𝓁𝒾𝓋 𝓁𝒾𝓋ℯ𝓈 𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ

“You look unhappy.”

You stare at him from across the room.

“Thank you.”

“It was an observation, not a criticism.”

“Well, observe less.”

Ticket Taker’s eyebrows rise, and you immediately feel guilty.

“Sorry.”

He sets his pen down.

That simple action makes something inside you loosen slightly. Ticket Taker is always busy. There is always another ledger to balance, another schedule to revise, another problem requiring his attention, but he has never made you compete with his work. The moment he realizes you genuinely need him, everything else seems to become secondary.

“Come here,” he says.

You sigh dramatically but obey, crossing the room with slow, reluctant steps. You expect him to point toward the chair beside his desk, the one you have occupied during countless evenings while he worked and you provided increasingly unnecessary commentary about his paperwork. Instead, the moment you’re close enough, his hand closes gently around your wrist.

You barely have time to make a confused sound before he pulls you toward him.

“Ticket—!”

Your complaint dissolves into startled silence when he guides you directly into his lap. For several seconds, you simply sit there, completely rigid with surprise.

Ticket Taker, apparently satisfied with this arrangement, slides one arm securely around your waist and uses his other hand to move the abandoned ledger farther away. He settles back into his chair as though pulling you into his lap in the middle of the workday is an entirely ordinary occurrence.

You turn your head to stare at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Holding you.”

“I noticed that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

You narrow your eyes.

Ticket Taker’s expression remains perfectly composed, but you catch the faintest hint of amusement in his gaze.

“I came here to hang out with you,” you mutter.

“And now you are.”

“In your lap.”

“Yes.”

“You’re being very strange about this.”

“I believe you are the one making it strange.”

You open your mouth to argue, but his hand begins moving slowly against your back, tracing gentle circles through the fabric of your clothes. The response is immediate and deeply inconvenient. Some of the tension leaves your shoulders before you can stop it, and Ticket Taker notices.

Of course he notices.

He notices everything about you.

“There,” he murmurs. “Better.”

“I’m still having a terrible day.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I’m still angry.”

“You may be angry here.”

Something about the simple statement nearly breaks you. Your expression crumples for half a second before you catch yourself, and Ticket Taker’s teasing disappears immediately. His arm tightens around your waist as he draws you closer, guiding your head beneath his chin until your cheek rests against his chest. He doesn’t ask you to explain. That is one of the things you love most about him. Ticket Taker understands that sometimes you want advice and sometimes you want solutions, but occasionally you simply need somewhere safe to be miserable for a while. Tonight, apparently, he has decided that place is his lap.

You let out a long, miserable sigh and slump against him. His hand continues its slow path up and down your back.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Very well.”

“Everything was awful.”

“I gathered that.”

“I hate today.”

“That was also apparent.”

You lift your head enough to glare at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Never.”

The slight curve of his mouth says otherwise, and you pout. Actually pout.

Your lower lip pushes forward in a way that feels both childish and entirely involuntary as you stare at him with exaggerated betrayal. For the first time since you arrived, Ticket Taker’s composure visibly cracks. His gaze drops to your mouth for a brief second before returning to your eyes, and you watch with a strange satisfaction as the practiced neutrality of his expression gives way to something rawer, something that looks uncomfortably like hunger. The air between you shifts, charged with an energy that wasn't there moments ago. His fingers pause mid-circle on your back, the sudden stillness more telling than any movement could be. The faint scent of ink and parchment that always clings to him seems stronger now, mingling with the warmth radiating from his chest where you're pressed against him. In the dim lantern light of his tent, you can see the subtle tension that appears along his jawline, the slight darkening of his eyes that reminds you how rarely you see him without some barrier between his true feelings and the world.

The pout falters.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked at me strangely.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

His hand settles against your waist, warm and steady. “You are being argumentative.”

“I had a bad day. I’m allowed.”

“Apparently.”

You pout again, this time intentionally.

Ticket Taker stares.

You wait.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“You know precisely what.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You are pouting at me.”

“I am expressing my emotions.”

“You are weaponizing your face.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Ticket Taker smiles immediately. Not the small, restrained smile he gives customers or performers. This one is warm and unmistakably fond, transforming his entire expression in a way that makes your chest ache. He lifts a hand and gently cups your cheek, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“There you are,” he murmurs.

You lean into his palm despite yourself.

“Where?”

“Smiling.”

“Barely.”

“It still counts.”

You roll your eyes, but the movement lacks any real annoyance. Instead, it feels more like a reflex, an automatic response to his gentle teasing that has become second nature between you. His thumb continues tracing slowly over your cheek, following the curve of your cheekbone with a reverence that makes something in your chest flutter. The calloused tip of his thumb catches slightly on your skin, a subtle reminder of all the ledgers he balances, all the tickets he takes, all the work that usually occupies those hands—hands that are now devoted entirely to you. You become aware of just how close his face is to yours, closer than you've been in a while now that you think of it. The air between you has grown still and heavy, charged with something unspoken that makes your breath catch. Ticket Taker seems to realize it at the same moment. You watch as his gaze flickers briefly toward your mouth again, but this time he doesn't look away when you catch him. Instead, his eyes remain fixed on your lips, and you feel the intensity of his stare like a physical touch. A muscle in his jaw works as though he's fighting some instinct, and the arm around your waist tightens almost imperceptibly, pulling you closer still until there's barely a breath of space between your bodies. The scent of ink and parchment that always surrounds him seems to intensify, mingling with something warmer, something uniquely him that makes your head spin.

Your voice comes out quieter than intended. “What?”

He studies you for a moment. “You are very attractive.”

You blink.

The statement is delivered with such calm sincerity that it takes your brain several seconds to process it.

“What?”

“I believe I spoke clearly.”

“You can’t just say that out of nowhere.”

“Why not?”

“Because I look terrible.”

Ticket Taker’s brows pull together slightly.

“You do not.”

“I absolutely do. My hair is a mess, I’m exhausted, and I’ve been sitting here complaining for ten minutes.”

“Twelve.”

“That is not helping.”

“I wasn’t attempting to help. I was correcting the figure.” You groan and bury your face against his shoulder. Ticket Taker laughs quietly, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek, before gently coaxing you to look at him again.

“You are allowed to have bad days,” he says, his voice softer now. “They do not make you less appealing.”

“I’m literally pouting.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think I’m attractive?”

“Especially when you pout.”

Your mouth falls open, and Ticket Taker looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“That’s terrible.”

“I disagree.”

“You told me to stop doing it five minutes ago.”

“Because it was distracting.”

You stare at him. The tips of his ears turn pink. For once, Ticket Taker appears to realize he has said too much. You smile slowly.

“Distracting?”

He clears his throat. “That is what I said.”

“Interesting.”

“Do not start.”

“Start what?”

He gives you a warning look, but it has very little effect when his hand is still gently cradling your face, and his other arm remains securely around your waist. You pout at him again, deliberately. Ticket Taker closes his eyes for a moment.

“You are impossible.”

“And attractive?”

His eyes open. The expression on his face is so openly affectionate that your teasing falters.

“Very,” he says.

Then he kisses you. There is nothing rushed about it. His hand remains against your cheek as he closes the small distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss so gentle that the last of your tension seems to dissolve beneath it. You melt against him, one hand curling into the front of his clothes as he kisses you again, just as softly, lingering this time as though he has nowhere else to be. When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against yours, and for a while neither of you says anything. Then you pout. Ticket Taker stares at your mouth. You grin.

“That was deliberate.”

“Maybe.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“You like me.”

“I do.”

The answer comes without hesitation, and your teasing expression softens. Ticket Taker brushes his nose lightly against yours before pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth. Unfortunately,” he continues, though the tenderness in his voice ruins the complaint entirely, “I appear to like you under every conceivable circumstance.”

“Even when I’m grumpy?”

“Yes.”

“Even when I complain?”

“Constantly.”

“Even when I pout?”

His gaze drops to your lips again. A faint smile appears. “That one may actually be a problem.”

A laugh escapes you, bright and sudden, and Ticket Taker’s smile widens. He leans in and kisses it directly off your lips. You respond immediately, wrapping your arms around his neck and shifting closer until there is no space left between you. His hands settle on your waist, holding you firmly in place, and the kiss deepens. This is the kind of kiss you know, the one that starts slow and sweet but quickly loses its composure. The kind that makes your toes curl in your boots and heat pool low in your stomach. The kind that makes you forget you were ever having a bad day at all.

“Ticket Taker,” you murmur against his mouth. It comes out breathless. He makes a low noise in response, not quite a word, and pulls you even tighter against him. One of his hands slides upward, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilts your head to the side, changing the angle of the kiss until you’re dizzy with it. You make a soft, needy sound, and he swallows it with another kiss. You’re suddenly, achingly aware of every point of contact between you—the solid warmth of his thighs beneath yours, the hard lines of his chest against your palms, the pressure of his hands gripping your waist. You shift your hips, seeking more friction, more of him, and the movement makes you both groan. He pulls back just enough to speak.

“What do you need?” His voice is rougher than usual. You love the sound. You love that you’re the one who makes it that way.

“You,” you say immediately. “Just you.” Something in your expression must reveal how much you mean it, because he looks at you with a tenderness that steals your breath. He says your name, soft and reverent, and the way he says it makes you feel cherished. Wanted. Seen. He kisses you again, a slow, deliberate kiss that feels like a promise. When he finally pulls away, he presses a line of soft kisses along your jaw, then down the column of your throat. Your head falls back, granting him easier access, and he takes full advantage. His lips are warm against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You gasp when he reaches the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and he pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his tone. He likes that he can affect you this way. You like that he likes it. He leans back in, but instead of kissing you again, he gently bites down on the sensitive flesh of your shoulder. The sharp, unexpected pressure makes you cry out, your back arching. He soothes the mark with his tongue, a slow, deliberate lick that makes you shudder. He pulls back to admire his work.

“There,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Now you’re marked, all mine. My pouty little love.” The possessive note in his tone sends a fresh wave of heat through you. He did that on purpose. He wanted to leave a claim on you, a visible reminder that you belong to him. The thought makes you whine, a high, needy sound you barely recognize as your own. He chuckles, a deep, pleased sound that vibrates through you. “So eager for me.” His hands move from your waist to your hips, gripping you firmly. “Let’s see how eager you can be.” He lifts you just enough to start fumbling with the fastenings of your trousers, his fingers working with an urgency that belies his calm demeanor. You help as best you can, lifting your hips and shoving your own pants down just enough.

Ticket Taker's hands are warm against your skin, his touch both sure and slightly trembling with restrained desire. His fingers trace patterns along your inner thighs, deliberately avoiding the places you most want them to touch. The anticipation coils tightly in your stomach, each brush of his knuckles against sensitive flesh sending sparks through your nervous system. You squirm in his lap, unable to remain still as he methodically builds your arousal. His breath catches when you shift your weight, pressing more firmly against his growing erection. "Patience," he murmurs, though there's a strained quality to his voice that betrays his own need. One hand moves higher, thumb brushing against the fabric of your underwear. You gasp at the contact, hips bucking involuntarily. His other hand steadies you, palm flat against your lower back.

"So responsive," he says again, this time with awe rather than satisfaction. "Always so beautifully responsive to me." He finally slides his fingers beneath the elastic, running his hand against you with deliberate slowness. The intimate contact makes your breath hitch. When his thumb finds your sensitive flesh, circling gently, you cry out softly. His name escapes your lips, half plea, half praise. Ticket Taker silences you with a kiss, swallowing your sounds as he continues his patient exploration. Fingers move with practiced expertise, learning your responses, adapting to your cues.

Ticket Taker's movements become more deliberate, his breathing slightly uneven as he withdraws his hand from you, swiping his fingers across what moisture you already produced. He brings those fingers to his own mouth, his gaze locked with yours as he slowly sucks them clean, his tongue swirling around each digit with deliberate slowness. You watch, transfixed, as his cheeks hollow slightly, the intimate act making your thighs tremble. "You taste so sweet," he murmurs against his fingers, the words vibrating through you. Then he's pressing those same fingers against your lips, already slick with his saliva and your arousal.

"Open for me," he commands softly, and you obey without hesitation, parting your lips to accept them. He slides two fingers past your teeth, deeper than you expected, until you're gagging slightly around them. The sensation is overwhelming—his knuckles pressing against your tongue, the taste of yourself mixed with him, the way he holds you steady with his other hand on the back of your neck. Your eyes water as he works his fingers in and out, coating them thoroughly in your saliva.

"That's it," he praises, his voice thick with desire. "Getting them nice and wet for you." When he finally withdraws, you gasp for air, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips to his fingers for a moment before breaking. Without giving you time to recover, he's positioning himself between your thighs again. When he finally slides one digit inside you, your back arches violently, pressing your chest against his as a choked cry escapes your throat. The sudden intrusion is both a shock and a relief, the stretch making you clench around him instinctively. He's patient, letting you adjust before beginning to move, his finger curling slightly as he finds that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

"More," you demand, voice ragged. Ticket Taker complies, adding another finger, curling them just right until you see stars behind your closed eyelids. His mouth leaves yours, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, each press of his lips sending a jolt straight to your core. Your head falls against his shoulder, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck, and he takes full advantage, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin where your pulse beats erratically. When he reaches the hollow of your throat, his tongue darts out to taste your skin, leaving a wet path that cools in the lantern light of the tent. The air grows thick with the sounds of your breathing and the sound of his fingers inside you.

His fingers continue their torturous exploration inside you, stroking and curling in ways that make your thighs tremble where they're bracketing his hips. You can feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressing insistently against you through his trousers, a constant, thrilling reminder of his desire. The fabric of his shirt has become twisted where you've been clutching at it, the fine linen crumpled in your fists as you struggle to maintain any semblance of composure.

"Ticket Taker," you gasp as his fingers press against that perfect spot inside you, making sparks dance behind your eyelids. His response is a low hum of satisfaction against your throat before he pulls back slightly, his fingers still buried within you as he watches your face. The lantern light catches the intense hunger in his eyes, the way his pupils have swallowed the warm amber of his irises, leaving them dark and fathomless.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. You force your heavy eyelids open, meeting his gaze with hazy pleasure. What you see there nearly undoes you completely—pure, unadulterated worship mixed with a possessive gleam that makes your heart race even faster. His free hand comes up to brush sweat-damp strands of hair from your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle considering the intensity of his expression.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers begin to move again, this time with a purpose that makes your hips buck against his hand. His other hand gets to work, circling you with increasing pressure as his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, sending pleasure cresting through you in waves. You can feel yourself approaching the edge, your body tensing as his movements become more deliberate. His name escapes your lips in a breathless plea, and his lips curve into a knowing smile.

"Not yet," he murmurs, slowing his movements deliberately, drawing out the exquisite torture. You whine in protest, squirming in his lap as he maintains a maddeningly gentle rhythm that keeps you hovering just on the precipice without letting you fall. His hand moves from circling you to your shoulder, fingers tracing the neckline of your shirt before slipping beneath the fabric to palm your chest. The calloused pad of his thumb brushes against your nipple, making it pebble instantly under his touch. He rolls the sensitive peak between thumb and forefinger, sending fresh sparks of pleasure through you that join the building tension in your core. His name becomes a chant on your lips as he continues his dual assault, fingers pumping steadily while his thumb works your nub with maddening precision.

Just when you think you can't take another moment of this exquisite torture, he leans in, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. You kiss back with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair as you try to pull him impossibly closer. The angle changes as you shift against him, and his fingers hit that perfect spot inside you again. This time he doesn't pull back, instead increasing his pace as he feels your inner walls begin to clench around his fingers. "That's it," he murmurs against your lips, his voice strained with his own rising need. "Let go for me. I want to watch you fall apart. You're so beautiful like this."

His permission is all you need, and with a cry that's half his name, half an incoherent sound of pleasure, you tumble over the edge. Your back arches, pressing your chest into his palm as waves of pleasure wash over you. His fingers continue to work you through your orgasm, drawing out every last aftershock until you're left trembling and breathless in his arms. For a moment, you simply lean against him, boneless and sated, his fingers still buried within you as you struggle to catch your breath. The air in the tent feels charged with electricity, the silence between you heavy with unspoken words. When you finally open your eyes, you find him watching you with an expression that takes your breath away all over again—tenderness, pride, and a fierce possessiveness that makes you feel cherished and claimed all at once. He slowly withdraws his fingers, and you whimper at the loss of contact.

His hands move to your waist, steadying you as he shifts, lifting you effortlessly from his lap. For a moment, you're suspended in his arms, the world tilting as he places you on the polished surface of his desk. Ledgers and papers scatter beneath you, their crisp edges pressing against your back as you settle among his work. The intimacy of being spread across the very space where he spends his days sends a fresh thrill through you, a reminder that you are now the most important thing demanding his attention. Ticket Taker leans over you, his body creating a shadow that blocks the lantern light, plunging you both into a more private darkness. His hands are busy at the waistband of his trousers, fingers working with familiar efficiency to free himself from the constraints of fabric. The sound of buttons being undone seems impossibly loud in the quiet tent, each click marking a progression toward what you both crave.

You help with clumsy haste, pushing at your own remaining clothes until they join his on the floor of his tent, discarded in a pile of rumpled fabric. The air is cool against your heated skin, raising goosebumps along your arms and thighs, but you barely notice as Ticket Taker settles between your legs, his body heat chasing away any chill. The weight of him above you is both comforting and thrilling, a solid presence that anchors you even as your heart races with anticipation. His hands brace on either side of your head, fingers curling slightly against the wooden desk, and you can feel the slight tremble in them, the evidence of his own desire barely contained.

You can’t help but stare at his member. He’s already hard, flushed and leaking at the tip. But it’s the base of his cock that captures your attention. There, nestled among the dark curls, is a distinct swelling. A knot. You’ve seen it before, felt it inside you, but it never fails to make your breath catch. The sight of it, the promise of what it can do, makes you ache with a need so profound it’s almost painful.

“Please,” you beg, not even sure what you’re begging for. More? Everything? All of him, right now? He seems to understand anyway. He swipes his hand through your wentess, coating his cock, and positions himself at your entrance, the head nudging against you, teasing you. He doesn't push inside, not yet. He waits. You try to shift your hips, to take him in yourself, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you still.

“Look at me,” he commands softly. Your eyes flutter open and meet his. His gaze is intense, full of an emotion that makes your chest ache. “Tell me what you want.” You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry.

“Inside me,” you whisper, the words barely audible. “Please, I want you inside me.” A slow smile spreads across his face, and he finally, finally, pushes forward. The initial stretch is a sweet, stinging pleasure that makes you gasp. He moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, sinking deeper inch by inch until he’s fully seated within you. You both groan at the sensation, a shared sound of relief and utter satisfaction. For a moment, he remains still, buried to the hilt, simply feeling you around him. You can feel the slight press of his knot against your entrance, not yet fully swollen, but a promise of what’s to come. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the sudden stillness. The only sounds in the tent are your ragged breaths and the distant sounds of the circus coming to life for the night.

Then he starts to move.

He is slow at first, a gentle rocking that builds a steady rhythm. Each thrust is deliberate, designed to hit that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he finds a pace that has you seeing stars. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, silently begging for more. He gives it to you, increasing his speed until the desk is creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin filling the tent. The scattered papers beneath you crinkle with each powerful thrust, a reminder of where you are, of how utterly you’ve disrupted his world. The thought sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, his voice thick with desire. “Tight around me, taking me so well.” His praise sends a fresh jolt of arousal through you, making you clench around him. He groans in response, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he redoubles his efforts. “So good, always so perfect for me.” His words are a litany of praise that stokes the fire building in your core. One of his hands leaves your hip, moving between your bodies to find you again. His fingers circle you with practiced ease, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. The dual stimulation is almost too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

You can feel his knot beginning to swell, stretching you further with each pass of his hips. The added pressure is exquisite, a delicious ache that has you babbling incoherently, a string of pleas and praises that you're barely aware you're speaking. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming pleasure. The desk beneath you groans in protest with each powerful thrust, the sound mixing with your cries and his ragged breathing.

"Please," you beg, not sure what you're asking for. More? Faster? Harder? All of it. "Ticket Taker, please…"

"Tell me," he demands, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Tell me what you need, my love. Use your words."

"You," you gasp, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. "All of you. Please, I need all of you." You feel the swell of his knot against your entrance, a promise of the fullness you crave. He shifts slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts, and you cry out as he hits that perfect spot inside you with renewed precision. His hand continues its relentless circling, pushing you closer and closer to the precipice. Just as you feel yourself beginning to tighten, the familiar coil of pleasure winding in your stomach, he stills.

A desperate whine escapes your lips as the pleasure recedes slightly, leaving you hanging on the edge. You try to move, to chase the sensation, but his grip on your hips tightens, holding you immobile. His other hand moves to cover your own where it's clutching at his shoulder, his fingers lacing through yours in a gesture that's both grounding and infuriatingly controlling.

"Not yet," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Not until I say so. I want to feel you come around me when I'm buried so deep you can't tell where you end and I begin." His words wash over you, a wave of heat and frustration that leaves you trembling. The denial makes the ache between your legs almost unbearable, a desperate, hollow need that demands to be filled. You can feel how close he is, how the muscles in his back are tense beneath your hands, how he's fighting for control, and the knowledge that he's denying himself as well as you is both maddening and deeply touching. He waits for your breathing to even out slightly, for the tension in your body to ease, before he starts to move again.

This time, his thrusts are slower. He's drawing out every sensation, pushing you higher and higher with each pass of his hips. The desk creaks in protest beneath you, the sound mixing with your choked-off sobs and the slick sounds of your bodies joining. His knot, now fully swollen, presses insistently against you with each thrust, stretching you further, pushing you to your limits. You're so close, the pleasure so intense it's almost painful, and you're terrified he's going to stop again. "Please," you beg, your voice breaking. "Please, let me come. I can't… I can't take it…"

"Almost," he promises, his voice strained. "Just a little longer for me, love. Be good, now." The term of endearment, delivered in that deep, commanding tone, is your undoing. You're fighting it, trying to hold back as he asks, but the combination of his words, the fullness of him inside you, and the relentless stimulation of his hand is too much. You feel yourself beginning to tip over the edge, the tension coiling impossibly tight in your stomach.

He must feel it too, because he finally, finally gives you what you want. "Now," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Come for me now." The command is all it takes. With a cry that's half his name, half an incoherent sound of pure ecstasy, you shatter. Your back arches, pressing your chest against his as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your inner walls clamp down around him, and you can feel him following you over the edge with a groan of your name. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he's pushing forward, seating the swollen base of his cock inside you as he buries himself to the hilt. The sensation of being stretched further, of being locked together, triggers another, smaller orgasm that leaves you gasping and shaking. His warmth spreads inside you, a feeling of completeness, of being utterly and completely claimed, that brings tears to your eyes.

For a long moment, you both remain still, connected in the most intimate way possible. The only sounds in the tent are your ragged breaths slowly evening out, and the distant, faint music of the circus. You can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your chest, a steady rhythm that gradually slows as you both come down from the high. His weight is a comforting, grounding presence, and you wrap your arms around him, holding him close as you bask in the afterglow. You press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent of ink and parchment, now mingled with the unmistakable scent of your combined releases.

"You took me so well," he murmurs against your hair, his voice thick with satisfaction. He shifts slightly, adjusting to the new reality of being knotted together, and the movement makes you both moan. "So perfectly. Look at you, taking all of me." One of his hands comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin. "Are you alright?"

You nod, unable to form words just yet. He seems to understand, because he simply holds you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temples, your closed eyelids. His other hand traces idle patterns on your hip, a soothing, repetitive motion that helps ground you in the present. You can feel the last vestiges of your terrible day melting away, replaced by a warm, sated glow that settles deep in your bones. The anger and frustration you carried into his tent are gone, replaced by a feeling of peace, of being right where you belong.

After a while, when your breathing has returned to normal and you've stopped trembling, you finally find your voice. "Wow," you whisper, the word barely audible. He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through you.

"Wow indeed," he agrees, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, capturing his lips in a slow, lazy kiss that's less about passion and more about connection. When you pull away, you rest your forehead against his.

"I love you," you say, the words coming out softer than you intended, but no less true for it. He stills, and for a moment, you worry you've said the wrong thing, that it's too soon, too much. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

"I love you too," he says, his voice clear and unwavering. "More than I thought possible." He leans in, kissing you again, a soft, reverent press of lips that speaks volumes. When he pulls back, he's smiling, a genuine, unreserved smile that transforms his face, making him look years younger, carefree in a way you rarely see.

"You know," you say, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you trace the line of his jaw, "for a terrible day, this is turning out pretty well." His smile widens, and he laughs, a bright, happy sound that fills the tent.

"I aim to please," he says, his tone light and teasing. You shift slightly, testing the connection between you, and the movement makes you both gasp as his knot presses against your sensitive walls. "Careful," he warns, though there's no real heat in his words. "We're going to be like this for a while."

You hum in contentment, snuggling closer. "I can think of worse things," you murmur, your fingers tracing patterns on his back.