnace.

Inside, Rigo freezes mid-sip.

The crowd begins to murmur—then shout.

“What the—” he barks, turning toward the entrance. The smoke has reached the curtains. Flames curl upward in waves.

“Someone put that out! What’s happening?!”

Luca runs out with two other crew members. Chaos explodes like firecrackers. Chairs overturn. Guests push toward exits, masks slipping from sweat-soaked faces.

Then, a roar splits the air, but it doesn’t come from the crowd.

It’s deeper. Wilder. Rigo pales.

“That’s not possible.”

He turns— and sees the gate of Solomon’s cage wide open.

The chain lies coiled on the ground.

“No. No, no, no—WHERE IS HE?! WHO LET HIM OUT?!”

He stumbles back as the tiger emerges.

Solomon moves slowly at first, padding across the ring with terrifying grace. He is not panicked. He is not afraid. He is free.

The audience flees. Performers scatter.

And in the centre of the smoke and madness, Rigo stands—frozen. His cane shakes in his grip.

“Easy now,” he whispers, stepping backwards. “You’re trained. You know me. You know your master.”

But Solomon does not stop.

He snarls low as his eyes gleam with something cold. You watch from outside the tent, unable to move, unable to breathe.

Rigo lifts his cane like it’s a sword.

“You obey me!”

And then Solomon pounces.

The cane flies from Rigo’s hand as claws tear through his coat and skin. Rigo screams—a high, broken sound that echoes like a death rattle inside the inferno. He stumbles to the floor, arms flailing, trying to crawl, trying to beg, but Solomon bites down.

The tent is fully ablaze now.

A final scream is lost in the roar of collapsing canvas and shattering beams.

And just like that—Rigo is gone.

There’s only one last thing left to do.

You reach his wagon on the far edge of the circus grounds.

It’s massive—more like a carriage fit for royalty than a travelling performer’s quarters. The door, somehow, is unlocked.

Of course, it is. Overconfidence always did follow arrogance.

You slip inside and close the door silently behind you. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and expensive cologne. The velvet drapes are half-drawn.

You move quickly.

The room is cluttered—brass fixtures, crystal glasses, boxes of cigars. But your eyes are sharp now, your purpose clearer than fear. You open drawers. Tear through desk cabinets. Rifling past letters, ledgers, and a pile of guest receipts.

Nothing.

Then—you find it.

A narrow cabinet beneath the liquor shelf. Locked. You pry it open with the tip of your knife.

Inside, you find a thick stack of bound papers, folders, and cash.

You search quickly until your fingers close around one with a name written in thick black ink across the top.

Kwon Soonyoung.

You grab it. Beneath it is a yellowed envelope, fat with bills—more than you’ve ever seen in one place.

You shove both into a satchel, sling it over your shoulder and turn toward the door.

“Going somewhere, Angel?”

Luca stands in the doorway, his face dirty with ash and smoke, eyes wide with fury.

“You stupid, stupid bitch.”

Meanwhile, Hoshi is running.

Rain pelts down in sharp slashes. His chest heaves as he pushes through the brush and out toward the clearing.

The rendezvous point, where you should already be.

He drops the bags—his and yours—by the base of the tree where you promised to meet.

“Moon?” he calls. Nothing.

“Moon!” Still nothing.

He turns, scanning the tree line, frantic.

Mira appears first, drenched and panting, dragging a case of costumes behind her. Then Andrei, carrying one of the twins—Illya, maybe—with blood on his shirt. Ivan stumbles in next, singed and coughing.

One by one, they arrive. Except you.

Back in the wagon, Luca steps inside and slams the door behind him. “You think you can just destroy us and walk away?” He bellows. “You think he’s free? He’ll never be free. Not from this. Not from what he is.”

You stand your ground even though your body is already coiled like a spring.

“Rigo owned that tiger,” Luca spits. “He made all of this. You think you’re better than us? You think you’re something because Hoshi likes you?”

He spits the words like it’s poison.

“You’re still just a broken whore who’s good at looking sad.”

You don’t have time to answer.

He lunges.

His hand strikes your face first—hard, open-palmed, knocking you into the desk. Pain blooms across your cheekbone.

Before you can recover, he kicks you in the side. You cry out and crumple against the cabinet.

“You ruined everything,” he growls, dragging you up by your hair. “He could have had a future. We all could. But no—you had to make it about you.”

You thrash, kicking. Your elbow connects with his ribs, but he punches you in the stomach. Air flies out of your lungs. Your vision swims.

You hit the floor hard.

Then—you see it. The brass tiger paperweight on the edge of the desk.

You lunge for it.

“You think you can beat me?” he snarls, dragging you once more. “You can’t even fight.”

You close your fingers around the cold metal.

And without thinking, you swing.

The sound of impact is dull and sickening. Bone cracks. Luca stumbles backward, stunned, blood pouring from his temple.

He sways, then crashes to the floor.

The smoke is crawling into the wagon now. The wood slowly engulfing into flames.

You grab the satchel, stagger to your feet, your ribs screaming in protest. The velvet curtains are alight.

You throw open the door, choking, stumbling into the open air. And run.

Hoshi is pacing.

“She should be here.”

"Maybe she went a different way,” Mira suggests gently.

“No. We had a plan.”

Then—movement.

You burst through the trees, soaked in blood and soot, your dress torn, your lip split.

Hoshi turns and runs to you.

“Moon—Moon, what the hell happened?”

He cups your face, frantic, hands shaking.

“Are you okay? What—did someone��”

"I’m okay.” You gasp. “I’m okay. But we have to go. Now.”

You hold up the satchel. “I have it. Your contract. The money. Everything.”

His eyes widen.

“You went back.”

You nod once. Then: “Train. Now.”

You run.

The entire company—burned, bruised, breathless—runs together through the wet fields, dragging bags and trunks and instruments and cages. You help Andrei lift Illya. Hoshi carries your satchel when your arms give out. Mira wraps a scarf around your bleeding arm without a word.

In the distance, you hear a whistle.

The tracks shimmer in the dark.

An old freight train rumbles past, slow and moaning.

You run faster.

Hoshi helps Mira up. You push Illya into the cart. Andrei hoists Ivan. Hoshi jumps up next, then turns and grabs you.

Your knees almost buckle from exhaustion—but his arms are around you, pulling you in.

The doors close. The train rolls on.

And as the last glow of the fire dies behind you—you are free.

The train groans against the tracks, the kind of sound that settles into your bones like an old ache. It’s been three days since the fire. Three days since the circus ceased to exist. Three days since Rigo’s scream was swallowed by a blaze you lit with your own hands.

You haven’t spoken about it.

Not with Hoshi. Not with anyone.

The others are gone now, scattering like embers from a dying flame. Andrei leapt off at a sleepy station near the border, chasing rumours of a woman who once promised him she would wait. The twins disappeared into fog-cloaked hills, saying something about a cousin’s vineyard and never setting foot in a tent again. Mira kissed you both goodbye, said Paris was too heavy and lacework was lighter.

Now, it’s just the two of you in an empty freight car, rocking slowly toward the south. The sea, maybe. Or some small town with cheap rent and no haunting past for either of you.

The silence between you grows louder with every mile.

Hoshi crouches in front of you, his hands gently pressing a warm cloth to your cheek. The swelling has gone down, but the purple bruising still blooms over your ribs, your jaw, and your hip. He’s been nursing you like this every day, his fingers careful, his voice low.

But tonight, you’re both too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Stop fidgeting,” he mutters, dipping the cloth in a tin cup of boiled water.

“I’m not.”

“You say that right before you wince.”

"That’s because you’re hurting me.”

He sighs, but there’s a flicker of something under the breath—something sharp and coiled.

“I’m trying to help, Moon.”

"I didn’t ask you to.”

It slips out colder than you intend, and the moment you say it, you regret it. His hand stills on your skin.

You flinch, not from pain but from the look in his eyes.

He stands slowly, tossing the cloth aside.

“You don’t have to bite me every time I get too close.”

"I’m not—”

"Yes, you are.”

He steps back, the space between you stretching like a chasm.

“Every time I try to touch you, really touch you, you act like I’m going to burn you alive.”

"That’s not fair.”

"Neither is the fact that I haven’t slept in three nights wondering if you’ll be gone when I wake up.”

That stuns you.

The candlelight flickers. Rain begins to tap softly on the metal roof above.

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tightening.

“I know you’re scared, Moon. God, I know. But I’m scared, too. I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know what this is.”

You want to say something. You do. But the words are stuck in your throat.

He turns away slightly, his voice quieter now.

“And I’m starting to think you’ll leave now that I’m not something to fix.”

That breaks something in you.

“So that’s what you think this is?” you whisper. “That I stayed because you were broken?”

His silence says enough.

You stand, even though your ribs scream. You move closer until there are only inches between you and the man in front of you.

“I’ve never stayed for anyone, Soonyoung. Not once.”

He doesn’t answer.

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Your voice shakes when you speak next.

“But I want to stay with you. Every day.”

The words hang in the air between you, trembling like your breath.

Hoshi’s eyes search yours—wide, stunned, reverent. Like you just handed him a whole galaxy and asked him to hold it.

Then, slowly, carefully, he steps toward you, his hand lifting to your cheek.

And his lips finally meet yours.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish, but you don’t. You melt.

The kiss deepens, slow and aching. Your fingers twist in his shirt, pulling him closer as he backs you gently toward the soft pile of blankets laid out on the freight car floor.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours.

“Don’t,” you breathe, voice small. “Please. Just—don’t.”

Soonyoung kisses you again, slower this time. Fuller. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth from scratch. His hands stay at your waist, not roaming, not demanding. You press your chest into his, heart pounding like a drum against his ribs.

You whimper when he grazes your lip with his teeth.

His thumb strokes over your hip.

“Still okay?”

"Yes.”

He unbuttons your shirt slowly, each pop of a button a small act of worship. He kisses your shoulder as it slips off, trailing warmth in his wake. You’re trembling—but not from fear.

His eyes drink you in as he pushes the fabric down your arms.

“You’re so—” he swallows. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

You flush, chest tightening.

You’re not used to this. Not this kind of looking. Not this kind of wanting.

He kneels in front of you like one would at an altar, before his hands softly remove your pants.

When you’re bare in front of him, shivering in only your underwear, he leans forward—pressing his lips gently to the bruises on your ribs. Your stomach. The cut on your collarbone.

“You survived so much,” he murmurs. “And you’re still here.”

You bite your lip, fighting tears.

“I want to make you feel good, Soonyoung,” you whisper. “I want to—”

He shakes his head.

“No.”

You blink.

“You don’t have to give anything tonight. You don’t owe me pleasure, Moon. You never did.”

"But—”

"Let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says softly. “Let me show you what it means to be wanted.”

You shudder as he leans in again.

“You deserve to be worshipped, not used.”

He gently instructs you to lay back on the blanket, your hair fanning out like a halo. His lips trail along your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Every kiss is slow, like he’s savouring you. Every glance between kisses makes you ache deeper.

When he finally pulls off his shirt, you see the bruises still healing across his ribs, and your breath catches. You reach out, kissing the darkest one.

“You got this for me.”

“I’d do it again.”

His hand slips between your thighs, fingertips brushing the cotton of your underwear.

“Can I?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat.

He eases the fabric down, then settles between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be.

The first touch of his fingers against your clit is gentle. Careful.

He strokes between your folds, collecting your building juices and learning every gasp that leaves your mouth, every arch of your back, every shiver of your hips. He watches you with the same expression he wears on stage—focused, present, enchanted.

And when he slides a finger inside your wet heat, his mouth meets your breast, kissing, sucking, syncing the rhythm of his tongue with the one from his fingers.

You reach for him—needing him closer, needing his weight, his heat.

“Soonyoung—please—”

He groans against your skin.

“You feel like heaven.”

Your pleasure builds slowly, like a tide rising, until you’re trembling beneath him, and the world is spinning behind your eyelids. His fingers continue their steady push and pull inside of you as his thumb gently flicks your clit.

You don’t even realise when you fall.

You suddenly cry out his name, shaking, as waves of pleasure ripple through you, raw and real and overwhelming.

Hoshi guides you through it, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, and your jaw.

When the aftershocks fade, you pull him down, your legs wrapping around his waist.

“I want you,” you whisper. “I want all of you.”

He hesitates.

“Are you sure?”

"I’ve never been more sure.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time. Your bodies slide together, skin to skin, as he removes his pants. His hard cock springs free, slapping against his stomach. He doesn’t break eye contact when he guides his tip to your entrance and pushes into you. You gasp softly, your legs falling open wider to make space for him. He stills halfway through, his brows drawn in concentration, the corded muscles of his arms shaking where he holds himself above you.

“You’re okay?” he pants.

“Yes,” you whisper, overwhelmed by the stretch of him within your walls, by the way your heart cracks wide open under the weight of being cared for.

“You feel like… fuck, Moon. You feel like home.”

He finally bottoms out with a groan, hips pressing flush to yours. Your head tips back, a moan slipping past your lips at the feeling.

He doesn’t move at first. Just lets you adjust. Your hands trace his spine, nails dragging lightly. His breath is ragged against your neck.

When you lift your hips, he takes it as permission.

He moves. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

The friction sparks something deep in you, something raw and tender. Your body arches into him, chasing each slow grind of his hips.

He kisses your lips again.

“You’re so good,” he breathes. “So perfect. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair as he thrusts deeper, his cock hitting a spot inside of you, you never bothered to search for.

The rhythm builds—deliberate and measured, but full of heat. He rolls his hips against you, his body moving like a dance, like the final act of a performance meant only for you. Each thrust pushes in just right, pulling soft, gasping moans from your throat.

“Soonyoung—please—don’t stop.”

"I won’t. I’m right here.”

You cling to him, overwhelmed by the pleasure building in waves again, dizzy from the closeness, from the way he never looks away from you. His forehead presses to yours. Your lips brush as you breathe each other in.

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your aching bundle of nerves again and circling it gently with his fingers. You cry out at the combined sensation, your hips jerking, pleasure blooming fast and deep.

“Come for me, Moon,” he whispers. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And you do.

You shatter beneath him—back arching, a sob torn from your throat, the orgasm rippling through you so hard it steals your breath. Your whole body trembles, tears spilling from your eyes.

Soonyoung kisses them away.

“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”

Your walls cramp around him with your orgasm, and he groans—a low, desperate sound—and thrusts faster, his hips losing their rhythm as he chases the edge as well.

"I love you,” he gasps, his voice wrecked. “I love you, I love you, I—”

And then he comes too, with a shudder and a cry against your skin, his come pouring into you, his body collapsing into yours.

You wrap your arms around him as he trembles through the aftershocks, your hands stroking his back, your heartbeat thundering in your chest.

Neither of you speaks for a long time.

You simply hold each other, sweat-slick and breathless and ruined in the most sacred way.

And when he finally lifts his head to look at you—those eyes soft with everything he doesn’t know how to say—you whisper, “You’re mine now.”

He smiles.

The sea is quieter in the mornings.

You like to think it’s listening.

The breeze carries the scent of salt and citrus, the sky soft with watercolour light. Your little studio stands just beyond the dunes, tucked beneath an olive tree that’s older than you’ll ever be. The walls are whitewashed and cracked in places, but the inside is alive—with your brushstrokes, with the stories only colour can tell.

You painted the studio walls with everything you couldn’t say. A tiger in flight. A girl with stars in her hair. Fire that doesn’t burn but frees.

Soonyoung says it feels like walking into your soul.

He still calls you Moon.

Even now. Even after all this time. Even when your given name hangs on your business sign in elegant cursive: Galerie de Lune.

You laugh now, more than you cry. Not because everything is easy, but because it’s no longer unbearable.

Soonyoung teaches dance in the community hall just down the road. Most days, he brings home sand in his shoes and glitter on his neck from the children, who insist on decorating him like he’s part of the show.

He teaches them rhythm, footwork, and how to roar on stage without fear.

“No one can take your voice if you learn how to use it,” he tells them, tapping their chests where their hearts beat bold and wild. “Even when it shakes.”

Sometimes, you watch through the open windows as he twirls a girl in pigtails or lifts a boy with stage fright into the air until he forgets to be afraid. You still can’t believe he’s real.

Sometimes you touch his back in the middle of the night just to make sure he’s still there.

The bed is a little fuller now.

There’s a child who curls up between you most nights, her little body warm and soft and full of questions. She has a gap in her teeth and a temper that rivals thunder. She calls him Papa and you Maman and insists she was a tiger in her past life.

You might just believe her.

The adoption wasn’t easy. Your body, marked by things you never asked for, couldn’t carry life without danger. It broke you once, quietly and completely, in the dark of a hospital room. But he never blamed you. Not for a second.

He only kissed your tears and whispered, “Then we’ll find the child who’s already waiting for us.”

You did. And she is perfect.

Sometimes you still flinch in your sleep. Sometimes he still wakes from dreams of iron bars and snapping chains, sweat beading on his skin, whispering names he never told you.

But it’s not like before.

You soothe each other back down, palms on hearts, kisses against temples. The panic no longer owns you. It visits. It passes.

You have anchors now. You’ve built a world where no one owns you. Where no one watches from behind velvet curtains. Where no one pays to touch you, or beats you for dancing too slow.

Here, in this quiet coastal town with your studio and his stage and a child that carries light in their palms—you are finally free.

And you are still in love.

Tonight, the stars are out.

You sit on the porch with your sketchbook, legs tucked beneath you, your child asleep inside. Hoshi brings you tea and a kiss on your cheek, still sweaty from rehearsal, his shirt hanging loose on his shoulders.

“Whatcha drawing, Moon?”

"You.”

"Again?” he laughs.

“Always.”

He sits down beside you, thigh pressed to yours, gaze fixed on the dark waves in the distance. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, quietly, he says, “Do you ever think about the fire?”

"Sometimes.”

"Do you regret it?”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “No. It saved you.”

"It burned everything down.”

"Only what needed to die.”

He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. “You rebuilt me.”

"No,” you whisper. “You just finally had room to bloom.”

He hums, content. And as the tide laps against the shore, you realize something so simple it nearly brings you to tears.

You are safe. You are free. You are loved.

And your tiger still sleeps beside you.

A/N: Don't ask me where this came from, I have no idea. Did I cry while writing it? Yes. Am I also incredibly proud of it? Yes. Anyway, hope you enjoy and that it breaks your heart like it did mine. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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gurugirl · 2 years ago

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Best Friend's Dad!Harry

best friend's dad!harry x reader - forbidden relationship au

Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, smut, age gap, cheating, lying, angst, breeding kink

Song to listen to: Illicit Affairs (you guys have said over and over again that this song fits this series perfectly and I couldn't agree more)

note: should be read from top to bottom in order (unless noted that can be read as standalone)

Let Me Show You (6.3k words) - can be read as standalone

How your illicit affair with Mr. Styles began

Desperate (3.6k words) - can be read as standalone

A party at the Styles' house + sneaky bathroom sex

The Big Tease (7.8k words)

Some heavy teasing leads to you giving in to Mr. Styles

Not Fair (6.5k words)

Harry suggests something to you that blows up in his face *angsty*

He's Not You (7.8k words)

The aftermath of Harry's bright idea has some downfalls and he didn't expect to feel this way.

Liar (6.1k words)

Harry's wife suspects something is going on but she doesn't know what. Harry can't stay away from you and you don't want him to.

More of You (5.1k words) - can be read as standalone

Harry's at your place for a couple of days and you're enjoying having him all to yourself.

Crush (3.5k words) - can be read as standalone

A flashback: When your feelings for Mr. Styles morph from just finding him attractive to a full on crush you feel a little guilty. But then when he shows more than just a friendly interest in you at Fae's 22nd birthday party you two become close and eventually ebb on inappropriate, but you can't seem to stop.

Magic Spell (5.3k words) - can be read as standalone

A raucous Halloween party turns naughty when you and Harry find a hidden room at the Baylor mansion.

Under His Bed (4.5k words)

Harry invites you to stay at his house for the night and the following morning you both get an unexpected visitor.

Relax (4.9k words)

Fae asks you something that you aren't prepared to answer. You and Harry discuss what to do next.

Here's to Us (6.4k words)

A quick little weekend getaway is sweet and romantic. You reveal something that makes Harry do something a bit out of character.

Homewrecker (7.2k words)

The one where you and Harry finally come clean to everyone. Featuring an angry Fae, a spiteful soon-to-be ex wife, divorce terms, and lots of tears.

The Warning (4.5k words)

You and Harry are trying to heal after coming clean to everyone and Mrs. Styles comes to you with a warning.

A Little Naughty (3.3k words)

Your parents invite Harry to come with you for Christmas and you feel a little bit naughty after everyone's in bed.

Best Valentine's Day (4.2k words)

It's Valentine's Day and Harry's got something special planned.

Intuition (3.4k words)

Harry's got a surprise for you.

Must Be Nice (3.4k words)

You and Harry feel like everything's coming together perfectly. You're both getting all the things you wanted. But when you run into Fae while shopping and she notices something new about you, it bursts your little happy bubble.

The message blurb (453 words)

Fae unblocks you.

Heartburn (4k)

You and Harry have been anxious about seeing Fae at your baby shower but things go so well it leaves you both feeling relieved. Except for the small run-in with Fae's mom. Featuring: lactation smut!

Quiet Christmas Morning blurb (1.5k)

You have a lot to celebrate with Harry this Christmas.

MORE TO COME!

divider by @firefly-graphics

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baby-yongbok · 5 months ago

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Wildflower

Yang Jeongin x Afab!Reader

✦ Genre - Forbidden Love

✦ Word Count - 4.6k

✦ Summary - Jeongin's life was mapped out, leaving no space for the love that grew between the cracks of his parents' plan. As time runs out, words are exchanged that change everything. ✦ CW - Explicit content, Angst to fluff ✦A/N - This piece is one of the first I've written after being in a very... weird headspace. It's an emotional one, you have been warned! I listened to nothing but Wildflower by Billie Eilish the entire time I wrote this... Anyway,Please enjoy! + reader is depicted as chubby/plus size and is a POC ♡

✦ Masterlist✦

He’s like a firefly, he only comes out on warm summer nights. The type of nights when the streets are busy and the breeze is just cool enough to give you some relief from the heat. The nights where you turn on the porch light and wait for his glow. Tonight was one of those nights.

Jeongin texted you telling you that he was coming over, not asking. He never asks. It only took a few hours for him to arrive. He stood there in his leather jacket and white tee, the same as he did last week and the week before. It’s become a routine that you know the two of you will have to break tonight.

You step aside to let him in, though the space between you is charged, thick with everything unspoken. Jeongin walks past you, brushing close enough that you catch the faintest hint of his cologne - clean, familiar, heartbreakingly him.

He moves like he always does, like he belongs here, like this isn’t the last time. His jacket lands on the back of your couch, his fingers barely grazing your wrist as he passes, a touch so fleeting it could be accidental. But you know better.

Neither of you says anything right away. He glances at the dim glow of the candles you’ve lit - the one you always light when you know he’s coming - and something in his expression flickers like the flame, something softer than he probably wants to show.

“You’re late.” You murmur, just to fill the silence.

“You waited.” He counters, voice low, teasing with a hint of a smile.

You swallow hard. Of course, I did. But you don’t say that. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, leaning against the door as you watch him. You wish you could freeze him like this - mid-step, mid-breath, mid-goodbye.

“How long do you have?” you ask, keeping your voice even.

His jaw tenses for a second. Only a second. “Till morning.”

It’s not enough. It never was.

You nod as if you expected it, as if it doesn’t sink like a stone in your chest and Jeongin does too. "C’mere."

He steps forward, reaching out for you with one hand while the other pushes his hair back. You let him drag you forward silently, staring into the brown that will soon abandon you. He’s no different, he looks at you like he wants to memorize you, like he’s trying to carve this moment into something permanent. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.” He brings a bent finger under your chin, tipping your head back just enough for his lips to have a straight path to yours. His eyes flicker down then up. “It makes me want to kiss you.”

You laugh softly, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a sharp breath, too close to something bitter. "You’ve kissed me a thousand times."

"Not like this." His voice drops to a whisper, just for you, as if the space between your lips holds everything unsaid, everything he's afraid to face. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, lingering a little longer than usual.

Your heart stutters, and for a moment, you forget the ticking clock. It’s always been like this with him - this pull, this sweetness that feels like a slow burn. But you know it’s not enough. Not anymore. You lean in, just a little, but he pulls back before you can close the distance. His hand drops from your chin, slipping away with a quiet sigh.

“You don’t want to do this,” he says, eyes avoiding yours now, like he’s trying to escape the weight of it all. But the soft tremble in his voice betrays him.

“You’re leaving tomorrow,” you whisper, the words tasting like ash. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I -” His words falter as if he wants to argue but can't find the right excuse, can’t justify it anymore. He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s seeing you for the first time, like he’s trying to memorize every little detail about you.

And then you can’t take it anymore. You reach up, cupping his jaw gently and pulling him toward you. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if both of you are testing the waters. But then it deepens. He groans softly, his lips pressing harder into yours, as if this is the only way he knows how to apologize, how to show you he doesn’t want to go.

His hand finds your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the familiar rush of heat flooding your veins. Every part of you is screaming to hold on to him, to never let go, but it’s so fleeting. So fragile.

Jeongin pulls back, lost in the hypnotizing smell and taste of you just like he is every other night he sneaks away to come here. Just like he knows he shouldn’t. Both of you are breathing heavily, your lips barely parted.

He whispers something, something that you can’t make out but you don’t care to when his lips attach to your neck, nipping and kissing at the sensitive skin like leaving his mark on you is the only way that he can stay. You tilt your head to the side, opening yourself up to him with a small moan that Jeongin wishes he could keep with him forever.

Why can’t he keep you with him?

Ever since his parents arranged his transfer to this university he’s been trying to figure out how to kidnap you. He’s created carefully calculated equations over and over and over again but none of them give him what he wants. None of them give him you.

His hands wander, his kisses go lower and lower until your shirt is slipping down the curve of your shoulder and your breasts are threatening to spill from your cheap bralette. He kisses the tops of them, grabbing at your waist and thighs while your hand cups the back of his hand and the other laces in his raven black hair.

“Jeongin.” It sounds like a plea. A moan that’s begging for more than he can give. He nips harder, kisses rougher, sucks sloppier marks into your skin and you know exactly what he’s doing. He wants you to remember him when you wake up tomorrow. He wants you to look in the mirror and think of him when he’s on his train going in the opposite direction, the wrong direction.

It’s cruel but you let him.

And he’s thankful for it. He’s thankful for the moans you let spill and the touch you offer with each clumsy swipe of his tongue over your hardened nipple. He’s thankful that you keep giving but he’s also sorry for it.

Jeongin drags you down to the sofa, sitting and crashing his lips back to yours while he pushes you back against the worn cushion. He hovers over you, one hand in your hair while the other holds him up.

Your hands run down his chest, over his stomach and that one beauty mark you always kiss on his hip. You palm him and he groans, bucking his aching length into your touch firmer, faster. Everything picks up, the tension multiplies and the control that you both worked so hard to harness is vanishing between your bodies. It’s melting with every fleeting and indulgent smack of your lips against his.

“Baby.” Jeongin breathes, pulling back just enough to mutter while his hips move to meet yours. You buck up, moving your hand and meeting the tent in his pants with the wet spot on yours. You moan, he groans and then -

“I love you.” It sounds so natural coming off of your lips. It feels so good to get it off of your chest but when Jeongin freezes, pulling back to look you in the eyes with an expression you don’t recognize and suddenly you wish that you never knew the meaning of the very words you uttered.

He pulls back further, his eyes staying on yours and you can just barely recognize his gaze now. It’s desperate, a plea, a rejection. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

But even with those words you see it for a moment, his eyes soften, that familiar warmth flickering in them as though he might say it back. His gaze drops to your lips, to your hands that still hold onto him, and you wonder if, maybe, there's a chance.

But the moment is fleeting. His expression hardens, his lips pressing together in something that looks like regret, but there’s nothing left to soften it now. He pulls back, sitting up on the couch and it feels like the distance between you grows with every passing second.

“Jeongin…” You murmur, your voice barely above a whisper but it trembles with the weight of everything you want to say.

“Don’t.” He responds, his voice low but steady. He avoids looking at you now, as though he’s too afraid of what he’ll see. “I can’t -”

“I love you.” You say again, louder this time, trying to make him hear the truth in your words, the vulnerability you’ve kept hidden for so long.

His eyes flicker with something close to desperation, but he swallows it down, looking away, his hand gripping the edge of the couch like it's the only thing keeping him grounded.

You reach for him, but he stands, his eyes cold now, eyes that don’t belong to the Jeongin you know. “I know that this feels impossible. I know that it feels fucked up and messy but I do love you and I’m not sorry about it. Maybe if - if we try to figure something out… maybe if we can convince your parents to give you a choice in all of this then -”

He opens his mouth, and when the words come out, they hit you like a tidal wave.

“If I had a choice, it still wouldn’t be you.”

The silence after his words is deafening. You freeze, your breath caught in your throat, your heart stalling as you stare at him in disbelief. He’s rejecting it all, everything you’ve been to him, everything you’ve shared, everything you’ve believed in these stolen moments.

“No.” You breathe, shaking your head and standing. You stumble a bit when you reach your feet, as though the world you’ve built around you is crumbling beneath you. “You don’t mean that.”

Jeongin closes his eyes, the guilt eating at him, but he doesn’t take the words back. He can’t. He has to keep pushing you away, even if it tears him apart. “I do.” He says, voice breaking, barely a whisper. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. But I can’t do this. I can’t do it anymore. You deserve someone who’s gonna stay, someone who’s gonna give you everything.”

The words feel like they’re choking you, suffocating you with their harshness. You want to scream, to shout that this isn’t fair, that he’s the one who’s breaking both of you apart, but the anger is drowned by the heartache, by the finality in his eyes.

“No.” You whisper again, your voice small, helpless. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to walk away from us like this.”

His chest rises and falls quickly, the weight of the decision hanging heavy between you. He’s trembling now, his hands clenched by his sides, fighting the urge to pull you to him, to take everything back. But he knows he can’t. Not now.

“I have to go.” He murmurs, voice strained, the words slipping out like they’re tearing him apart. “I don’t want to leave you like this, but I can’t do this. I won’t do this to you.”

And just like that, the moment you feared, the moment you both tried to deny, is here.

He takes his jacket from the back of the couch and steps towards the door but you’re grabbing onto him before he can take another. He looks back only half way and you can see what he’s trying to hide from you, a flicker of regret.

“You need to let me go. Please.” He says, voice cracking under the pressure. “You’ll be better off without me. You’ll move on, and you’ll forget about me.”

You understand it now, he’s trying to protect you, but it feels like a betrayal. His breath quickens, and you’re sure he’s feeling the weight of what he’s said, wishing to take it all back. But it’s too late now.

“No.” Your voice is steady, but the pain is in your eyes, your hands shake as you hold onto him. “I don’t want to forget about you, Jeongin. I can’t.”

He doesn’t turn around even though he wants to. He doesn’t take it all back. He only pulls away then sighs, his voice is barely audible when he speaks again. “I’m sorry.” He sounds like he’s drowning and he feels like it too. “I’m so sorry.”

Once the door closed you both fell apart at the same time. The air in your lungs felt heavy, each inhale a struggle as if the air itself was mourning. You stood there, motionless as you suffocated. Suddenly it’s too hot and you melt to your knees at the growing burn you feel in your chest.

Your burn for him.

Jeongin walked faster than he knew he ever could. His feet carried him through the humid July night until he was running. It was the only thing he could think to do, the only thing he’s been good at for years.

He’s run from you for so long and now he can’t seem to stop. He ignores the stop signs and stop lights. He isn’t even sure which way he’s going but he knows that he wants to stop. He wants to stop thinking about you all the time. He wants to get rid of the thought of you that lingers in the back of his mind and hold it in his hands. He wants to turn around and hold you again.

Maybe then this burning will stop.

It’s more than the summer air, it’s a tortuous sting like burning alive under your own skin. Maybe if he keeps running it’ll stop. Maybe.

You woke up after two hours of sleep to a text from Jeongin. You opened it in a heartbeat and hoped that it would say something that could make the pain worth it. You hoped that he was going to tell you that he just can’t do it - that he can’t leave you - but no.

My train comes at 12:45pm… see me off?

You stare at it. Your red eyes narrow and tears well up as you check the time. You’re gonna go. You can’t find a single reason not to even after what he said to you last night. Even after he decided to leave you like that, burning and melting into your living room carpet.

Maybe it’s stupid but what do you have to lose? All that you have is getting ready to leave you.

Jeongin didn’t sleep last night. Instead he walked, probably in circles but the tears blurring his vision made that easy to ignore. He found himself somewhere that he hasn’t been in months, the wildflower field where he used to meet you. He’d pick a few and weave them into your hair before kissing you sweet under the moonlight. Then reality started to sink in.

It might’ve been stupid but he laid there all night. He imprinted himself in the pressed aster and milkweed in hopes that he’d become one just so he could stay with you but the sun rose and he stood, defeated.

He texted you when he got home. He took a shot in the dark. What does he have to lose?

The station was crowded, the platform buzzed with people rushing around to get to somewhere important or nowhere at all but even in the midst of the buzzing you could spot him.

Jeongin stands near a bench, his back to you, shoulders squared but stiff, like he’s bracing himself for something. For this.

For you.

You take a shaky breath, your footsteps quiet against the worn tiles as you close the distance.

“So this is it?” He turns at the sound of your voice, his expression unreadable at first - but then his eyes soften, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that’s almost a smile.

Almost.

“You came.” He says, barely above a whisper.

“Of course, I did.” Your throat feels tight. “I always do.”

The thought stings, and you swallow against it, trying not to let the weight of it show. But Jeongin has always been good at reading between the lines, at finding the cracks in your armor.

His gaze flickers, uncertainty and guilt clouding his features. He looks away, staring at the glowing departure board like it holds all the answers he’s searching for.

“I should go.” He murmurs. But his feet don’t move.

You exhale sharply, arms crossing over your chest. “Then why did you ask me to meet you?”

Silence.

For a moment, you think he won’t answer. But then -

“Because.” He says, voice raw, “I needed to see you one last time.”

One last time.

Your stomach twists, a sharp kind of ache blooming in your ribs. You nod, even though it kills you. “Okay. You saw me.”

You turn to leave.

And that’s when he breaks.

“Wait.”

It’s barely more than a breath, but it stops you cold.

You close your eyes, willing yourself not to turn around. Not to hope. Not to let yourself believe in something that he’s fighting so hard to let go of.

But then -

“I can’t do it.” He says, almost laughing, almost breaking. “I can’t leave. Not like this. Not without you.”

Your heart stutters, the burning lets up and you turn around.

Jeongin reaches for you with shaking hands and you let him. You let him feel your skin against his and he sighs, the burning stops.

His fingers tremble against yours as he anchors himself to you like you’re the only real thing in the world. “I tried.” He says, voice unsteady. “I tried to tell myself this was the right choice. That leaving meant doing the smart thing, the safe thing.” His breath hitches. “But…”

His grip tightens. “Tell me to stay.”

The words hang between you, fragile, terrifying.

You could let him go. Let him chase the future he was always meant to have. The future that was carefully crafted for him, even if it didn’t include you.

Or -

You glance down. Through the cracks in the platform’s pavement, something small but stubborn grows. A wildflower.

Something that beautiful shouldn’t bloom where it doesn’t belong and yet it thrives. Small and fragile, strong and vibrant.

You exhale shakily, lifting your gaze back to him. “Stay.”

And this time, he does.

“Okay.”

“You’re really not getting on that train?” You whisper, barely daring to believe it.

He shakes his head, grinning now, grinning like a boy who just threw away everything he was supposed to be for the only thing that ever felt right. Like someone who's just stopped running long enough to really feel it.

“I’m not getting on that train” He steps closer, his forehead resting against yours as he leans in. “I’m staying here.” And then his lips are on yours.

His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you impossibly close with a hum of something raw and unfiltered. Your hands find their way up into his hair and you exchange his hum for a cry. Tears fall but you ignore them, you ignore everything just to stay in this moment a little longer. His hands wander and roam and Jeongin swears that he forgets where he is for a second, just for a second until he hears the train pull up. His train.

He just barely breaks the kiss, only enough to speak. He doesn’t glance at the train, he ignores the boarding passenger, he only whispers, “Let’s go home. Please.”

He took your hand, grabbed his bag and you ran. You smiled, the two of you laughed like children playing hide and seek while you ran in the opposite direction. The right direction. You went to your place, the porch light is still on from last night and you flip it off, Jeongin won’t be needing it anymore.

As soon as the door closed he was on you. He dropped his bag and took you in his arms, kissing you like you’d disappear if he didn’t. It’s deep and passionate, as if he's trying to convey every unspoken emotion through this single act. His urgency is palpable, and you can feel the intensity of his desire in every touch, every kiss.

Hi s hands explore every inch of you that he’s committed to memory. He’s no stranger to the dips and curves of you. Sometimes he wishes that it’s all he ever knew. “Jeongin.” You mumble into him, breaking the kiss to pepper sloppy nibbles over his jaw line.

He groans, walking the two of you backwards and kicking your bedroom door open. He picks you up and when you squeal a giggle it all becomes clear to him.

“I’d pick you in any lifetime.” He puts you down gently, quickly moving to hover over you. “You were the obvious choice I just -” You kiss him, leaning up and catching his lips in a kiss that quells the burn.

“I forgive you.” You murmur and Jeongin deepens the kiss as though he’s been starved for something he didn’t even realize he needed. His lips are trembling against yours, as if every kiss, every moment, is fighting for meaning in the shadow of everything he almost walked away from. His hands are on your back now, pulling you into him like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go.

You arch into him, moaning at the bite of his nails as they sink into the skin under your shirt. The fabric rides up, revealing more of you and Jeongin indulges. He pushes it up further and further until that familiar bralette is exposed.

Your chest heaves as you try to breathe, but it’s hard when all you can feel is the warmth of him - the heat of his body pressed against yours, his hands digging into you like he needs you to live.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy, searching. His voice is barely a whisper. “I didn’t want to hurt you, you know that, right?” His hand trails up your sides, taking you in like he couldn’t recall each mole and scar with his eyes closed. He palms your breast, kneading the skin with a gentle touch.

You nod, your hand trembling as it feels up the back of his neck and disappears into his hair. “I know.” He exhales shakily, his eyes closing for a moment as if he's letting the truth of his feelings settle in. Your hand trails down to his cheek, your thumb brushing over his lips like you can still feel the warmth of his kiss there.

"I didn’t think… I thought leaving was the right thing, the safer thing for both of us," Jeongin admits, his voice shaking slightly. "But... I can’t keep running from us. I can’t keep pretending this isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted."

Your chest tightens at his words, and you pull him in for another kiss, this one slow and soft, a silent agreement that you’ve both been through hell just to get to this moment. His hands start to wander again, trailing down and buttoning your jeans.

The tension between you both rises, control slipping away. You're both unraveling, and it feels so, so good.

Jeongin breaks the kiss, and without words, the two of you work quickly, shedding the last remaining barriers between you. You tug at his shirt, then his jeans and boxers, desperate to rid yourselves of anything that stands in the way of him being closer.

As soon as his cock springs free, you take it in your hand, stroking him, feeling him harden beneath your touch as he kicks his jeans off with a sharp hiss.

“Don’t tease.” He exhales sharply, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he reaches for you, fingers threading through your hair while you pump him, your gaze locked in a silent challenge.

“You always tease me.” You murmur, spitting into your palm to make the glide smoother. He groans.

“Not today.” He growls, pushing you back and grabbing your thighs with a sudden strength that has you gasping. He pulls you to the edge of the bed, his eyes dark with something more than lust. “Let me have you. All of you. All of me.”

You’re so lost in the sincerity of his gaze that you barely register him positioning himself between your legs. But then he’s inside you, pushing slowly, and everything melts away. You moan, instinctively reaching for his chest as he disappears into you.

The moments that follow feel different, raw. You’ve fucked Jeongin countless times, in this bed, in other places you shouldn’t have, but none of that compares to this. He’s not fucking you - it’s him making love to you, pressing his chest so close to yours that you can feel your hearts beating in sync. Everything shifts, and finally, everything fits perfectly.

Your nails scrape up his back as his hips roll against yours. He groans, kissing you deeply before grabbing your hip and taking you deeper, harder.

“I love you,” he pants, his breath hot against your lips. He shifts his angle, grinding into you with a new rhythm, and you’re left gasping, completely undone.

“Jeongin.” You moan and he swears that it sounds like you said it back. His rhythm falters, his touch becomes firmer, more desperate and sure. “I love you. I love you.” You cry for him, the burn of your orgasm coils in your chest and he’s right there with you, teetering on the edge.

His hands move to cup your face, his thumb stroking across your cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.” He murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. You clench around him, feeling like he’s hitting you deeper than possible.

You pull him back into a kiss, your heart racing, every inch of you feeling alive with his gentle but the urgent touch. It’s the kind of kiss that speaks of everything unsaid, everything that’s been building between you.

“Baby…” He moans, pulling away and leaving your lips still tingling. “Cum for me.” His hand snakes between your legs to toy with your clit. He rubs firm circles into the sensitive bud, his thrusts pick up and his lips remain parted. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to have you come undone before him.

He rests his forehead against yours, breathless and moaning with each flutter of your cunt. You grab onto him, your nails sink into his skin and your body trembles. “Innie, f-fuck, Innie…” Your orgasm sets him off. He pushes in deep, moaning with a broken curse and unloading inside of you.

“God damnit, baby.” He stills, hugging you and keeping his forehead to yours. You stay like that, the only sound is your heavy breaths mingling and it feels right. Comfortable.

“Can you say it again?” You whisper, careful not to break the carefully crafted bubble around you. Jeongin smiles, his eyes still closed.

“I love you.” He whispers back, opening his eyes to meet yours. “I love you.” He repeats, pressing a kiss to your nose and you smile, a single tear falls and he kisses it away.

“I love you.” He whispers one final time, cupping your cheek and brushing the tears away with his thumb. “So much.”

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jobean12-blog · 1 year ago

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Marcus Acacius Masterlist

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x princess!reader

Summary: You're the daughter of the emperor and your father would have you married off to someone of his choosing but you've always fought back and vowed to marry only for love. You finally find that love in the most unexpected man and as much as your father reveres him you know he would not approve of your relationsip. Regardless, you fall head over feet.

Author's Note: So I thought I would make a little Masterlist for this since I have a new story coming out tomorrow and one more planned. It keeps things organized for me and you :) I also want to add that the reader here is not underage or anything of the sort, she's an adult over the age of 21 (whatever age you want) and Marcus can be whatever age you want as well. I never really get into that but I wanted to make it clear. Also, my historical references may be inaccurate but I try to do my research to at least have it make some sense. I do add links to some of the things I use so you can read up if you like. Thank you all so much for reading, much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!😘

Warings: soft fluff, sweetness, tension, sneaking around, smut, poetry, books, some historical references

Falling First

Falling Fast

Can't Help Falling

For the First Time and Forever

Falling for the Forbidden

Forbidden

Til Forever Falls Apart

A Warrior's Heart (this is like an epilogue)

These here👇🏻are all stand alone’s for sure, but they can still all fit in the same Universe 🥰

With Every Breath

Burn for You

A Stolen Moment

Worth the Wait

My Lady

One Fine Morning

Heart and Hand

Punishment

Moth to a Flame

Most of these can be read separately but the details will make the most sense when read together ❤️

#marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius x priness!reader #marcus acacius x y/n #marcus acacius smut #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #marcus acacius fanfiction #gladiator 2

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anika-ann · 1 year ago

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A Series of (Un)Fortunate Events - S.R.

Part 1 of 2

Type: two-shot, idiots-in-love, feel-good fic

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 7,3k

Summary: It's just a bunch of Avengers and SHIELD agents who often cooperate on missions - hanging out and getting to know each other better on a camping trip. What could possibly go wrong?

A few things. A few things could and they all seem to have you at the centre. Luckily, you have a hero in shining armour to help you in the time of need.

Warnings: allusions to NSFW, minor injuries, mention of misogyny, brief reference to PTSD, language, attempt at humour, FLUFF , Steve being a menace

A/N: written for the Essie’s Summer Lovin’ 300 Follower Celebration. Congrats @bigtreefest and thank you for hosting 💕 I have chosen multiple prompts - in this one, you shall find “why’s it…sticky?” and modified “here, you can share with me”. I hope to finish the second part in time 😁

A/N 2: DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; enjoy y'all 🥰 Several Agent of SHIELD characters are involved - I don't think you need any knowledge of the show to read this

The afternoon North Carolina sun warmed your skin pleasantly, even as you found yourself panting after the having climbed up the hill you. The backpack with an attached sleeping bag and a tent pack was growing heavier and heavier on your shoulders with every step, but the view and the company – most of it anyway – were certainly worth it.

Everyone seemed affected by the fresh air and exercise the Great Smokey Mountains provided, the atmosphere light and content as this was, for most, the first trip in a long time that had nothing to do with a mission.

Sure, one could argue there were some strings attached, as the ‘mission’ was to solidify relationships within the group – several Avengers and several SHIELD agents who were often outsourced for Avengers-level missions – but still: no one was shooting at you. And you wouldn’t have to write a report. That counted for something. For a lot, in fact.

Plus, the path was the goal. The destination, while set precisely according to Steve’s plan, might as well be just about anywhere.

You glanced at him as he walked by your side, smiling absently. The corners of his lips only twitched higher as he noticed you watching him, his gaze flickering to you as well.

He looked as if he was born to do this. A halo of dark blond hair around his head ruffled by the wind, sunlight painting them almost golden. The heaviest backpack of all sitting on his wide shoulders, straps around his broad chest and thin waist. Legs clad in light track pants that hugged his thighs and ass in the best way possible, a downright magnetic sight--- no.

Uh-huh, no.

No thoughts of that sort. You had forbidden yourself from that, at least for the duration of this trip, because you had known Steve would be a literal walking thirst-trap, the sheer happiness surrounding him making his glow ten times brighter. You had forbidden yourself from thinking like this, because this was not an appropriate observation to make about a colleague, a superior no less, even as everybody else probably thought along the same lines.

It didn’t matter that you wanted to throw hands at the mere idea of someone else making that observation as well. You didn’t exactly have the right to do that and it was a lost fight before it even started. Steve Rogers was simply too beautiful and essentially perfect in all his imperfections, and god knew that those imperfection had nothing to with his body. Ass included-

Gaze quickly snapping up back to his face, you found him smiling at you warmly, a soft dusting of freckles adorning his cheeks from the prolonged exposure to sun. The same phenomenon could be observed on his bare arms; a constellation of freckles, where angels had kissed their kindest, prettiest and most loyal creation; a constellation of places where you’d love to press your lips and linger, breathe in the scent of his skin and taste it.

God, he was breathtaking and all kinds of alluring. The nature around you was too, sure, the smell of pines and sandy rocks whispering of vacations and good times, but the way he-

“Whoa!” you yelped as you suddenly found yourself tumbling towards the ground, foot having slipped on a rock, you supposed.

Hands outstretched, you had no chance to break the fall, only to slow it, the burden on your back completely changing your momentum.

The second your palms as much as brushed the rocky floor, you were being held by your waist so firmly that none of your actual weight landed on the ground. You would recognize the arms holding you anywhere – just like the scent of sandal wood, musk, man and comfort, suddenly wrapping around you.

The safest place on Earth.

Steve’s arms.

Your stomach made a little flip-flop as his hands squeezed you gently and helped you up, only releasing you when his eyes found yours, silently asking if you were okay.

You responded with an embarrassed smile.

“Whoa, you okay?” Daisy rushed to your side, bless her, breaking the brief moment you had allowed yourself to bask in the sweet worry in Steve’s gaze and in the heat his body was radiating, despite the fact you could feel everyone staring at the newly nominated klutz of the group of superspies. You.

Heat of embarrassment flooded your skin under everyone’s scrutiny – and more so under the judgement in Agent Hopkinson’s glare, the jerk. Then again, you could hardly blame him for looking down on you right now.

Allegedly one of the deadliest agents known to the world; bested by a few rocks on a hiking trail and Steve Rogers’s smile.

You chuckled self-deprecatingly, quietly thanking Steve and turning to Daisy to assure her that besides your pride, nothing had been seriously wounded.

“I’m fine,” you said, scratching your forehead with a poor attempt to hide your embarrassment. “Must have missed a step, I don’t even know how…”

You did know how. You knew it precisely. You hadn’t been watching your step, too mesmerized by the beauty of your favourite Captain – and favourite person in the world. The man with the most honest, goodest, fiercest and most beautiful soul you had ever met, your closest friend.

“I do,” Agent Melinda May commented dryly, a pointed look aimed at your feet, revealing the culprit – and making you wish the Earth could swallow you, especiallysince it was her, the second in command at SHIELD – and one of the most admirable women in history of anything. And she had just seen you, an agent for both Avengers and SHIELD, a master of martial arts, to trip on nothing like a five-year-old. For the same reason too. “Your shoelaces are undone.”

“…thanks. And sorry. Go ahead. I think I can tie my shoelaces on my own,” you chuckled again, swallowing the shame even as you were among friends. Albeit some of them more reluctant than others.

“Clearly not,” Agent Hopkinson remarked, not missing the opportunity to belittle you, making you sigh as you crouched down, taking extreme care not to as much as wobble despite the heavy backpack.

Case on point, you supposed.

Having worked for SHIELD for years now, acting as the main liaison for situations where Avengers needed help, be it due to too many hostiles or the nature of the job leaning more towards spy-work that alien-invasion-work, your general experience was that tolerance and cooperation were the way. Some people were less pleasant than others, that much was true, but one should handle disagreements, various personality traits and different views on life. You certainly could; your approach to conflict, your supposedly calming presence and search for harmony in a team and the calm composure you maintained under pressure to quickly weigh your options, had even earned you your codename, Libra.

You genuinely believed tuning down an attitude for the sake of the mission was the custom, the golden rule.

And then you encountered Agent Martin Hopkinson. He was the exception. And a pain in your ass.

He got along alright with most people despite his arrogance; but you and him were a trainwreck happening in slow motion. He did not like you. Whether it was jealousy of your position, misogyny, or both, or something completely else, you wouldn’t know. But he was bitter and biting, always looking for a flaw, always making snidey comments.

You could handle that – an insult here, a mean comment there. After all, you could take a punch, a stab, a gunshot wound. You could take down men twice your size with your bare hands and just a little wit, if you tried hard enough. You had faced soldiers, rapists, murderers; Agent Hopkinson was but a small hindrance, annoyance on legs. But by god, your fists itched whenever he opened his mouth. And the feeling was mutual.

However, as a professional, you worked hard not to reciprocate his aggression, even as it only ever remained verbal; the same could not be said about him. And he didn’t care zilch about who heard him be ‘smart’ with you either, which, in turn, led to several reprimands; and on one delightful occasion, to Steve almost breaking his jaw when he heard him utter a comment about Coulson pimping out the pet agent again, clearly meaning you. The wrath Steve had showed was nothing hort of holy, and holy was the miracle that Hopkinson was still alive; the fact he barely toned down his attitude was just idiocy.

But had you mention Steve was an angel? A fiercely loyal protective friend, a gentleman, who might swear on occasion and be a little shit par excellence, but god should help anyone whose behaviour towards others offended him. He might be an angel, but was an avenging one.

A caring one too.

As soon as you stood up again, Steve was carefully cradling the backs of your hands, examining the teeny scrapes over your palms with about five droplets of blood in total, frowny gaze flickering to your knee which you hadn’t even realized you had grazed too.

“We should disinfect that.”

“Steve, I’m fine,” you laughed, even as you let him examine the barely-there bleeding, knowing there was no use trying to resist. “Thank you for caring, but it’s literally just a scratch… I’ve had worse.”

He shook his head, his expression darkening a bit. “That’s not comforting and you know it. And any wound, if infected, can be dangerous – I know I don’t have to tell you that.”

You knew instantly what instance he was referring too, a small shudder running up your spine. Yet, the rational part of you argued that there was no comparison, even if the cut on your arm over a month back had not been all that deeper and wider than this.

“That was literally a poisoned blade, Steve-“

“We were about to take one more break before reaching the destination anyway,” he interrupted you, unrelenting. “Let’s head up to that clearing and we’ll rest for a bit. I’ll take care of it, okay?”

“Steve-“

“I’ve got the first aid kit,” Bobbi uttered nonchalantly as she passed you, joining the others who had gone ahead already.

You sighed. Bobbi Morse – an agent with a clever sense of humour, sharp tongue and no-nonsense attitude, a good friend – and she was using all of her powers against you. Wicked.

“It’s just a-“

“Captain’s orders,” she almost sing-sang, earning a grin from Daisy who only shrugged, as if to confirm her words.

You sighed, rolling your eyes; acutely not aware that Steve was still holding your hands in his and your body was heating up from inside at the prolonged contact – particularly your chest and something deep within your belly.

You looked up at him, mildly annoyed and rather amused at his insistence and protectiveness. And even though you wouldn't admit that out loud, touched.

“You’re overbearing. You’re lucky I like you,” you scolded him in a whisper.

He only grinned, his worried gaze clearing and lightning up at your feigned outrage, and squeezed your hands before letting go.

“I love you too. Let’s go.”

You bit your cheek as you nodded, reminding yourself for at least the tenth time since you had set off hiking: friends. The keyword of this trip was ‘friends’.

It was just really hard to actually remember that when Steve looked at you like that, talked like that, and you could still feel the warm imprint of his hands on yours.

Steve Rogers was a man impossible not to fall for; from almost absurd handsomeness to even more absurd goodness he lived by, from his sharp wits to effective moves, from the crinkles in his eyes when he smiled to the tenderness in his touch. His sense of humour equalled to the one of duty, his drive and determination in leading interlacing with a soul of an artist and a simple man who appreciated the most ordinary things.

You had clicked instantly; your friendship bloomed almost effortlessly, working alongside him making for many opportunities to spend time together. Despite barely having met about three months ago, the times you owed him your life for were numerous; and the few times he owed you his, even as there was no such thing as keeping score, only strengthened your bond. Moments where you thought you wouldn’t make it out. Long nights at motels or in a stake-out cars, filled with mindless chatter, profound talks and comfortable silences. His goddamn smiles alone, always feeling a little warmer, fonder, when directed at you.

The fact he had quickly slipped into a habit of calling you Lee, a nickname derived from your codename with a wordless implication of you being his refuge, with that damn smile on his plush lips, was making something in your ribcage tremble with affection.

You had fallen hard. But who wouldn’t? You were only human.

And his proximity, his friendship, his affection, they were most precious to you; no matter which form they’d have, you’d take it.

Even if it meant inappropriate thoughts and your heart racing fast enough to collapse from exhaustion when he cleaned your scraped knee and palms with such care and focus one might believe they were fatal wounds.

Your heart would tremble less if he hadn’t kneeled in front of you as he did so, but you supposed Steve Rogers was just that kind of deadly. He cradled your hands in his huge ones as if they were as fragile as butterfly wings, smiling when he was done; and grinning when you said Thank you, nurse Rogers, the words carrying both humour and respect for his late mother.

His smile resembled the sun so much you almost missed how the actual sunrays grew less and less warm. It was only a few minutes later – every one of them making you aware of the either knowing or incredulous looks following yours or Steve’s every move, almost enough to make you self-conscious when snacking – when you realized you were getting cold.

The solution was easy; and despite how effective it would have been in chasing away the cold and lifting your spirits, it did not involve hugging Steve. Instead, you dived your hand down your backpack through the layer of snacks and other small necessities towards your clothes for the occasion.

And your hand reached something it most definitely shouldn’t have.

“What the-“ you murmured, still acutely aware of all the gazes on you, now joined by Steve’s. “Why is it… sticky?”

Puzzled and horrified – and suspicious, because Hopkinson might have never played a prank on you, but lines always had to be crossed for the first time someday – you threw out the things from the top, pulling out what was normally one of your favourite sweatshirts.

Fairly soaked in a rusty-red oily substance that now resided in your luggage.

Not that it hadn’t been there before – but before, it was safely stored in a Tupperware container along with the thin marinated steaks you had been tasked to carry for the team’s first dinner above fire, Hunter carrying the grate.

“What is it?” Bobbi asked, frowning at the poor article of clothing you had intended to wear.

You didn’t have to sniff it to answer; mostly because the scent of spices was strong enough to answer for you.

“It’s the… marinade from our dinner,” you informed her with a grimace, a small whine escaping you as you went to inspect the rest of your clothes with dread and irritation rising. Because you already knew that the sweatshirt would not be the only thing having been hit. There had been enough to marinade to drown Steve and Bucky in – that was why you had triple-checked it was secured when you had pulled the straw for carrying it in your backpack. “How is that even possible?! I swear I checked it at least five times! I used rubber bands and a plastic bag and- ugh.”

“It probably gave out with all the moving around,” Natasha said, compassion evident in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you sighed.

And it was. You were only just beginning to feel the mountains part of your destination. You weren’t even shivering – and god knew you had been exposed to much worse conditions with fewer clothing. It wasn’t even raining. You had been through much worse – this was but an inconvenience.

Kinda like Hopkinson himself.

Your gaze flickered to him as he himself put on a thin hoodie, your gaze narrowing in subtle suspicion; but there was no way. He almost looked as if he was pitying you. Genuinely. Though not enough to share his clothes; not that you’d accept if he had offered. But that was beside the point. The point was he probably wasn’t to be blamed for your current misery. Not where marinating your clothes was concerned anyway.

It was probably all on you. It seemed your Tupperware skills still needed some work. Goddamnit.

“It is fine,” you spoke to yourself more than anyone else. “I’ll walk the cold off and then stay close to the fire-“

Your heart skipped a beat as you felt a presence by your side, a large navy-blue hoodie entering your sight; it was as if talking about your potential inconvenience summoned him.

An angel by your shoulder.

With a soft frown and a welcoming smile, he set the hoodie next to you as your hands still held onto your tainted clothes.

“Hey… here, you can have mine.”

You opened your mouth to protest, the words dying in your throat when you met Steve’s gaze. The golden hour had arrived, highlighting the freckles and the god-like warm glow of his smile. Your fingers reflexively twitched in the fabric of the t-shirt in your hands as the urge to run them through Steve’s hair instead hit you like a sledgehammer.

Friends, you reminded yourself again. FRIENDS.

He was offering a friendly gesture. It was no different than borrowing boxing wraps from Hunter for training if yours had torn, borrowing a dress from Natasha because none of yours fit the theme of a party, or borrowing heels from Daisy because they matched better than anything you owned. There was nothing special about this and no one would think twice.

Yet, it was a gesture you had to turn down, no matter how gentlemanly it was – no matter how at home you knew you’d feel in that hoodie. The idea alone was tickling along the most sensitive parts of your body and for that alone you should refuse.

“Thank you, Steve… but that wouldn’t be fair,” you said. “You shouldn’t be cold because of me.”

Plus, I know this one is your favourite, you wanted to say, but bit your tongue, aware that the scene was already out-of-chart intimate as it was. It certainly felt like it.

“I won’t. You know I run pretty hot…”

You are hot, you wanted to say – but a little choked noise from Hopkinson and Bucky had you quickly set your mind straight.

Until Steve pulled out the big guns – rather literally. Long fingers wrapped around your bare forearm, goosebumps erupting on your skin despite the nearly burning sensation, breath catching. It did not help the situation that something you didn’t dare to identify for the sake of your sanity flashed in Steve’s eyes when he touched you.

Friends. Friends, friends, FRIENDS-

“See. All warm. And it will stay that way even without a hoodie. Take it. Please,” he added. And soon, a content smile appeared on his face, because he recognized the signs of you yielding.

A girl had to pick her battles. Arguing with Steve was not one of those which you had no chance at winning – it would be like trying to move a ton-worth block of concrete with bare hands. You had enough experience with that – fighting with Steve on the matter of your comfort, not moving concrete – and there was no winning. He respected your choices, yes, but he’d fastened straps of a parachute on you himself if it came to it, even if it meant he wouldn’t have one himself; he was a sweet hypocrite like that.

“Fine,” you sighed, smiling just a bit. “If you insist… thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

You would swear you heard at least three people mutter under their breath: I bet.

Thoroughly warm and comfortable despite the numerous miles in your feet and tens of pounds on your back, you trailed behind Hunter and Bobbi, who were fighting animatedly – and most lovingly – about which European brand beer was the finest. For a couple who had been married and divorced, once talking about each other in not so nice terms including Bobbi being called ‘a demonic hell-beast’, they sure appeared very much in love – but every bit professional when it counted. They were lucky to find each other again, that was for sure. It made one long for a love like that; explosive as they were, you wouldn’t shy away from calling them soulmates. They belonged with each other; they were lucky to have find one another.

As you tugged at the sleeves of the hoodie you were wearing, long to easily hide your palms, you wondered if you were being lucky or cursed on this trip so far. Tripping. Spilling sauce onto your clothes. Withstanding Hopkinson’s moody glares of which exactly one resembled a shred of compassion and only lasted until you put on the hoodie of the Captain America himself. And yet, surrounded by colleagues, friends and Steve, on a trip with a sun that had slowly begun its descent at your back, you had to count your blessings.

Lucky. You were luckier than most.

Daisy had joined you for a bit, walking side by side with you when the path allowed it, meaningless chatter altering with meaningful; a natural course of conversation between close friends who were together for a few hours with nothing else to do but take it step by step, literally, admire the nature and talk.

Steve had promised it would only take less than an hour and you’d make it to where you were supposed to set camp. He had fallen behind, walking with Natasha and Bucky, who, judging by his tone and Steve’s groans, roasted the team captain about something with Natasha’s occasional but effective help.

Now, about what you assumed was twenty to thirty minutes later, the last challenge of today’s journey awaited you; fording a river.

A rather cold river.

The weather was nice, sure, and you were having a good time; but the idea of warding through water reaching your thighs was not all that alluring.

But of course, Steve Rogers was the man with a plan.

Walking down the river and finding a relatively shallow section of the river with several large rocks, all you had to do was to step from one slightly slippery stone to another without face-planting or letting your heavy backpacks break your balance. Easy – or it should be for a group of athletic agents.

Yet, Bucky and Steve were discarding their shoes in a blink, rolling up their pant legs, ready to dip in and get wet so other wouldn’t.

Your heart skipped a startled beat, a lump growing in your throat, as you watched Steve regard his friend, already knee-deep in water, with the tinniest bit of hesitance.

Cold water. Cold water.

In the early June, the water couldn’t be colder than fifty, fifty-five degrees; but if the supersoldiers planned to stand there until all of you crossed the not-so-unsignificant distance while they’d assist, they would certainly feel it. And while history taught you both Steve and Bucky could clearly take the cold better than anyone, the idea of being the person knee-deep in the water was anything but pleasant.

Especially to someone who had already laid his life by diving a plane into icy waters of the North Atlantic.

Without a second thought, you left the line forming at the best crossing point, walking down the bank to crouch at Steve’s side.

He noticed your presence in an instant, snapping his head to you, an all-easy smile forming on his lips. As if you couldn’t see the brief flash of anxiety before he hid it. As if you couldn’t see his carotid pulsing wildly. As if he, the supposedly fearless man to all, could hide the one flicker of apprehension he allowed himself to feel from you.

“Are you sure about this, Steve?” you asked, voice as low as possible as not to attract attention.

As you met his gaze, understanding flashed in his eye. A silent conversation; he knew why you came to him, where your concern came from.

And in a very Steve Rogers fashion, he ignored it. He just gulped and squared his shoulders and rose to his feet, suddenly towering over you again.

“Of course I am.” Of course he was. “It will be much easier than all of us fording through.”

You sighed, looking at him pointedly as you swallowed your irritation – and worry. That was not what you were questioning and he knew it. And you weren’t questioning his dedication or his ability to help either; just the decision to put himself through discomfort anyone else could have taken upon themselves, when it meant more hardship for him than others.

“I know. It just… it can be literally anyone else-- hell, I can do it.”

You could. You’d warm up after soon enough, judging by the terrain awaiting you. It was a better option that him going in there to freeze his toes off at and bring him back to--

To prove your point, you reached for the backpack buckles on your belly to take it off.

Steve’s hand was on your forearm stopping you before you could undo a single one, squeezing.

As your head snapped back to his face, there was a little crack through the mask he had put on, showing just the slightest hint of anxiety now. But there was a fresh wave of warmth in his expression too; gratitude lit up the blue of his irises the way the sun lit up the summer skies, dreamy and sweet.

His thumb pressed into your forearm gently, stroking, reassuring. You felt the tension melt from your shoulders faster than a butter on the stove, something stirring deep inside your bones as you took a shaky inhale.

“Thank you, Lee, but I’ll be fine,” he said, one of his eyebrows arching, a little quirk to his lips. “And we don’t want to undo the work the hoodie has done on you.”

Right. The hoodie. His hoodie. Yes, you were very much aware you were still wearing it, while he remained in a t-shirt that was at least one size too small for him and did all things delightful for his already insanely impressive physique.

Not the point.

You opened you mouth to argue, only to be interrupted by a shout from behind you.

“Oi, punk! You gonna help or just stand there enjoying the view?”

As you both turned to Bucky, you could see him helping Agent May cross the river, already halfway through.

Steve let go of your forearm, smiling at you once more.

“At least take the hoodie,” you insisted. He shook his head, your mouth opening on empty, deeming your effort fruitless.

“I have a jacket if I want… don’t need the hoodie,” he assured you, his grin earning a glint of danger that made your stomach flip-flop funnily, the heat in your abdomen burning hotter. “Plus, it looks much better on you.”

With that, he set off, jogging towards the water, and leaving you stand there with cheeks exploding with heat.

Damn you, Steven Grant.

Shaking your head, you returned to the line, anxiously watching Steve climb down into water, a shudder running down his spine.

“Come on. I saved you a spot,” Daisy said, gesturing for you to stand in front of her, earning an eyeroll from Hopkinson who stood behind her. “Everything okay with you and Steve?”

The phrasing had your head snap up with a startle, heart speeding up.

“What?”

What did she mean by that?! You and Steve?

No. There was you. There was Steve. Two separate entities. Friends.

Checking up on each other. Wearing each other’s clothes. Typical friends.

You relaxed when all you found in Daisy’s gaze was genuine care and curiosity, no trace of implying anything. Right.

You smiled back. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

Hunter and Bobbi followed after May; then it was your turn. The sight of the river, while beautiful, got a little less pleasant as you stepped on the first stone, testing just how slippery the surface was. It wasn’t awful – you could handle that, even as you felt the extra load on your back disturbing your balance.

But hey – the worst that could happen was you taking a cold bath. Just another inconvenience, right?

Yet, you didn’t have to worry. You didn’t even make it to the second large stone when a familiar pair of warm hands wrapped around yours, offering a gentle but firm support.

You met Steve’s reassuring gaze, a message without words: I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.

You send one back, squeezing his hands: I know. You makeme feel safe. You okay?

A tiny nod on his part and then you were on your way, careful taking step after step, always testing the surface first, making sure your every move was secure before shifting your weight. From one to another, you made it halfway to the deepest part of the crossing without any issue, actually enjoying the little adventure – which had obviously nothing to do with Steve’s touch, because you were not at all disappointed to see Bucky heading back from the other side of the river where he had left Bobbi to take you off of Steve’s hands. Not at all.

You were just stepping on the next stone when you felt a sudden drop in weight on your shoulders and back, an embarrassing yelp erupting from your throat as you scrambled for balance.

A fleeing thought of this trip being cursed for you indeed flashed through your mind as you braced yourself for the impact into cold water despite still trying not to have it come to that.

And it didn’t.

A splash sounded next to you, a few drops cooling your ankle, but that was it; you stood tall and firm on the irregularly-shaped stone, a hot vice of a grip on your hips, your hands having found purchase on just as hot and solid surface nearby.

Steve’s hands securely holding your hips.

Your hands on his shoulders.

Attentive blue eyes looking up at yours to assure both you and himself that you were okay.

Your face heated up, but the rest of your body was set on fire; indecent images of a wholly different situation with Steve’s hands having a steel-like grip on your hips and his eyes boring into yours flooded your mind, a wildfire of visceral need spreading through every single cell of your body and lightning it up. Steve was all about touch. Steve was all about eye-contact. You knew with absolute certainty that he’d never once let his gaze wander from your face when he’d sheathed himself inside you, feasting his eyes, because he lived for capturing images of beauty and he was a giver, the pleasure of people he loved being his own--- and you wouldn’t dare to look away. Your eyes might flutter shut at the sensation of utter-

Forcing yourself to snap back into present – into reality –, looking everywhere but at Steve as your whole body burned, a floating object caught your eye behind Steve’s back. A dark prolonged object, neatly packed, carried away by the stream.

Your tent. The thing that had fallen into water and nearly knocked you off balance was your tent, slowly sinking lower and lower as it slowed down its path down the river.

Great. Really great.

You were fucked.

How did it even-

“I got it!” Bucky hollered, changing course, heading to retrieve what was supposed to be the roof over your head for the next three days.

He’d get it; you weren’t worried. It was fine.

And the tent would be fine too. It was in the waterproof case. It would--- it would be absolutely soaked, because it was sinking. The entirety of the tent had gone under water, including the protective layer that was meant to save you from rain should it come to it.

There was no cloud on the sky but you had a feeling there’d be water dripping on you all night anyway.

How could it have fallen off? You had secured it with the buckled straps to the bottom of your fairly new backpack, checking repeatedly – every time before you put the backpack on again – that it held.

Then again, maybe you hadn’t done that after the fiasco – and the lovely result of it – with your marinated clothes. So you might be cursed, but by your own fault, really-

A squeeze to your hips brought your attention back to Steve, making you realize you were still standing in the middle of the river, stalling.

“I’m sorry, moving on, moving on,” you babbled, only to have him still your movements, eyes scrutinizing your face.

“You okay?”

Funny you should ask.

“Are you?”

You reciprocated the scrutiny; eyes roaming his handsome features, you searched for any signs of discomfort – not from having to hold you, but from still soaking his legs in the cold water. All you found was a reassuring smile; and yet, you couldn’t but brush your thumb inconspicuously over Steve’s shoulder in an attempt at comfort, incidentally along the hem of his t-shirt. An emotion flashed in his irises, eyes darkening a fraction, the grip on your flesh turning almost bruising before he began to release it, taking one of your hands again and then the other. You licked your lips – and you’d swear Steve’s gaze flickered to your mouth at that – standing up straighter.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Bucky dropping your tent on the bank of the river.

“Thank you, Bucky!”

“No problem, dollface. Get moving though, my old knees aren’t built for this cold anymore,” he said, causing you to glare at Steve accusingly.

He had lied.

Of course he had fucking lied.

And he had the audacity to grin when you looked at him with accusatory and genuinely worried eyes.

“Let’s get you to the other side, shall we?”

“I packed your favourite snack, but I just decided I’m gonna eat it alone,” you threatened your vengeance for him for not being honest.

Steve feigned hurt so well you might as well believe it; but the hold on your hands remained gentle and secure as he helped you continue the path. “That’s cold, Lee.”

The corners of your lips quirked up.

“I know it’s cold. Now was it so hard to admit it?” you questioned as you beckoned to the water – causing Bucky to chuckle and Steve to deadpan when he instantly realized your trickery.

“You should be around more often, dollface,” Bucky said, approaching you and taking up on Steve’s task.

Steve just grunted and made his way to help Daisy. You felt your face heat up further at Bucky’s remark, grateful no one else could hear the exchange.

…were you though?

“I’ll take your words for it… and Steve?” He glanced at you over his shoulder, clearly not really offended. “Thank you for catching me.”

His smile, no matter how small, said it all and felt like the softest blanket to wrap around you on a cold winter morning; I’ll always catch you.

Always.

Just as you had expected, once you all made it through the river, you reached the camp spot in no time; and just as you had expected, your tent was a lost cause. You could build it, hoping it would dry out overnight at least bit, but actually sleeping in it was out of question unless you wanted to wake up soaked up and sneezing.

In a brief moment of self-pity you granted yourself, you planted your butt on the ground, laying the drenched parts of your tent next to you, taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it as you stared at the traitorous pieces of equipment, including the buckles that had been meant to hold the package to the backpack but had given out.

While everyone busied themselves with unpacking their temporary shelters as well – Natasha with Bucky, Bobbi with Hunter, May, Daisy and Hopkinson each on their own in the lightest and therefore smallest tents possible, Bobbi took note of your state, smiling compassionately.

“Are you okay? The water really did a number on that thing, huh?”

You reciprocated her smile wryly, no less grateful for her care.

“Yeah… But you know what? I win. Sleeping outside? I can stargaze. I’ll be fine,” you said, shrugging and rising to your feet to get to work. You could build the tent to have it dry out at least and wash your clothes in the lake you had settled at. “I’m just… gonna sleep by the fire under the open skies, in… borrowed, non-marinated clothes and with no sleeping bag, because with my luck, it’s probably full of bugs or itching powder or something. It’s fine. God knows I slept in conditions a lot worse than that.”

And wasn’t that the truth. You had slept in much better conditions too, but that was beside the point. You tried to summon the memories of horrible nights spent in damp clothes, freezing, teeth clattering so hard the sound made it impossible to fall asleep; unbearable heat, loud noises, even just annoying persistent chatter. Sleeping under the open skies was practically a blessing in comparison. A dream.

And you did not want to remember nights that had been very different, because that would only make you miserable at your predicament.

“Yeah, not on my watch,” Steve called out lowly, placing another hook in the ground, using his foot to step on it and dig it deeper. “Not when the solution is obvious.”

Your heart skipping a beat at the obvious solution, you barely had time to breathe in to respond when someone else did – in an extremely irritated manner.

“Seriously?! What, you gonna lend her your tent too?” Hopkinson spat, rising from where he had been crouching by his tent. “Maybe even keep her warm through the-“

Steve lunged his direction so fast you didn’t even have time to be offended by the implication.

But Bucky, the supersoldier he was, was much faster; his metal arm stopped Steve in his tracks, palm pressing against Steve’s chest before he could make the almost-breaking-Hopkinson’s-arm a pleasant memory for the man.

Still, Hopkinson had enough wit to shut up and step back hastily, raising his hands defensively. His face turned white as a sheet of paper; good. He had some brain left then, it seemed. How he had survived for so long you had no idea.

Gulping – and shamelessly satisfied at the fear in Hopkinson’s eyes, because Jesus he did not just say that, even as you had thought about exactly the same – you turned your gaze back to Steve and Bucky.

And something in your core exploded hot, a tug so violent and visceral it was almost painful.

If Steve had looked at Hopkinson like he could break his arm all those weeks back when he had made his stupid comment, now he looked like he could break every single bone in his body, snap the guy in half and enjoy it. And he’d enjoy doing it for you. To defend you.

Steve’s smile was always a beautiful sight and so was the softness he could look at you with at times; but the rage in his face now, the fire in his eyes, on your behalf, were nothing short of breathtaking.

Avenging angel indeed.

He might not be carrying a flaming sword, nor had his shield on his arm, but that made him no less menacing, no less divine; and no less beautiful.

“Do we have a problem, Agent Hopkinson?” Bucky asked calmly, despite the clear effort with which he was holding Steve back still, even as Steve visibly didn’t move a muscle.

You were barely moving at all too; your chest was heaving, the rest of your body strung tight with effort not to let show just how affected you were by Steve’s near literal white-knighting.

“No, sir,” Hopkinson saluted, nodding stiffly, before he scrambled to finish building his tent.

“Good.”

Few seconds of deafening silence was only interrupted by the scrape of shoes against ground as the camp slowly came back to life again. Bucky shot Steve a look before he let his metal arm down, watching Steve avert his still flaming gaze from Hopkinson with shoulders remaining squared; and so alluringly wide you just wanted to run your hands over them, just as breathless at the sensation as you were now-

“I mean, makes sense you’d share,” Daisy broke the silence, everyone visibly relaxing. “It looks like your tent is pretty big, eh?”

Your eyes went wide.

Loud cough erupted from Hunter’s direction as he spitted the water he had been drinking; Bobbi patted his shoulders, amusement clear on her face. Bucky’s face twisted in a questionable grimace; Natasha pursed her lips, seemingly one second from making a comment. May bit back a smirk; Hopkinson was only showing his back, but he clearly froze in his movements.

Steve just looked shocked – shocked enough to snap from the anger that had overtook him on your behalf.

You would think it would take Daisy a few seconds to realize how she had worded her statement, accidentally referring to a figurative ‘tent’ men grew in certain situations – but judging by her seemingly innocent smile and the sparkle in her eye, she knew exactly what she had implied. And she had done so on purpose and with delight.

She was right, however. Steve’s temporary dwelling was probably the biggest one at your site and it even included a vestibule, where all the equipment which was meant for everyone was to be stored. His tent had the most space for the reason he could put his backpack to the vestibule alone.

Steve cleared his throat, taking a few steps to you, a relaxed smile having found way back to his face.

“…are you comfortable with sharing a tent with me?”

You reciprocated his smile, shrugging, even as you had to work hard to swallow your amusement at Daisy’s comment. One that was very much on point.

Yes. You were very comfortable sharing a tent with him indeed. More than, actually, but not everyone needed to know that; and you could feel several knowing gazes on you as you answered as levelled as possibly.

“I mean… we have shared a room before for a mission. I’m fine… are you? Comfortable with that, that is?” you asked, perfectly polite, considerate and friendly, even as your heart was racing in your ribcage.

There was no reason for the racing heart though. Because this was okay for friends to do. Absolutely. If you having shared the room sometimes included sharing a bed, which had naturally resulted in cuddling, body heat searching body heat, no one needed to know – especially not Agent Asshole Hopkinson. What happened in a motel room stayed in a motel room. Always.

A cute crinkle appeared in Steve’s eye as he gave the answer you already knew.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t. Of course, it’s fine.”

More than, whispered his gaze, so you averted it and busied yourself with gathering the wet parts of your tent, clearing your throat.

“Good… that’s good. Thanks. I really appreciate it, Steve.”

“Any time, Lee.”

You could feel his gaze on you, the warmth of his smile like a soft blanket on your back. It was going to be a long, long night.

Part 2

Complete masterlist

Steve Rogers masterlist

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