#be kind to yourself and be safe out there!!

[beasangel]

a very bad time p2

⤷ joel miller x fem!reader

💭 “You think it’s hope?” You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”

Summary: You noticed the signs back at Bill and Frank’s - missed period, morning nausea. You told yourself you'd wait until you found Tommy, until you were somewhere safe. Until Joel was ready. Then Kansas City happened.

part one joel masterlist main masterlist

The silence after Kansas City hangs heavy.

It follows you like a second shadow, quiet and careful, just waiting for one of you to break it.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not in the middle of a shootout. Not with your back pressed to a rusted-out car and Joel covered in blood. But fear had cracked you wide open, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them.

Joel’s reaction was instant. Unfiltered. The kind of knee-jerk panic you weren’t used to seeing from him.

But he hasn’t brought it up since.

Neither have you.

There have been nights, long, quiet ones where your ribs press into his under the blankets, where the fire dies too early and neither of you says a word, when you almost did. When his fingers brushed over your skin too gently for someone who hadn’t asked a single question about the possibility of a life growing between you.

But the words stayed in your mouth. Stuck. Swallowed down like ash.

You survived the ambush, but barely. Your body still aches from being thrown against the ground. The bruise on your shoulder blooms like ink, sharp and dark, another addition to the collection of marks you’ve gathered from trying to stay alive.

There are more immediate concerns: a place to sleep. The sharp echo of gunfire in your memory. Food supplies thinning. Joel’s shoulder, which he swears isn’t dislocated but still hasn’t moved quite right since.

So you hold it inside. Try not to count the days. Try not to notice the way your stomach swirls each morning, or the quiet weight that’s settled in your chest. Maybe it’s stress. Maybe it’s nothing.

But it isn’t. And it’s getting too loud to ignore.

You find the pharmacy by accident.

A sun-bleached skeleton of a building, wedged between a burned-out diner and a tire shop caved in on itself. The sign is half-gone. Inside, it’s cooler. Still. Dust floats through the air like pollen.

Most of the shelves are empty. Looted long ago. But your feet move through the aisles anyway, like muscle memory.

Joel takes the back. You crouch behind the counter, sleeve pulled over your hand to avoid the shards of glass glittering across the cabinet doors.

That’s when you see it.

Tucked behind a warped stack of cotton swabs. Slightly crushed, but unopened.

A pregnancy test.

You pause. Just for a second. Then you grab it, fast and clumsy, like someone might snatch it away if you hesitate.

Joel’s boots creak behind you.

You don’t have time to hide it.

“What’s that?” he asks.

You turn slowly. It’s in your hand, stupidly obvious, like a bomb with the timer counting down.

His eyes flick down to the box, then back to you.

“You said you weren’t sure.”

“I’m not,” you say too fast. Voice too tight.

Joel doesn’t nod the way he usually does when he doesn’t want to talk about something. Doesn’t shrug it off and shut the door on you. Instead, he says quietly, “You wanna take it?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Your throat’s dry.

“I want to,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “But… until we find Tommy. Until we’re somewhere safe. I don’t think I should.”

He watches you for a moment. Then nods.

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.”

Later, you’re tucked into the woods just off the highway. Ellie’s out cold, collapsed like a dropped coat. Joel sits by the fire, sharpening his knife with the kind of focus he only uses when he’s trying not to feel.

You settle beside him. Pull your coat tighter.

“So… you think we’re close to Tommy?” you ask softly.

Joel doesn’t look up. “I know.”

You hesitate. “I just- I want to be somewhere it’s okay to hope.”

He draws the blade down the whetstone. Once. Twice. Then pauses.

“You think it’s hope?”

You shrug. “I don’t know what it is.”

There’s a stretch of silence.

Then Joel says, voice quiet like it’s been untouched for years, “Sarah had this shirt. Blue. Covered in little butterflies. Got too small for her, but she wouldn’t stop wearing it. Said it made her feel like she could fly.”

You don’t speak. Just stare at the fire, the way the flames curl like hands.

“I kept it,” he says. “After. Couldn’t throw it away. Still had it when I met you.”

Your breath catches. He never talks about Sarah. Not like this.

“I haven’t been fair to you,” Joel says. “I’ve been… afraid. That nothing would ever matter after her. That nothing would be more than memory.”

You turn to look at him. Your heart hammers.

“But then you showed up,” he says. “Ran into me in the North Zone. Didn’t flinch when that clicker came at us. Shot it between the eyes. Called me old.”

You laugh, startled by the sound.

“You were limping,” you murmur. “I thought you needed backup.”

“I thought you were out of your damn mind.”

You smile. Eyes sting. “Maybe I was.”

He looks at you then. Really looks for the first time in days. His face is tired, lined, worn down from too many years of surviving. But there’s something steadier beneath it. Something warmer.

“I don’t know if it’s hope,” he says. “But if it’s you… it doesn’t feel like a mistake.”

Your throat tightens. The fire crackles.

“Still,” Joel adds, dry now, “if you ever tell me you might be pregnant in the middle of a gunfight again…”

You groan, covering your face. “Oh my god, can we not-”

“No, we have to talk about it,” he says, lips twitching. “That might’ve been the worst timing in human history.”

“I panicked!” you protest. “There was blood everywhere, I was panicking!”

“Even so. You couldn’t wait five more seconds?”

“I wasn’t thinking rationally! I just-” You hesitate. Your voice softens. “I didn’t want either of us to die without you knowing.”

Joel doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. His whole expression shifts, gentles.

“You’re not dying,” he says. “Not on me. Not like that.”

Your chest twists.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He reaches over. Brings his hand to yours. Callused and warm. Steady.

“We’ll figure it out,” Joel says. “Together.”

And for the first time since Kansas City, you believe him.

Your voice barely makes it past your lips. “Joel…”

“Hmm?”

You rest your forehead against his shoulder.

“It was positive.”

He freezes.

Then slowly, without a word, he wraps his arms around you. Holds you to his chest like something fragile and beloved. Like he’s not letting go.

You close your eyes and let yourself feel it.

Just for a minute.

Hope.

[bishovapls]

You Make Such Pretty Sounds When You're Sorry.

Relationships: Natasha Romanoff & Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Summary: A strange day in class and a cryptic text from Natasha have you dreading what’s next. At home, Wanda’s waiting, and together, they’re about to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.

Warnings: 18+, Mommy Kink, Daddy Kink, Age difference, Older WandaNat/Younger Reader, BDSM, Dom/Sub, Spanking, Cunnilingus, Strap-on, Punishment, Overstimulation, Safe word check-ins, small bit of angst.

A/N: Look, I wasn’t planning to write this, but then Natasha and Wanda crawled into my head right before bed the other night and refused to leave until I caved. This is my first one-shot, and easily the filthiest thing I’ve ever written. I have no idea if it turned out any good, but hopefully it flows well. So, enjoy, or survive, whichever seems more fitting.

Word Count: 12,527

NSFW below the cut, you can also read on AO3.

College had drained the life out of you today. You’d sat through back-to-back lectures, trying not to let the endless blur of PowerPoints and polite academic discussion turn your brain into useless soup. By the time your final class rolled around, you were already operating on autopilot, held upright by nothing but caffeine and sheer, exhausted stubbornness.

And yet, despite the fatigue, despite how desperately you wanted the day to be over, you found yourself unconsciously smoothing your hair and tugging your top into place as you stepped into the room.

Because this wasn’t just any class, there was always something different about walking into her room. A hum in your veins. A pulse just beneath your skin. It wasn’t the subject matter, it was her.

Professor Romanoff.

Or just Natasha, when the door was closed and no one else could hear the name fall softly from your lips.

Usually, you’d steal a few precious minutes after class. Ten, maybe fifteen, if she didn’t have another lecture lined up immediately. She’d lean back on her desk, arms crossed, mouth twitching in amusement as you tried, more often than not successfully, to talk her into a heated quickie in the quiet lull before the next hour began.

But that was only ever behind closed doors. In public, she was something else entirely. She had the kind of presence that made even the most confident students lower their eyes and double-check their notes. And it wasn’t an act, Natasha didn’t do acts. She was hard, cold, and impossible to read unless she wanted to be read. And more often than not, she didn’t.

You liked that about her. Actually, you more than liked it. There was something magnetic about the way she commanded a room without ever raising her voice. Something in the quiet precision of her words, in the danger you could sense just beneath the surface. It made your skin tingle, and your cheeks flush as you shift in your seat, trying to relieve the ache that always seemed to build around in her presence.

On a normal day, focusing during her lectures was already difficult, not because the material wasn’t interesting, but because she was more interesting. Because she stood there like a force of nature disguised in slacks and a fitted blazer. Because you knew what that mouth could do when it wasn’t explaining the inner workings of federal power structures.

And because, in some twisted, ridiculous way, part of you liked having to work for her attention. Liked knowing she was the hardest thing in your life to get close to, even when you already had her.

And usually, she kept her distance with practised ease, never letting her gaze linger too long, never allowing her attention to wander toward you, no matter how many times you tried to catch it. She didn’t fall for your excuses to hover near her desk, or the innocent questions you’d find reasons to ask.

She was disciplined, deliberate, and always composed, always professional, navigating that fragile line between teacher and temptation with the kind of precision that left no room for mistakes.

But not today.

Today, Natasha kept looking at you. Not constantly. Just glances. Fleeting, quiet checks. But you felt every single one of them. It wasn’t like her usual rhythm, when her eyes would catch yours so quickly during a particularly dry section of theory and flicker with the faintest hint of amusement. 

No, this was different, even subtle at first, almost unnoticeable. Her eyes would lift from her notes, sweeping the room with feigned indifference, only to linger on you a heartbeat too long. Then again, after each slide, her gaze inevitably found its way back. Until eventually, she was watching you mid-sentence, the shift unmistakable. 

Her brow would twitch, her jaw tighten just slightly, small betrayals in an otherwise unreadable face. But you saw them. You felt them. 

Your nerves prickled. You sat up straighter and tried to follow the lecture, but your attention fractured every time her eyes found yours. You’d give her a faint smile, a small nod, some invisible reassurance that you were fine, that everything was normal.

But clearly, something wasn’t because her face never changed. And yet, with each minute that passed, the tension in her jaw seemed to wind tighter.

The class dragged on. Her voice stayed controlled, of course, but her movements grew clipped, maybe even impatient. She wasn’t just stern. She was simmering, and you didn’t know why.

You looked down at your notes, and they were useless. A few broken lines from the opening ten minutes, before you realised you were being watched like a suspect, not a student. Your chest felt too tight. You could feel it, the storm building behind her silence, the sheer weight of her restraint. Her eyes hadn’t softened once.

And you couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d looked at you just a couple of nights before, barefaced and warm, as you curled between her and Wanda in bed. That softness felt galaxies away now. As if this woman standing in front of thirty tired college students wasn’t capable of it at all.

When class finally ended, you stayed seated for a moment, waiting for everyone else to leave. You tried to catch her eye. You needed something, an explanation, a gesture, anything.

But when you stood and took a hesitant step forward, she froze you in place with a single look. Her eyes were ice-cold; it wasn’t a glare, but something worse, something that felt like it was carved from stone. 

Her lips didn’t move, but her expression spoke louder than words ever could: Do not come closer. And then, as if to seal it, she gave the slightest shake of her head. You stopped in your tracks, your heart hammering in your chest.

She turned without another word and walked out, the echo of her heels swallowed by the corridor. Gone. No explanation. No signal to follow.

You sat back down slowly, palms clammy against the fabric of your jeans, your chest too tight for proper breath. Fumbling, you pulled out your phone and typed:

Y/N: Hey, just checking in. I can see you want space, but if you need anything, you know where I am 💕

You didn’t expect an answer right away, but waiting felt unbearable. Students passed by in the hallway, voices echoing down the corridors, but it all blurred together beneath the pounding in your skull.

Then, finally, your phone lit up:

Nat ❤️: Don’t even think about going back to your dorm tonight. I want you at the house when I get home.

You stared at the message, heat rising up your neck. Your mouth went dry. It was a Wednesday. You never stayed over on a Wednesday, and she knew that. This wasn’t routine. This wasn’t planned. This was a summons. Your fingers trembled slightly as you replied:

Y/N: No problem, but I do have class tomorrow?

The response came back immediately, with the kind of precision that made you feel like she’d been waiting to strike:

Nat ❤️: I do not care. You have some explaining to do and a punishment to take.

Your stomach dropped. The words didn’t excite you, not the way they sometimes might have. Because you hadn’t done anything. Not that you could remember, anyway.

Y/N: May I ask what I did? 🥺

You watched the typing bubble appear and vanish, reappear, vanish again. That alone was terrifying. Then came the final message:

Nat ❤️: If you don’t know, that’s even more of a problem. I will see you later.

Your fingers went numb around your phone. The conversation was over. Not a door closed, but slammed. You were being summoned, not invited. And Natasha was not the kind of woman who forgave ignorance.

You sat there, alone in the empty lecture hall, trying to piece together what had just happened. Trying to slow your racing heart. Trying to make sense of the shift in her, and the way she’d kept watching you, the subtle fury in her shoulders by the time she’d left.

Eventually, you stood slowly. The world outside was still moving, students were chatting, feet were pounding down the stairs, but you couldn’t hear any of it through the roar of your thoughts. You had no idea what you’d done, but tonight, you’d find out.

And Natasha? She’d make sure you never forgot.

-----

You push the door open to Wanda and Natasha’s house, the familiar click of the lock sounding almost like a welcome. You’ve had a key for a while now, a simple gesture that felt far too intimate at first, but over time became just another part of your routine. 

You stay with them most nights, save for Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays when it’s just easier to commute to your early classes from your dorm. As much as you love their place, the commute isn’t something you’re willing to make five days a week, not when there’s a perfectly good bed waiting for you just five minutes from campus.

Wanda’s been on a mission to get you to move in permanently. She’s convinced you’re one bad decision away from passing out from dehydration or malnutrition. She wants to keep you close, so she can make sure you're actually eating and hydrating properly on those long days of class. And honestly, she’s not wrong. 

Since you left on Tuesday morning, not a drop of water has passed your lips. You've been running on caffeine and convenience, coffee, soda, instant ramen, and the odd granola bar when you remember it exists. It's not that you want to neglect yourself, you just… forget. 

Between the whirlwind of lectures, social obligations, deadlines that keep multiplying, and the constant pressure to stay ahead, basic self-care always seems to fall to the bottom of the list. But Wanda, with her soft, knowing smiles and that relentless stream of gentle, insistent nagging, never lets it slide. She pushes you persistently to do better, to take care of yourself the way she so clearly wants to and moving in would make that job so much easier for her.

You’re just not sure you’re ready to take that leap, even though you’re there most nights anyway. Even though, when you open the door, you feel like it is more of a home than your dorm ever could be. More of a home than you have ever had. 

You are just about taking off your jacket when you hear it, footsteps pounding across the hardwood floor, fast and frantic, followed by a high-pitched shout, “Who’s there?!”

You freeze in place, but before you can even process what’s happening, Wanda rounds the corner, eyes wide and panicked. She’s holding a rolling pin, raised high, defensive, like she’s ready to take down any intruder. But the second her eyes meet yours, the tension in her posture melts away.

Her hand flies to her chest, breath rushing out of her in relief. “Oh my God, I thought someone was breaking in!” she says, voice trembling with laughter as she lowers the rolling pin, clutching it like a lifeline. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here! Thank God it’s just you!”

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, watching Wanda’s wide-eyed panic dissolve into a warm, relieved smile. It’s like she’s just narrowly escaped some disaster, her whole posture shifting from defensive to relaxed. The rolling pin, once held in her grip like a weapon ready for battle, now seems almost comically out of place as she smooths her messy hair, catching her breath with a small, almost sheepish laugh.

“Wow, I’m sure that rolling pin would’ve really done some serious damage,” you tease, stepping further inside, the familiar scent of freshly baked bread wrapping around you like a warm, comforting hug. It feels like home, and the weight of the day lifts just a little as you breathe it in.

Wanda’s eyes flicker with a glint of mischief, her smile widening as she taps the rolling pin against her palm, the sound sharp and deliberate. “We can test it if you like, printsessa (princess), ” she says, her tone light but with an undeniable edge. It’s playful, but there’s an authority in her voice that makes your pulse skip just a little.

You laugh nervously, but the teasing fades quickly as the reality of why you’re there settles back in. “Please don’t. I’m already being punished tonight. I don’t think I can take two.” The words feel heavy as they leave your mouth, and you can’t help but drop your playful demeanour, anxiety creeping back into your chest.

Wanda’s expression shifts immediately. Her eyes narrow slightly, her gaze becoming more intense as she takes a step closer to you, the playful dominance replaced by something a little more commanding. “Oh, malyshka (baby) ,” she says, the softness in her voice not hiding the concern that edges into it. “What did you do? Is that why you’re here on a Wednesday?” Her words are measured, her presence filling the room as she stands a little taller, every inch of her radiating control.

You nod, your stomach twisting with unease. “I don’t know what I did,” you admit softly, almost ashamed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda’s eyes flash, the edge of authority sharpening as she steps closer still, crossing the space between you in two long strides. She leans down just slightly, her eyes never leaving yours. “How can you not know?” she asks, as if she can’t fathom how you could be this clueless about the situation. 

You hand her your phone, the text thread from Natasha clearly visible on the screen. You don’t say anything, just letting Wanda read it in silence, feeling your heart race in your chest as she scans the words. 

After a moment, Wanda chuckles softly, the sound rich with both amusement and disbelief. “Oh, she is mad, little girl,” she says, her voice low. “Surely, you must have some idea?” Her gaze softens just a touch, but the air is thick with the weight of her words.

You whine softly, feeling small under Wanda's gaze, your chest tightening with the anxiety that's been building for what feels like hours. Your voice comes out shaky as you mutter, “I promise, I don’t.” 

Wanda stands there for a moment, her gaze hard, but she softens before you can even register the change. Then, without saying a word, she steps closer and gently places her hand on your cheek. The touch is tender, yet firm, grounding you in a way that only Wanda can. 

Her thumb brushes over your skin as she leans in slightly, her voice quiet but commanding, “I think we should get you fed before Daddy gets home, don’t you?”

Her words send a shiver running down your spine, and you can’t help but feel the mix of anticipation and dread swirling in your stomach. “You are in for a long night,” she adds with a small, knowing smirk, and the intensity in her tone makes your heart skip.

You’re too nervous to say anything back, but you nod, unable to form any coherent words as the anxiety continues to crawl up your throat. Wanda watches you for a moment, assessing you, before she takes your hand, guiding you like a puppy as you follow her to the kitchen island. 

You sit down as she instructs, the weight of everything still pressing on your chest, but Wanda’s calm presence is the only thing that keeps you grounded.

“Do some schoolwork while I cook dinner,” she orders gently, her tone still laced with that quiet authority. She pulls your laptop from your bag and places it in front of you before sliding a tall glass of ice-cold water across the counter toward you. “And drink up,” she adds with a finality that leaves no room for argument.

You obey, opening your laptop and trying to focus on an essay for one of your classes. Wanda moves around the kitchen with ease, a soft hum escaping her lips as she begins cooking. The familiar, comforting scents of whatever she’s preparing fill the room, and your stomach growls in response. You try to ignore it, but the gnawing hunger in your stomach only intensifies the unease you are already feeling.

Eventually, Wanda moves back over to you, two plates in her hands. She sets them down gently and moves the laptop aside, her movements fluid and confident. You smile at her gratefully and shift the plate of food closer, your stomach growling louder. 

Wanda sets herself on the other side of the kitchen island, her own plate in front of her, and begins to eat. But you can’t seem to shake the gnawing anxiety, the constant thought in your head: What did I do wrong?

Punishments aren’t something you fear; in fact, you crave them. They ground you, help you find clarity, but this time is different. You don’t know what you’ve done, and that uncertainty is eating away at you.

Wanda notices, because of course she does. Her sharp eyes never miss anything, and she can sense the distraction in your body language. She pauses mid-bite as she places one of her hands gently over yours, pulling your attention back to her. “Hey, malyshka (baby), you okay?” she asks, her voice gentle but firm, the concern in her eyes unmistakable.

You nod, but it’s a lie. The words don’t come, and you can feel the weight of them sitting heavily on your tongue. Wanda doesn’t buy it. She looks at you with concern, her brow furrowing as she places her fork down. “Are you sure?” she asks again, her voice soft but insistent.

This time, you can’t just nod; you know she won’t accept that. You huff and let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. “I don’t know what I’ve done, Wands!” you finally spill out. “I hate this, she’s never done this before! She usually at least tells me what’s wrong! But now I don’t know! I don't know, and I’m stressed, and I…” You’re cut off as Wanda calmly places a finger over your lips.

“Sweetheart… do you want to safeword?” she asks, her tone low and understanding. “We can call off the punishment, we can cuddle. I’ll text her and tell her to come home as Nat, not Daddy?” Her voice is soothing, but there's no mistaking that she would respect your decision, whether you chose the safeword or not.

You shake your head quickly, almost panicked at the thought. “No! I want to take my punishment if I deserve it! I do! I just hate not knowing,” you admit, the words tumbling out in a rush.

Wanda nods, her expression soft but still serious. “Okay. Do you want me to text her and ask her what happened?”

You hesitate, if Natasha finds out you’ve been whining, she might only get more upset, and you know what that means. The punishment will be harsher, sharper, drawn out with precision. And worse still, Wanda would know sooner what you’d done. She’d be disappointed too. That thought alone threatens to undo you. 

The fear of making everything spiral further roots you to the spot. Your head shakes slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, thin and fragile. “I can wait,” you murmur, even though the tremble in your tone betrays just how hard that wait will be.

Wanda’s brow furrows in confusion. “But you’re upset,” she says softly, her gaze filled with concern.

You shrug, trying to find the right words, but they’re hard to grasp. “Not upset, just anxious. It’s okay, I swear. I’m green, promise,” you say, trying to reassure her, but it doesn’t feel convincing, even to you.

Wanda studies you for a moment, her eyes softening as she nods. “Okay, then. How about we go to the living room with our food and watch TV? You can keep your mind off it for a bit,” she suggests, her voice light but still commanding in that way that makes you feel safe.

You can’t help the huge grin that spreads across your face, the tension in your chest easing just a little at the idea of escaping into the comforting normalcy of watching TV with her. “Yes, please!” you say, a wave of relief washing over you as you get up and follow her to the living room.

-----

Thirty minutes later, you find yourself nestled in Wanda’s lap, completely relaxed. Your head rests against her chest, the steady beat of her heart soothing you as her fingers rake gently through your hair. Every pass of her hand makes you feel more grounded, more at peace than you have all day. The warmth of her embrace envelops you, and for a moment, all your worries seem to fade away, leaving only contentment in their wake.

But that peace is shattered the moment you hear the jingle of keys in the door. The sound of the lock clicking into place echoes through the room, and your body stiffens instantly. Your muscles tense, your heart rate spikes. 

Wanda notices immediately, her soothing presence never faltering. She coos softly, her voice a gentle balm against the sudden rush of anxiety. “Shh, it’s okay, Malyshka (baby),” she whispers, her hands stilling in your hair for a moment before she resumes her tender strokes. “It is going to be fine, I promise.”

You try to take a deep breath, but your chest feels tight, your pulse quickening. The sound of the door opening only makes everything feel more real, and you can’t shake the anticipation that’s been building. 

Wanda continues to hush you, her touch gentle but insistent, her own calmness seeping into you as she holds you close. She knows you’re on edge, and she’s determined to help you settle, even as the door swings open and the sound of footsteps grows louder.

“What the hell is going on in here?” Natasha’s voice cuts through the room like a whip, her gaze locking onto you with immediate intensity. Every muscle in your body tenses at the sound of her voice, and the calm Wanda had provided suddenly feels distant. “Did she not tell you she’s in trouble?”

Wanda, unfazed, offers a simple shrug. Her lips curl into a knowing, gentle smile as she leans down to plant a kiss on the side of your head, fingers brushing your hair softly. “She did, but she also said she didn’t know what she did. Can’t really be mad if I don’t know what I’m angry at, can I?” Her tone is soft, but there’s no mistaking the authority she carries in her words.

Natasha’s expression tightens, but there’s an unmistakable glint in her eyes, something between amusement and affection that flickers for a second, only to be quickly replaced by that hard exterior she wears so effortlessly. 

She rolls her eyes, a silent acknowledgement of Wanda’s ability to disarm her, but Natasha knows this is only temporary. She knows exactly how this is going to unfold when she gets the full story. So she turns to you again, “Have you really pretended that you do not know?” Her voice is stern, but there’s an edge to it that makes you want to curl into Wanda even more.

You freeze, her gaze pinning you in place. “Nat, I—” you start, but Natasha interrupts you with a growl that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Who?!” she spits out, her voice a low, threatening rumble, and you feel the power of it go straight to your gut.

“Daddy! I’m sorry!” You blurt out quickly, the realisation hitting you hard that you’ve made the mistake of addressing her the wrong way.

“Now, tell me what you did,” Natasha orders, voice cold and firm, yet there’s an unmistakable tension in the air. Every inch of her radiates control, and you feel utterly exposed under her scrutiny.

Your heart begins to race, anxiety clawing at you from all sides. You search your mind desperately, but you can’t find anything that would explain the situation. 

“Daddy! I don’t know! I swear I don’t!” you cry out, the panic creeping into your voice. Your chest tightens, and the air feels thick with pressure as the anxiety begins to overwhelm you. “Please, just tell me, and I’ll never do it again. I promise!” The words spill out in a flood, desperation lining each one.

Wanda cups your cheek gently. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” she coos, her voice soothing you just enough. “Tell her, Nat. She’s anxious. She genuinely doesn’t know.”

Natasha’s hard gaze softens just a fraction, but only for a moment, as she looks at you, taking in your state. She studies you quietly, the weight of her eyes never leaving your face. “Check in?” she asks softly, the sudden shift in tone catching you off guard. Her usual cold exterior is melting just a little, the concern in her voice undeniable.

You nod quickly, feeling the tension in your chest finally start to release just a little. “Green, Daddy,” you say softly, your voice shaky, “Just wanna know, please.” The words come out in a rush. You need to know what you’ve done because the uncertainty is almost unbearable.

Natasha’s gaze is piercing, unwavering as she studies you. You can almost feel the weight of her thoughts pressing down on you, trying to decide whether to accept your check-in or call everything off. It’s not the first time you’ve refused to use your safe word, after all. 

You’ve always hated disappointing them, even though they’ve tried to reassure you time and again that using the safe word would never make them angry, that they would always prefer that over you suffering in silence.

Luckily, both Wanda and Natasha are masters at reading you by now. They can see the smallest shift in your body language, the way your breath catches or how your eyes dart, and they know when you need it, even if you don’t say a word. 

This time, Natasha clearly reads that you are fine, and her decision is clear. Her expression hardens, her posture shifting as she straightens up, the cold, controlled version of herself taking over once more.

“Do you want to tell Mommy why you were being a little whore in my class, then?” Natasha sneers, her voice dripping with venom. It isn’t a question, it’s a command, an accusation that hits you with a force you weren’t prepared for. 

The air grows heavy with tension, and you feel yourself shrinking and exposed. Wanda stiffens beneath you, and you feel her body tighten, the subtle shift in her posture unmistakable. Her voice is low, dangerous. "You what?" she asks, her tone sending a shudder through your entire body.

See, while Natasha can be jealous, Wanda is something else entirely, possessive in a way that runs deep. If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, she’s there in an instant, staking her claim. A possessive hand on your waist, pulling you closer, her eyes locking onto whoever dared to cross her, shooting daggers that make it clear: you’re hers. And later, she’ll make sure you never forget it. She’ll remind you, again and again, who you belong to.

And that's why Natasha’s words have your heart sinking into your stomach. You can feel Wanda’s temper flare, like a storm building just beneath the surface. The possessive, primal energy she exudes in moments like this is enough to make you feel both cherished and utterly helpless in her care. And now, with Natasha’s harsh words hanging in the air, you know that things are about to escalate, one way or another.

“I... I don’t know what you mean, Daddy,” you stammer, your words coming out shakily. “I didn’t do anything in class?” you ask, but your voice wavers with uncertainty, as if you don’t trust your own memory now.

Wanda’s gaze sharpens in an instant, her posture stiffening as she looks at you, her tone turning cold. “Are you trying to say Daddy’s a liar, little girl?” she murmurs, her voice laced with a warning that sends a chill down your spine.

“N…no, Mommy!” you rush to correct yourself, the panic evident in your voice. “I just… maybe she was confused,” you offer, though deep down you know that’s not going to help. 

The moment the words leave your mouth, you see Natasha’s face darken, her eyes narrowing with a dangerous glint, and her lips curl into a dark, menacing laugh.

“So, I’m confused, hm?” Natasha spits, her voice dripping with disdain. The way she speaks makes you feel small, insignificant under her gaze. “So, you didn’t have that blonde slut all over you today?” The words cut through the air like a knife, and the heat in her voice makes your stomach twist.

Wanda’s grip on your waist tightens, her eyes flashing with a possessiveness that you know well. The air between the three of you feels thick, charged with the unspoken tension of what’s to come. 

You think, like really, really think, and that’s when it hits you. Today, Carol came in and sat next to you. She’s in one of your other classes, and you’ve been working on a project together. She just decided to sit with you in this one. You hadn’t even thought twice about it, your mind focused on one thing and one thing only: Natasha. 

“Y…you mean Carol?” you ask, your voice hesitant, heart racing as it all starts to click into place. The moment the name leaves your lips, Wanda’s grip tightens around your waist again, this time her nails digging into your skin with such force that you can feel the sting. You’re sure she’s leaving little indents.

Natasha’s eyes narrow, lips curling into something far darker than usual. “So you do know what I’m talking about,” she says, her voice low and filled with barely contained anger.

You swallow hard, the weight of what you’ve just admitted making your throat tighten. “Well, I guess… now you mention it. But it’s not what you think, I promise!” you scramble to explain. “We’re in a class together! We’re friends!”

Natasha’s voice cuts through the air with an icy edge. “She spent most of my lesson touching your arm and whispering to you, not once did I see you push her away.”

Your pulse spikes as you try to think of something, anything, that could make this right. “I wasn’t even paying attention to her, Daddy!” you protest, your voice wavering. “I was watching you!” You can’t help the desperation creeping into your words, but you know it’s a weak defence. If Natasha saw Carol touch you, she also saw Carol slip you a piece of paper with her number on it.

“Come here,” Natasha commands, her voice like steel.

You freeze, dread pooling in your stomach. You don’t want to, but there’s no escaping this. Wanda’s hand on your waist pushes you forward, an unspoken command in her touch.

You glance back at her, hoping for some sign of leniency, but Wanda’s expression is unreadable. She just nods towards Natasha, her lips pressed together in a line. “Go,” she says softly, but the command is clear, and you obey.

You walk to Natasha, your steps unsteady. When you get close, Natasha doesn’t say a word, she just leans into you, her body pressing against yours, solid and unyielding. Her hand slides around your back, pulling you close, before slipping into the back pocket of your jeans. 

She pulls out the piece of paper, unfolding it slowly, eyes scanning the digits with a smirk. “So what’s this, then?” she asks, her voice dripping with barely contained fury. “I bet if I call this number, it’ll ring straight through to her, right?”

You feel the heat rising in your face, the guilt settling in your chest like a heavy weight. The words stick in your throat, but you force them out anyway. “We’re just working on a project together, I swear. It’s not what you think.” Your voice shakes slightly, small and uncertain.

“Does she know who you belong to, Kotenok (Kitten) ?” Natasha asks, her grip firm as she tilts your chin to meet her gaze.

“Of course not, we would get in trouble, Daddy,” you reply, your voice steady despite the storm brewing inside. You wish you could shout it from the rooftops, to let everyone know the truth of your bond, but you can’t, not yet, at least. Not until you finish college.

“So, she thinks you’re free for the taking, then?” Natasha says, her voice sharp as her hand moves to rest lightly against your throat, a subtle pressure that sends a ripple of heat through you.

You nod as best you can with her hand on your throat, it’s not like you had any words that would make this any better for you.

Just then, Wanda’s presence shifts behind you, her voice soft but laced with something possessive as she murmurs in your ear, “Do you want her to take you, malyshka (baby)? You want to be hers instead?”

"No! I only want Mommy and Daddy!" you say quickly, your voice trembling. "Just you, only you!" you plead, desperation creeping into your words, hoping they'll understand and let it go.

"So why didn’t you tell her that… You…Are…Taken?" Wanda growled, her voice low and firm, each word emphasised as her hands once again hold your waist possessively. 

“I... I didn’t know what to say!” you stutter, your hands trembling by your sides, your eyes desperately darting between them both, searching for any sign of understanding. “She just wanted me to call about the project!” 

Wanda’s eyes narrow, the intensity of her gaze enough to make the air around you feel suffocating. You can feel her anger rising, thick and palpable, but there’s something darker behind it, something more possessive, more protective. 

Her lips curl into a scowl, and before you can blink, she spits the words at you like venom, “Next time you see her you tell her you are taken, or I swear i’ll send you there with a collar saying ‘Daddy and mommy’s Little Whore’, do you fucking understand me?”

Part of you can’t help but be completely captivated by the thought, the idea sparking something deep inside you and making you instinctively rub your thighs together. It makes your skin flush with heat, a pleasant, electric sensation running down your spine, and for a fleeting moment, you find yourself lost in the possessiveness that pulses in the air around you. 

But then, just as quickly, the other part of you can’t shake the growing tension, the irritation radiating off both Natasha and Wanda, so raw and so intense, it’s almost suffocating.

The contrast is overwhelming, the pull of desire at odds with the heavy weight of their disapproval. You feel yourself caught between two forces, one tugging you towards them, the other urging you to retreat. The battle within you makes your chest tighten, your heart beating erratically in your ribcage.

With a sharp breath, you lock eyes with Wanda, your gaze wide, pleading, desperate for them to see how sorry you are. “Yes! I will tell her, I promise, all yours!” you cry out, your voice trembling.

Natasha watches the exchange quietly, her eyes, dark and unreadable, flicker between you and Wanda, her expression shifting from one of hard discipline to something softer, more calculating. 

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just watches you with a look that makes your stomach churn. Finally, her grip on your neck loosens, but there’s no warmth in her touch, no comfort. “Good,” she says flatly, her voice cold but laced with an unmistakable undercurrent of satisfaction. “But you’ve still got a punishment to take. You still let someone touch what is ours, and you didn’t tell them you were taken.”

You nod, your voice quiet but firm. "I understand, Daddy."

Natasha’s smile widens, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she steps back slightly. "I'll be lenient this time," she says, her tone softened just a fraction. "You didn’t know what to say. But next time, there will be heavy consequences." 

You offer a weak smile, your eyes locking with hers as you try to convey your gratitude. "Thank you," you murmur, your voice quiet but sincere.

She smiles back at you, her expression softening for a brief moment. "Of course, Kotenok (Kitten). Anything for you," she replies, her voice gentle. But then, as if snapping back to reality, her tone sharpens as she takes a step back. "Now, since I am being lenient, I will let you choose, me or mommy?"

The question lingers, and you feel the tension coil around you. You knew exactly what it meant, the decision of who would be responsible for determining the consequences of your actions. 

There was a strange mix of both fear and heat at the thought, as each choice came with its own set of pros and cons, a balance of pleasure and discipline. Every scenario had its own sting, its own thrill, and you found yourself torn between the two.

With Wanda, you knew exactly what to expect: there would be a spanking, no question about it. It was inevitable. But as much as the thought of it made your stomach tighten, deep down, you knew it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. 

In fact, you knew that once you settled into it, the sting would fade into something else entirely, something that left you breathless, your body humming, and your thighs soaked. 

When it came to Natasha, however, punishment wasn’t physical in that way. She didn’t need to raise a hand to make her point; she only needed to make you feel her dominance. It was always intense, overwhelming, and she would take you to that edge over and over, until you thought you might break, until you begged for that final release. 

Despite the intensity, though, you knew either option would end on a positive note. That was how they worked, at least most of the time: punishment followed by reward. It wasn’t clear whether that was because they simply couldn’t help themselves when they saw your face stained with tears and your ass warm and bruised. 

Or if they truly thought you needed it after a heavy punishment, but in the end, it didn’t matter. You always got what you wanted, and more, so there was no room for complaints. You were theirs, completely, and as much as it sometimes scared you, you couldn’t imagine wanting it any other way.

"I'll take Mommy," you say, your voice quiet but steady, hoping by choosing her, your punishment would be over sooner and you could get to the reward. 

Natasha smirks, her eyes sharp with quiet understanding. She’s not the least bit surprised by your choice, it’s the one you gravitate toward most often. She’s observant enough to know why. She gets it. 

But there’s a part of her that finds it amusing, maybe even a little telling. Because the faster route means you skip the slow unravelling, the careful teasing apart of your restraint. And sure, you get what you came for, but it’s not as deep, not as intense. 

It hasn’t been dragged out of you, layer by layer, until you’re nothing but trembling need, until you’re sobbing, your voice breaking as you plead for mercy. 

When it’s over too quickly, it never quite hits the same, and she knows that. Knows you’ll crave the kind of release that only comes when you’ve been pushed to your edge, and then held there just a little too long. 

But still, you choose the faster path, because you’re ruled by the moment, always chasing the high without the patience for the slow burn. Immediate gratification. That’s your weakness, and Natasha sees right through it.

But you’ve made your choice, and with that, something changes in Wanda’s expression. Her eyes darken, a flicker of anticipation sparking in their depths, slow and deliberate. There’s a hunger there now, undeniable, smouldering just beneath the surface, as the reality of what she’s about to do sinks in. 

The power of it. The control. It stirs something deep inside her, a heat curling in her chest, coiling low in her belly. And for a moment, she doesn’t look away. She lets you see it, lets you feel exactly what you’ve just invited.

After staring you down as if you were her prey, Wanda turns to Natasha as if you aren't even there. “I’ll heat up your food for you first,” her voice is smooth and teasing, with a playful glint in her eye. 

There’s a soft warmth to her words, but she can’t help but add, “I’m sure you’re going to work up quite an appetite… though I think it’s more than just food you’re after, isn’t it?” She smirks, clearly enjoying teasing Natasha, who has an equal look of pure lust on her face.

“Thank you, love,” Natasha replies, her voice warm and genuine. She leans past you to kiss Wanda on the cheek, a soft, affectionate gesture that feels like a contrast to the intensity you’re feeling.

Wanda meets your gaze, “Go upstairs and wait for me,” she says, her words gentle but with an unmistakable edge, “you know what I expect of you.”

You nod, your thoughts spinning as you make your way upstairs, the anticipation building with each step. The familiar mix of excitement and nerves tightens in your chest as you reach the bedroom. 

Without a second thought, strip down and position yourself on your knees, your back straight and your hands resting gently on your thighs, waiting in silence. You know the drill by now, the routine you've followed countless times, it's instinct.

You wait, the silence in the room stretching into what feels like an eternity, the minutes dragging on longer than they should. Five minutes feels like five thousand. Just as you're starting to wonder if the moment will ever come, Wanda enters, followed by Natasha, who holds a plate of food in her hands.

She settles herself on the chaise lounge in the bedroom, before casually tucking into her meal as if everything is perfectly normal, which leaves you staring in pure confusion. 

You're here, waiting to be punished, naked as the day you were born and on your knees, and yet Natasha is sitting there, eating as if nothing is about to unfold. As if she weren’t the one who made this happen.

Wanda, however, doesn't miss a beat. She moves toward the end of the bed and gestures for you to come over. No words are needed; it's a command in the way she moves, in the way her eyes meet yours. You follow, your heart racing.

The moment you lower yourself across Wanda’s lap, the atmosphere thickens again. The air feels heavier somehow, charged with something unspoken but deeply felt. Anticipation winds itself tight in your chest, each breath more shallow than the last. 

Her hand finds your back, steady and sure, fingers trailing with deliberate slowness. It isn’t quite a tickle, not really, it’s lighter, more precise, like she’s drawing something into your skin with invisible ink. Every pass leaves goosebumps in its wake, your skin tingling, burning, as though her touch carries heat just beneath the surface. And she knows. She always knows exactly what she’s doing.

“So, how many do you think you deserve?” she asks, her voice steady but with a hint of amusement.

You hesitate for a moment, but you know what you should say. “That’s for mommy to decide.” The memory of that one time you tried to choose, only to end up with triple the spanks, flashes in your mind.

“Correct answer. That’s my good girl,” Wanda murmurs, a small smile curling on her lips as her hand rubs your back.

Another shiver runs down your spine at the praise, a mix of warmth and something deeper pooling lower. You try your best to hold yourself still, the tension between you and Wanda hanging thick in the air. 

She’s taking her time, letting the anticipation build in the way she knows best, and it only makes your heartbeat quicken. The silence seems to stretch on forever before she finally speaks again, her voice smooth, calm, and laced with that unmistakable authority.

“I think we should go for an even 20,” she says, the words lingering in the air. “You know the drill. Count, or we restart. Understood?”

The instructions are clear. Your pulse spikes with a mixture of dread and excitement, but you nod, determined to obey. “Understood. Thank you, Mommy.”

Wanda hums softly, the sound rich with approval, and shifts beneath you with slow, purposeful movements. You feel her adjust her grip, one arm anchoring you more securely, her body bracing to keep you from slipping away once the inevitable squirming begins. 

The anticipation wraps itself around your ribs, pressing tight. It’s almost too much, the stillness, the waiting, but you hold yourself steady, grounding yourself in the reassuring weight of her hand. It’s a silent promise, one that says she’s in control now, and all you have to do is take it.

“Good,” Wanda murmurs, before her free hand lifts, the room seeming to hold its breath. The first strike comes quickly, sharp and firm, and you gasp, the sting resonating deep, your body jolting with the impact. 

“One,” you say softly, the word barely escaping as the shock of the strike settles in.

Wanda’s fingers gently trace the spot where her hand had just made contact, and her voice comes, low and coaxing. “That’s it. Keep counting, sweetheart.”

The next strike lands, as harsh and deliberate as the last, and you gasp sharply, the sound escaping before you can control it. Your mind scrambles to keep up, to count each blow, but each one piles onto the next, making your muscles tense and coil tighter. 

You fight to focus, trying to force the numbers out of your mouth, but with each impact, helpless whines and gasps slip past your lips. Your body is caught in a battle, pull away, or stay still, torn between the instinct to escape and the overwhelming pull to please them.

Wanda stops halfway through; she doesn’t speak immediately, letting the moment hang between you. “Halfway there,” she comments after a moment, her tone neutral, but you can hear the faint edge of satisfaction. “You’re doing so well, you make such pretty sounds when you're sorry.”

Your body hums with a heady mixture of discomfort and desire. The line between pain and pleasure blurred just a few strikes in, your nerves now tangled in the sensation, electric and consuming. You’re grateful for the brief pause, your breath coming in shallow bursts, because you were teetering dangerously close to the edge. And coming without permission, and during a punishment, was asking for a whole world of trouble. 

Been there, done that. Couldn’t sit for a week. Didn't cum for two. Never, ever again.   

The sensation thrums through you, overwhelming and all-consuming. And yet, what leaves you most exposed, most unsteady, is Natasha. Seated just beyond reach, her presence a quiet constant, she hasn’t looked away once. Calm, unreadable, completely focused on you, on every twitch, every kick, every sound. 

She’s impossibly calm, sitting there with her meal, each bite unhurried, her posture loose and at ease, as if you aren’t draped over Wanda’s lap, your skin flushed a vivid red, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. As if the sounds you’re making, the trembling of your body, aren’t happening right in front of her. 

And somehow, it only makes everything worse, in the best, most unbearable way. The casualness of it, the way Natasha observes without a flicker of surprise or discomfort, makes something inside you ache. 

Eventually, Wanda starts spanking again, each one taking you closer to the end of the 20. There’s no rushing; Wanda’s pace is deliberate, making sure every strike has its intended effect.

The last strike comes, and you can’t help but gasp, your entire body tightening as you brace yourself. “Twenty,” you manage to say, your voice shaky, relief filling your chest. 

Wanda’s hand rests lightly on your ass, her fingers grazing over the sensitive skin, the touch soft and gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness of what came before. There’s a brief moment of stillness between you, the room quiet except for the sound of your breath. 

Slowly, Wanda lifts your chin, her gaze meeting yours, taking in the tear-streaked lines on your face. She leans forward, placing a soft kiss on your temple.

Her voice, when she speaks again, is softer, but the control remains, a steady thread woven through her words. “Good girl. You took your punishment so well.”

“Thank you, Mommy,” you whisper, your throat already a little sore from the crying out and moaning from your spanks. Your body still hums with the lingering heat of what just passed.

The fingers of her free hand make their way between your thighs, very gently pushing them open before dipping down to tease your slit. “You got so wet from Mommy’s spanking, malyshka (baby),” she mused. You automatically push back into her touch, your pussy begging for relief, a small moan ripping up your throat from the contact. 

She chuckles darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. “Doesn’t seem like it was much of a punishment if you are this worked up, hm?” she says, her fingers gently stroking between your folds, collecting the wetness that has built up. “What do you think, Natasha?” she asks, glancing toward the redhead with a knowing smirk. “Does she need more?”

You can’t help the soft whine that escapes your lips at her words, but you stay quiet, focusing on keeping yourself composed. You know better than to speak out of turn; your mouth will only get you in trouble right now.

Natasha leans back slightly, studying you for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She places her plate down on the side table and moves closer, her presence almost overwhelming as she crouches in front of you. Her eyes soften just a touch as she meets your gaze, before she leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“You did good,” Natasha murmurs, her voice low and steady, wrapping around you like a soft caress. The words sink deep, easing the rawness that still lingers in your chest. “You are forgiven, my love.”

Wanda’s voice cuts through the moment, smooth and teasing. “You’ve gone soft,” she says to Natasha, her fingers never pausing their motions. The warmth blossoming inside you is undeniable now, between the spanking and this teasing, you already feel ready to cum. Your body is on edge, waiting for that command, waiting to be told it is okay. 

Natasha chuckles, her gaze darkening slightly as she watches you. “You just enjoy spanking her too much,” she says, voice dripping with a mix of affection and challenge. “Maybe you need to remember what it’s like.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. You swallow hard, a wave of pure desire rushing through you at the thought of watching your Mommy over your Daddy’s knee. Your mouth goes dry, and before you can stop yourself, a loud moan escapes your lips, the sound betraying your excitement at the thought.

“You like that idea?” Natasha asks, her tone rich with amusement and something more. “You wanna watch Mommy get spanked, Kotenok (Kitten) ?” You can only nod, your body betraying you once again, words refusing to form as your brain shows you images in your mind. 

“You are going to regret that,” Wanda warns as she suddenly pushes her fingers inside your soaking hole, pumping in and out of you mercilessly, hitting that deep spot just right. All you can do is squirm and moan; you are entirely at her mercy. 

“Mmm, shit….shit… so…good, Mommy….so goood” you manage to let out between moans as your hips try their best to push back to somehow get her fingers even further inside you. You certainly regret nothing right now.

Wanda keeps up the pace, and you can feel your walls getting tighter, squeezing her fingers. You are close, so close, and she knows it. Wanda leans down slightly her mouth hovering just above your ear as she murmurs, “are you about to cum for us, slut?” which results in an absolutely obscene moan falling from your mouth as you nod feverishly. 

Suddenly, Natasha’s voice slices through the charged silence, sharp and commanding. “Wanda, stop.” Her tone is final, leaving no room for defiance.

To your absolute disappointment, Wanda obeys without hesitation. The abrupt stop leaves you with a sudden emptiness, and you can’t hold it back. The whine that escapes you is loud, desperate, and completely unrestrained. 

Your chest tightens as fresh tears well up, spilling down your cheeks in silent frustration. “Please! Daddy, please let me cum!” You beg, giving her the best puppy dog eyes you possibly could, “You said I was forgiven!”

Natasha ignores your whining as she walks towards the closet with her usual confident stride, her eyes glinting with a playful spark. A few moments later, she emerges, naked apart from the most girthiest strap you own hanging from her hips, the smirk on her face never fading. 

Your eyes linger on her, unashamedly taking in every detail, and you notice Wanda's gaze following suit. She chuckles softly at the sight, her amusement clearly evident. Then, with a wicked smile, she continues, "You’re forgiven, but there’s one thing you didn’t count on."

Your breath catches, eyes wide with curiosity and a touch of apprehension. “What?” you ask, the word coming out more strained than you intended, a knot forming in your stomach.

“I know you,” she says, her voice low and sure as she strides toward you. With a firm grip, she manhandles you off Wanda’s lap, and you go willingly, your body already responding to her touch as she lays you down on your front on the bed. “So I know exactly how you think,” she adds, her tone almost teasing, as if she’s savouring the anticipation of what comes next.

“And I know,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear, “you thought choosing Wanda’s punishment woud mean you get to cum faster.” Her voice is a soft whisper, filled with knowing amusement, as if she’s fully aware of the thoughts that ran through your mind.

She grips your hips firmly, lifting them so you’re forced onto your hands and knees. With a swift motion, she pushes you down, guiding your back into a deep arch. You surrender to her touch, allowing her to position you just as she wants, the desire to please and obey coursing through you, making you still and compliant.

“Wanda, sit in front of her,” Natasha commands, her voice steady and authoritative. Wanda responds with a simple nod, acknowledging the instruction before gracefully moving to take her place, sitting directly in front of you, spreading her legs wide, giving you a complete view of her soaking folds.

“Now, since you thought you were clever, you don’t get to cum until she does,” Natasha growled as her eyes locked on Wanda’s bare cunt. The intensity in her gaze was palpable, and her voice, though strained, carried an unmistakable edge. “Go on, make Mommy feel good.”

You immediately set to work, your focus absolute, as if your very life hinged on the task at hand. Natasha was pushing your face hard in Wanda’s cunt, as if you didn't need to breathe. In your eyes though, you would die happy if it was right there, between her thighs; licking and sucking in the exact way she taught you. 

“F…Fuck, you’re so good at that,’ Wanda moaned, her hips pushing even further into your face. “Need to put that pretty mouth of yours to use more often.” Her voice was breathless, her eyes locked on yours, pupils wide with desire.

You can’t help the way your chest swells with pride at the praise. The compliment sent a jolt directly to your core. You swore you felt yourself clench around nothing, and a moan accidentally slipped from your lips.

It didn't take long, though, for it not to be nothing; suddenly, Natasha was behind you, her strap stroking through your folds as she got it wet using just your juices. You all knew it would be enough, you had felt them dripping down your thighs ages ago, you’re pretty sure she could slide right in with how turned on you were right now. 

And she did. She didn't give you a single bit of warning before she forced the whole thing in at once, in one long thrust. You cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure tearing through you at the stretch. Your body shivered, and you instinctively tried to pull away. Natasha’s grip was firm on your waist as she stayed still.

"Shh, it’s okay," she murmured, her voice softer than anything she’d said all night. "Take a moment, detka (babe)." The tenderness in her words was a stark contrast to the intensity before, offering a brief respite that you hadn't realised you needed. 

She waited, giving you time to adjust, but it was clear she waited too long when your hips began moving of their own volition. She watched with amusement. She could see that you were seeking more, but she wouldn't be moving until you used your words, even if desperate little whines were falling from your lips. 

Plus, the vibrations from the whines only added extra pleasure for Wanda, so really, it was only you losing out. Natasha was having fun as always, and Wanda had you eating her cunt. They were on cloud nine while you were waiting to join them. 

"Use your words," she scolded as she landed a spank to your right ass cheek. The sensation, though not particularly harsh, jolted through you, and you couldn’t contain the sharp cry that escaped your lips, especially with your ass still raw from Wanda’s earlier strikes. The sting felt amplified, every nerve on edge, and the sound you made was almost instinctual.

Natasha laughed at your reaction, and the sound only deepened the flush of heat spreading through you. It was as if her amusement made everything feel sharper, more intense. 

Before you could fully register it, another blow landed, and this time, you jolted forward, and she harshly pulled you back until you had taken her to the hilt again. Yet another noise left your throat, a sound caught somewhere between a moan, a whine, and maybe even a sob.

You knew you needed to get the words out if you wanted more, but the difference between understanding that and actually doing it felt impossible when your brain was starting to melt from the feeling of Natasha’s cock buried inside you and Wanda’s soaking cunt on your face.

“Just use your words, and you can have what you want, printsessa (princess),” she coaxed, her tone both soft and demanding.

You huff, the frustration building up inside you. The words feel thick on your tongue, as if they’re stuck, unwilling to come out. You whine softly, a mixture of embarrassment and desperation creeping up in your chest. 

Finally, you force the words out, each one scraping against the rawness inside you, “Please, Daddy. Please fuck me.” 

"There we go, was that so hard?" she asked, her voice laced with a hint of satisfaction as you finally managed to answer her. You shook your head, ready to respond, but before the words could leave your mouth, she silenced you when she pulled out and slammed back in again, and again, she gave you no time to breathe, no time to recover. She just pounded relentlessly, and you just took it, mouth hanging open, eyes glazed over, moans tumbling from your lips.

“Is this what you wanted, hm?” Natasha’s voice was a low growl, laced with raw desire as she drove into your soaked cunt. “To be shown who owns you? Why, we own you, hm?”

“Mmm…shit, yes. Daddy!” You pant out, lifting your head from between Wanda’s thighs for a second. “Want you to use me, Daddy. Make me your toy, your doll. Just please, please don’t stop!” you end up practically screaming the last of that sentence as your desperation to finally get to the edge spikes.

Natasha groaned at your words, the sound escaping her before she could stop it. She took a deep breath, collecting herself as best she could, her composure slipping for just a moment before she regained control. “Then get your face back in your Mommy’s cunt and make her cum,” natasha ordered.

You followed her instructions, knowing that this was the path to getting what you desired. You poured all your focus into Wanda’s cunt, trying your best to push aside the mounting pressure building in your core.

Soon, Wanda's body language shifted, her legs quivering, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. A glistening sheen of sweat coated her skin, the evidence that she was close to her own high, clear to both you and Natasha. “Gonna cum,” she breathed, “doing so good, so close. So close!”

Then, without so much as another breath, she reached her peak, her head tilting back as a loud moan escaped her lips. You slowed, allowing her to ride out the wave, a lazy smile settling on her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, her entire body relaxing as she savoured the aftermath. 

You turned your head, resting it gently on her thigh as her hand came to cradle your hair, her fingers brushing through it with a tender touch. Natasha was still fucking into you, but less intensely allowing you both a moment to settle. “Thank you, little one,” Wanda murmured softly, her voice full of warmth. “You did so well. Made Mommy feel so good,” she praised.

But the softness of the moment was shattered, as Natasha got impatient and gripped your hair, pulling you sharply upwards. Your body arched involuntarily, until your back was pressed against her front, and a high-pitched squeal escaped your lips as the strap inside you shifted almost painfully. 

”Now, it’s time I show you why it is us that you belong to, whore,” Natasha growled lowly in your ear, her hand moving from your hair to around your throat as her thrusts became even harder, even deeper than before. 

Each thrust left you breathless, your mind a haze as you surrendered completely to her, trusting that you were safe in her care. Your skin felt like it was on fire, every nerve alive with a sharp, buzzing heat, and your legs began to tremble.

“Taking my cock so well,” Natasha purred, her breath wet and hot against your ear as she watched your whole body writhe below her. She kept up the relentless rhythm, her free hand making its way across your stomach and down towards your clit. She applied pressure, rubbing small circles against your clit and you stopped even trying to contain yourself. You moaned and whined with no shame.

“Just like that,” she panted as she continued thrusting. “I know you can take it, I know you can! Good girl, Khoroshiy malen'kiy kotenok (good little kitten), ” she mutters, focused on nothing but thrusting in and out, losing herself in the moment. 

Natasha’s voice was starting to fray at the edges, laced with something raw and hungry, like she was losing the battle to keep control. There was a roughness to her tone now, not just command but craving, deep, aching and barely restrained. 

She sounded desperate, and it did something to you, hearing her like that. Like she loved the way you needed her. The way your body trembled, the way every sound you made was a plea you didn’t know you were making.

Each second that passed, you slipped further, your need unravelling in waves, and she was watching it happen like it was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. 

She squeezed your throat tighter, before gently kissing your hair, as if she couldn’t decide whether to break you apart or hold you together. You whimpered, and she let out a low groan in response, the kind that came from somewhere deep in her chest, and you felt the weight of her hunger press down on you like gravity.

“Look at you,” she breathed, her fingers still working your clit, but her other hand was gripping your neck, maybe hard enough to bruise. “Falling apart just for us.”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked, your throat too tight from the relentless hold. Wanda was still in front of you, eyes heavy-lidded and warm, a flush on her cheeks that told you she was still riding the high you gave her. 

She looked at you with such tenderness that it almost hurt. Her gaze was a soothing warmth, the kind that wrapped around you like a blanket, contrasting sharply with Natasha's burning fire. Together, they created a balance that made you feel like you were slowly melting, and you were. 

“Breathe,” Wanda murmured, reaching out to brush her fingers across your cheek, her touch feather-light. “You’re doing so good, little one.”

You nodded weakly, eyes shimmering, tears slipping down your cheek, not from pain, not even from pleasure anymore, but from the sheer intensity of it all. From being seen, being wanted. Being claimed by these two beautiful women. 

“I wanna keep you like this,” Natasha whispered, a promise and a threat all in one. “Forever desperate. Always Needy. Ours.”

And god, you wanted that. You wanted them, both of them. The roughness, the tenderness, the way they made you feel everything all at once until it overwhelmed you in the best possible way. You were already theirs, in every way that mattered. 

There was a tremble in Natasha’s touch now, barely noticeable, but you felt it. She was shaking too. For all her dominance, her unwavering commands, she was just as lost in this as you were. And something about that made your chest ache.

You wanted to say something, anything, but your voice was buried under the moans she forced out of you with every brush of her fingers against your clit, every thrust of her hips.

You felt Wanda’s eyes still on you, soft and steady, grounding you again when Natasha felt like too much. That balance between them, between being cherished and undone, was addictive. You needed it like air.

“I love watching you fall apart,” Natasha mumbled, more to herself than you as she continued her merciless assault on your cunt. “Every time, you’re so fucking perfect like this.”

You couldn't help the way your breath hitched sharply in your throat, overwhelmed by her words. The position she had you in left you with nothing to grasp, no solid ground to hold on to as your body trembled beneath the weight of it all. 

A stuttered gasp escaped your lips, your fingers digging into your own thighs, nails sinking deep into your skin in a frantic attempt to ground yourself, to find something to cling to.

Then Wanda reached for you, her touch gentle but insistent as she pried your hands free, interlacing her fingers with yours and holding tight. The moment her palms met yours, warmth flooded through you, grounding and steadying.

“We’ve got you, baby,” she whispered, voice thick with affection and something far deeper. 

You managed to look at her, your eyes wide and wet, rolling back like you couldn’t focus. You were barely present, teetering on the edge, and they both saw it, even felt it. Your breathing was erratic, shallow, desperate, and your body gave itself away with every uncontrollable twitch. You were close. And they knew.

Wanda squeezed your hands, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she was trying to soothe the storm in you. Behind you, Natasha’s grip tightened with intent, and the pressure between their presence and your own unravelling senses pushed you that much nearer to the brink.

“Please, please! Please let me cum!” you finally sob, the words ripped from you like a confession. Your voice trembles, thick with desperation and barely contained emotion. You’re falling apart at the seams, and you know you need permission; you need it.

Every nerve in your body is stretched tight, every second dragging you closer to a release that feels like it might break you. “I can’t…I can’t hold on,” you whisper, breath hitching as your body quivers under their touch. 

Natasha leaned in then, her breath hot against the back of your neck, lips barely grazing skin as she murmured low and deliberate, “Don’t hold back. Let go for us. Make a mess on my cock.” 

The command coiled through you, and your whole body went taut, your back arching involuntarily as sensation surged through you, wild and uncontrollable. It didn’t feel like one thing; it felt like everything all at once. Pleasure, pain, safety, release. Like your chest was caving in and expanding at the same time. Like you were unravelling from the inside out, piece by piece, and yet being held together by the grip of their hands on your body, their voices grounding you in the chaos. 

Wanda’s eyes were locked on yours, her expression soft and awestruck, her lips parted like she was witnessing something sacred. “That’s it, malyshka (baby), just like that,” she praised. “So pretty for us, so perfect when you cum.”

And Natasha, still behind you, didn’t let up. Her movements steady, her voice low and encouraging, even as her hands tightened around you to hold you up so she could continue thrusting. 

Your breath came in broken gasps, your hands trembling in Wanda’s grip. You weren’t sure if you were sobbing or moaning or both. Your body was shaking so hard it barely felt like it belonged to you anymore. “No more…I can’t. Too much!” you gasped, your words choked and breathless.

But despite your pleas, Natasha didn’t stop. She knew you, knew your limits, so she pushed you further, drawing out every last tremble, every shuddering breath, coaxing wave after wave of pleasure from your body until you were barely able to stay upright, your eyes fluttering closed, your body nothing more than deadweight in her hands. 

Natasha knew then it was time to stop. With a care that contrasted the intensity moments before, she eased you back down, guiding your trembling form gently until your head came to rest in Wanda’s lap once more. You didn’t even think about it, you just nuzzled your cheek into the softness of her thigh, chasing warmth, comfort, the closeness you craved. Her hand was already there, running through your hair with slow, soothing strokes, her touch quieting the aftershocks still rippling through you.

Natasha settled beside you, her presence grounding in its own way, and began peppering your face with soft kisses, your temple, your jaw, the corner of your lips. “You’re so good for us,” she murmured, her voice a soft hush against your skin, barely louder than your unsteady breaths. “You took everything so well.” 

She kissed you again and again until your breath hitched into something lighter, a small, surprised giggle escaping you. That sound, fragile and warm, made her smile. “I’m going to get you some water, okay?” she asked, fingers brushing your cheek.

You nodded, though your lower lip jutted out in a faint pout that made her laugh under her breath. “I’ll be back in two minutes, little one,” she promised, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before slipping away.

True to her word, Natasha returned quickly, a glass of water in one hand and a small bowl of fruit in the other. “Let’s get some of this in you, then we’ll relax a bit before we clean up, alright?” she offered, her tone gentle and coaxing.

You nodded again, still too dazed for speech, the world around you muffled by the sheer weight of everything you’d just felt. Wanda’s arms came around you as she helped you sit up against her chest, cradling you close. 

Natasha took the glass and held it to your lips, careful and patient, feeding you sips of water and little pieces of fruit. You let yourself be taken care of, basking in the warmth of their attention, their quiet smiles, their steady hands.

In that quiet moment, your body drained, your soul exposed, you felt it envelop you completely. Fulfillment. Peace. Satisfaction. But above all, love. You knew, in that instant, that you would need nothing else for the rest of your life, as long as you were with them.

As if she’d plucked the thought right from your head, Natasha spoke up, her voice low and teasing, “Was that enough of a reason to tell the blonde whore to leave you alone?” There was a smirk playing on her lips, but her eyes still glinted with that possessive edge, like even now, hours later, the idea of someone else touching you made her jaw clench.

You let out a breathy laugh, your smile soft as your head rested against Wanda’s chest. “I would happily never speak to her again,” you murmured honestly. “Though you guys had nothing to worry about.”

Wanda leaned in, brushing her nose affectionately against your temple. “We know,” she said, her tone warm and reassuring. Then she chuckled, light and unbothered. “But if we didn’t get a little jealous sometimes, we wouldn’t have amazing sex like this, now would we?”

"I mean, we definitely still would," you teased, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, knowing full well that jealousy wouldn’t have been necessary for tonight's events to unfold; it just made everything that much more intense.

Their teasing wrapped around you like a blanket, warm and familiar, easing the last of the tension from your bones. Eventually, Natasha scooped you up without warning, ignoring your sleepy protest as she carried you to the bathroom. Wanda followed close behind, humming softly to herself as she gathered towels.

You took your time together, rinsing off the remnants of the night with gentle touches and sleepy smiles, stealing kisses between lathered hands and whispered reassurances. When you finally dried off and made your way back to bed, everything felt heavy with satisfaction. 

You curled between them, limbs tangled together, the soft fabric of the clean sheets brushing against your skin. Whispered "I love you"s floated between you all, each one met with a kiss and an even tighter embrace, as if holding on could make this moment last forever.

Wrapped in their arms, safe between their steady breathing, you let your eyes flutter closed, your body at peace, your heart completely full.

[lynbels]

25 jungwon pls pls pls

looks deceive - yjw (m)

#25: The quiet nerd turns out to be anything but shy, using your body like it’s his.

pairing: jungwon x reader - prompt req list

synopsis: You spent months teasing Jungwon for being the quiet nerd in class—until one night he finally snapped, and you learned exactly how wrong you were about him. ✉️ 3782wc

‼️tw: slight bullying, dubcon vibes, dominance, manhandling, degradation (light), oral (m receiving), rough sex, creampie, praise, possessiveness, spanking, slight hair pulling, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies guys)

💌: no because I totally imagine this happening good jungwon by day evil jungwon by night 😈

You weren’t a mean girl, not really. Just…a little playful. Maybe a little too playful when it came to the nerdy boy who sat in the back of your Chemistry class.

Yang Jungwon.

Blonde hair always perfectly parted, button-down shirts always ironed stiff, and those stupid little glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—he was practically begging for it. He didn’t even talk back when you and your friends joked about him. He just sat there, quietly scribbling formulas with that pretty hand of his, pretending not to hear the way you laughed.

“You think he’s a robot or something?” your friend Hana giggled one afternoon, chin propped on her hand as she watched Jungwon flip through his notes. “Bet he’s never even held a girl’s hand.”

You snickered behind your palm. “Held? I bet he’d pass out if a girl even looked at him for too long.”

It wasn’t personal. It was harmless, you told yourself. Jungwon was just…so easy to tease. Always so quiet, so polite, so desperately nerdy. He wore khaki pants for god’s sake. Khakis. In high school.

Sometimes you’d catch him sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking—soft, wide-eyed stares, like he couldn’t believe you were real. It only made it funnier. You’d smile sweetly at him on purpose, wave too enthusiastically, lean a little too close when asking him a question during group projects, just to watch his face flush scarlet and his glasses fog up.

The poor boy was so easy to break.

And you weren’t the only one who noticed. Your whole group kind of adopted it as a game at this point: how fast could you fluster Jungwon? How pink could you get his cheeks? How many stuttered responses could you collect like trophies?

“He’s like…a pet,” your other friend Minji whispered one time after a pop quiz. You had just tapped Jungwon’s shoulder and thanked him (loudly) for “helping you study”—which he hadn’t—and the boy had practically short-circuited on the spot. “Like a little lost puppy.”

You’d laughed then, flipping your hair over your shoulder, feeling every bit the queen bee you were supposed to be. Jungwon was safe. Harmless. He wasn’t like the cocky jocks or the bad boys you flirted with sometimes—he was soft, easy to control, easy to tease.

Or at least…that’s what you thought.

Until one afternoon, everything changed.

You were sitting at your desk, lazily twirling a pen between your fingers, when you felt a shadow fall across your table. You looked up, blinking.

It was Jungwon.

He stood stiffly in front of you, clutching a neatly organized folder to his chest like a shield. His blonde hair was slightly messy today, a few strands falling across his forehead. His glasses slipped down his nose a little, and he pushed them up nervously with one finger.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Lost, Jungwon?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something—but then stopped, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. His hands fidgeted against the folder, knuckles white from how tightly he gripped it. You could see the tips of his ears turning red.

Cute.

“I, uh…” He coughed lightly, adjusting his glasses again. “I…thought you might need help. For the chemistry assignment. Since…you asked…before.”

You blinked.

You hadn’t actually asked him for help—you’d teased him about it, sure, but it was all in good fun. You were popular, and smart enough to get by without tutoring from the class nerd. But now, standing there in front of you, Jungwon looked so serious. So determined, despite how nervous he clearly was.

You could feel Minji and Hana watching from across the room, barely containing their laughter. You gave them a quick glance—watch this—before turning back to Jungwon with your most dazzling smile.

“That’s sweet, Jungwon,” you said, voice dripping honey. “You’re worried about me?”

He flushed deeper, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I just…you seemed like you might…um…need help.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh. God, he was so easy.

Leaning forward on your elbows, you rested your chin in your hand and looked up at him through your lashes. “Are you offering to be my private tutor?”

His lips parted slightly, like the words got stuck in his throat. His glasses fogged a little again. “I—uh—I guess. If you want.”You smiled wider, loving the way his voice shook.

“Aw,” you cooed mockingly, loud enough for your friends to hear. “You’re so sweet, Jungwon. Are you always this nice to girls who bully you?”

Behind you, Hana snickered into her hand.

For a moment, Jungwon didn’t say anything. He just stood there, folder clutched tight to his chest, face burning. His eyes flickered to your mouth for a second—so quick you almost missed it—and then dropped to the floor again.

You tilted your head, smirking. So predictable.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” you added, voice low enough that only he could hear it. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you buy me coffee after tutoring too.”

He said nothing. Just nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and practically fled to the other side of the room.

You and your friends broke into giggles immediately.

“Poor thing’s gonna have a heart attack,” Minji whispered, wiping a tear from her eye. “Y/N, you’re evil.”

You smiled lazily, twirling your pen again. It was just harmless fun. Jungwon would never do anything about it. He was too shy, too sweet.

He’d stay quiet. Like he always did.

…Right?

You didn’t think about it much when you got the text later that day.

[unknown number]: you forgot your textbook. rm 3b.

[unknown number]: i can bring it if u want.

You stared at the messages, confused for a second—until you realized it had to be Jungwon. Of course it was. Who else would be that polite about a stupid forgotten book?

You texted back a half-hearted ok, already smirking to yourself. God, he’s desperate, you thought. He was really going out of his way for you now. It was almost pathetic.

You made your way to Room 3B after the last bell, the hallway practically deserted. Most people had already left for the day, leaving only the low hum of distant footsteps and the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile.

When you pushed open the door, the room was dim, the late afternoon sun spilling in long, golden streaks across the floor.

And there he was.

Jungwon stood by your desk, your chemistry textbook in hand, head bowed slightly. His blonde hair caught the light, making it look almost soft around the edges. He wasn’t wearing his blazer anymore—just the white button-up, the sleeves pushed up a little—and it made him look…different. More casual. More real.

You stepped inside lazily, the door clicking shut behind you.

“Wow,” you teased lightly, crossing your arms. “You really take your job as my tutor seriously, huh?”

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even smile.

He just looked up at you—and for the first time, you noticed something different in his eyes. Something that made your skin prickle a little.

He wasn’t nervous.

Not anymore.

“You forgot this,” he said simply, voice low and even.

You walked closer, letting your bag slide off your shoulder onto a chair. “Thanks, Professor Jungwon,” you joked, reaching for the book.

But instead of handing it to you, he held onto it—just out of reach.

You frowned. “What are you doing?”

For a second, he just looked at you, head tilted slightly like he was studying something.

Then he smiled.

Not the shy, awkward smile you were used to.

No, this one was slower. Lazier. A smile that knew things. Dangerous things.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he said, voice still light but edged with something sharper underneath. “Messing with me. Laughing at me with your little friends.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, confused. This wasn’t…this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I mean…” you said slowly, trying to summon that same teasing tone. “Maybe a little?”

Jungwon stepped closer.

You instinctively backed up—only to feel the desk press against the backs of your thighs.

You opened your mouth to say something else—to crack another joke, maybe, to turn the moment back into something safe—but before you could, he set the textbook down carefully on the desk beside you.

And caged you in with both hands, palms flat against the wood.

You stared up at him, breath caught.

His eyes, usually so soft, were burning now. Sharp and focused, like he was seeing right through you. His body was so close you could feel the heat rolling off him, suffocating, dizzying.

“You think you can just say whatever you want to me,” he said softly, so close you could feel his breath fan across your lips. “Laugh at me. Flirt with me. Make me look like a fool.”

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body standing on end.

“I—It was just a joke,” you said quickly, but your voice wavered.

Another slow, dangerous smile.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “Well, here’s the thing, Y/N.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“I’m done being the joke.”

You froze, your whole body tensing, but Jungwon didn’t give you any time to think.

One hand slid from the desk to your waist, fingers digging in just hard enough to make you gasp. He pressed his body closer, chest against yours, so you could feel just how much bigger and stronger he really was.

“You’re so loud usually,” he whispered, voice smooth and dark against your ear. “Where’s all that attitude now, huh?”

You squirmed, but it only made him grip you tighter, pinning your hips against the desk.

“You thought you were in control,” he murmured, dragging the tip of his nose down the side of your throat, inhaling like he could smell your fear. “Laughing with your friends. Acting like you were better than me.”

You whimpered—quiet and unintentional—and he chuckled low in his chest.

“Not so funny now, is it?”

Slowly, torturously slow, he trailed his hand up your side, brushing under the hem of your shirt, fingertips feather-light against your bare skin. Your breath hitched, and he smiled against your neck.

“You like this,” he said quietly, almost like he was marveling at the realization. “You like when I’m mean to you.”

You shook your head automatically, but Jungwon just laughed again, dark and soft.

“Liar.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him.

His eyes were molten now, dark and hungry, and you shivered under the weight of his stare.

“I should make you beg,” he whispered, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Make you apologize for being such a little brat.”

Your lips parted, desperate to say something—anything—but no words came out.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he asked, almost gently, dragging his thumb slowly across your bottom lip. “Or do I have to teach you a lesson?

You whimpered again, nodding weakly.

His smile widened, all sharp teeth and dangerous promise.

“Good girl.”

Without warning, he grabbed your thighs and lifted you up onto the desk, spreading your legs with his knees. The sudden movement made you squeak, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance, but he didn’t let you go—he loomed over you, hands gripping your waist possessively, like he owned you.

“Show me,” Jungwon said, voice so soft it barely made a sound. “Get on your knees.”

You blinked up at him, heart racing, and whispered back without thinking, “W-What?”

He just stared down at you, unblinking, fingers tightening at your waist like a warning.

“On your knees,” he repeated, firmer now, and when you hesitated for half a second longer, he grabbed your chin and guided you down slowly, almost gentle, until your knees hit the floor with a quiet thud against the carpet.

“Jungwon…” you whispered again, voice small, but he didn’t budge.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Pretty,” he murmured. “So pretty when you’re quiet.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning, and breathed out shakily, “I-I don’t know what you want me to do…”

A small, dangerous smile played on his lips. “You’ll figure it out.”

With slow, deliberate movements, he unbuckled his belt, the soft clink making your stomach twist in anticipation. You couldn’t look away—couldn’t even think—your mouth already watering slightly as he tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing his cock, hard and thick and leaking at the tip.

You whimpered, staring, and your thighs instinctively pressed together.

“You want it, don’t you?” he whispered, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

You nodded frantically, voice barely a breath. “Y-Yeah… I want it.”

“Then open up,” he ordered, and his voice was so calm it made your whole body shudder.

You parted your lips obediently, heart thundering, and he slid the tip against your tongue, teasing you slowly, making you feel every inch.

“Good girl,” he praised in a low growl. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

You whimpered again, looking up at him through your lashes, desperate to make him proud, desperate for him to keep saying those things to you.

“You’re so good, Jungwon,” you whispered around him, voice muffled and needy.

A dark flush colored his cheeks at your praise, but he didn’t let up, sliding deeper with slow, shallow thrusts, one hand threading into your hair to hold you there.

“That’s it,” he murmured, hips rocking slowly. “Such a good little mouth… made for me.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes from the stretch, but you forced yourself to stay still, to let him use you like he wanted. You wanted it. You wanted him.

“You look so good like this,” he breathed. “Bet you never thought you’d end up on your knees for me, huh?”

You whined around him, the humiliation and heat rushing through your body too much to handle.

“Didn’t know you’d be so mean,” you managed to mumble out when he pulled back a little, your voice wrecked and breathless.

He chuckled lowly, thumb brushing away a tear that slid down your cheek.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of, baby,” he whispered.

You nodded, so desperate, so wrecked already. “Please…” you whimpered. “Please, Jungwon… I want you…”

His jaw flexed, his control visibly snapping.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hips jerking forward as he pushed deeper into your mouth, making you choke slightly.

You pulled back with a gasp, panting, and he immediately stroked your hair gently, calming you.

“Shh. You’re doing so good, pretty girl,” he praised. “You’re perfect.”

You looked up at him, tears in your lashes, spit glistening on your lips.

“I want to be good for you,” you said, voice wobbling.

“You already are,” he whispered, dragging his cock slowly across your tongue again.

You shivered, feeling your whole body light up at his words.

He tightened his grip in your hair, sliding himself back into your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, using you like he had every right to.

And you let him. Whimpering, obeying, looking up at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

Because he owned you now. And you didn’t want it any other way.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Jungwon yanked you up from the floor, strong hands gripping your waist and shoving you back against the couch. His body pressed flush against yours, caging you in.

“You’re not done,” he muttered, voice low and dark in your ear. “I’m not done.”

You whimpered, nodding without even thinking, your thighs squeezing together at the way he looked at you — like he was starving and you were the only thing he could eat.

He grabbed your chin roughly, tilting your head up so you couldn’t look away from him. His eyes, usually so soft and sunny, were blown wide and black with hunger.

“Look at you,” he whispered, breath hot against your cheek. “Already fucked out and I haven’t even gotten started.”

You tried to say something—tried to beg—but he didn’t give you the chance. In one swift movement, he manhandled you onto the couch, forcing you onto your back, and tugged your panties down your legs without ceremony.

“Spread those legs for me, pretty,” he murmured, voice steady but ragged with want.

You did, shakily, heart pounding so hard you could barely breathe.

He tugged his jeans down just enough, cock hard and leaking, and lined himself up without warning. You felt the blunt, thick head of him pressing against your entrance, and your breath caught.

“You ready?” he rasped.

You nodded desperately, nails digging into the cushions.

“Use your words,” he ordered, tapping the inside of your thigh sharply.

“Please,” you gasped out. “Please, Jungwon, I want it—need it—”

That was all he needed.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you screamed — high-pitched and choked, the stretch overwhelming. Your whole body arched off the couch at the sudden, merciless intrusion.

“Fuck, so tight,” he hissed through gritted teeth, holding himself still for a second, letting you feel every inch of him. “Feels too good. Gonna fuck you so stupid, baby.”

You sobbed, legs trembling around his hips, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out halfway and slammed back in hard enough to make the couch creak beneath you. Again. Again. Hard and deep and punishing, every thrust knocking the breath out of your lungs.

“You wanted to tease me?” he grunted, voice still soft and deadly in your ear. “Wanted to be a brat in front of your little friends?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering, barely coherent under the relentless pace.

“Bet you don’t feel so cocky now, huh?” he whispered, punctuating every word with another deep thrust.

You tried to answer but all that came out was a broken moan.

He chuckled low under his breath, slowing down just enough to drag himself out painfully slow before slamming back in to the hilt, making you cry out.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he licked a tear off your cheek and murmured, “Poor thing. Too much?”

You shook your head wildly, clinging to him.

He kept going until your whole body was trembling, until your nails carved angry red lines down his back, until you were sobbing his name like it was the only word you knew.

Finally, when your legs gave out completely and you sagged into the cushions, he slowed. His hands gentled, cradling you.

Wordlessly, he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips. His cock still heavy and hard between your legs, pressed against your soaked folds.

He cupped your face in both hands, smoothing your hair back, and kissed you so softly it almost hurt. You whimpered into his mouth, desperate for him.

“You still want it?” he whispered against your lips.

“Yes,” you breathed, voice wrecked and trembling. “Please.”

He guided you down onto him slowly this time, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you open again.

You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, tears brimming in your lashes again from the slow, aching fullness.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Take all of it. You’re doing so good.”

He rocked you on his cock gently, holding you close, whispering filthy things in your ear the whole time.

“Feel how deep I am, baby? You were made for this… made for me to fuck you like this.”

You whimpered, biting his shoulder to muffle your sobs of pleasure as he guided your hips, slow and deep and overwhelming.

“Never teasing me again,” he whispered, smiling against your hair. “Not unless you want this.”

You nodded desperately, grinding down against him, so full you could barely think.

“You’re mine to fuck,” he murmured, dragging his cock against that sensitive spot inside you, making you jolt in his lap. “Mine to ruin.”

You came apart in his arms, sobbing his name into his shoulder, shaking and gasping. He held you through it, never stopping, whispering praise into your ear until you completely fell apart.

And when he finally followed, spilling deep inside you with a low groan, he didn’t move away.

He just held you, rocking you gently in his lap, brushing kisses across your temple, your jaw, your mouth.

Like he hadn’t just broken you completely.

Like he was never gonna let you go.

The next morning, you could still feel it — a dull, delicious ache between your thighs with every step you took. Your body was sore, your neck littered with faint bruises you tried—and failed—to cover with makeup, and your heart raced every time you even thought about Jungwon.

Which was a problem. Because you were sitting across from him in class, and he kept sneaking little glances at you from behind his glasses, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips whenever your eyes met.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, clenching your thighs together under the desk, cheeks burning.

“What’s up with you?” one of your friends whispered, elbowing you in the side during lecture.

“Huh? N-nothing,” you stammered, staring down at your notes so hard the lines blurred together.

Another girl leaned over. “Why do you look like you just ran a marathon?”

“I don’t,” you protested weakly, adjusting your jacket to hide the faint purple marks blooming down your throat.

They weren’t convinced.

“You’re acting weird,” the first girl said, wrinkling her nose. “Like…all shy and jumpy. Did something happen?”

“No,” you said too quickly, glancing instinctively at Jungwon.

You caught him looking again — but this time, he didn’t look away. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow and deliberate, and your stomach flipped.

Oh god.

Your friends caught that look.

They turned, following your gaze, and their jaws dropped.

“Wait. No freaking way,” one of them whispered, half-laughing. “You’re into him?!”

“I—” You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

The other girl snorted. “Since when do you like nerds?”

You shrank into your seat, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. Especially when Jungwon leaned back in his chair casually, spreading his thighs just a little wider under the desk — like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat.

“Bet he’s not that nerdy when he’s alone with her,” one of your friends joked under her breath, laughing.

Your face flamed.

And across the room, Jungwon smiled lazily at you, like a wolf who knew his prey wasn’t going anywhere.

prompt request list

[pandapetals]

sunlight & sawdust

epilogue

previous chapter

summary: For two years, Joel Miller has done nothing but scowl at you from across the room, barely tolerating your warmth, your kindness, and your ever-present sunshine. And for two years, you’ve told yourself his gruffness doesn’t bother you—that his clipped words and cold stares don’t matter.But then, out of nowhere, he offers to fix the damaged floor in your flower shop.For free.Suddenly, the man who could barely stand to look at you is showing up every day, fixing things that don’t need fixing, sharing quiet lunches, and—most shocking of all—getting along with Ellie, your daughter, who has never warmed up to anyone as quickly as she has to him.

pairing: joel miller x fem!single mom reader - no outbreak/au

content warnings: slight reader description, no y/n used, grumpy joel, grumpy x sunshine trope, ellie is reader's daughter, reader is a single mom, tommy being a meddler, reader is friends with tommy, au setting in Austin, joel is a carpenter, reader owns a flower shop, fluff, angst, and eventual smut, joel is bad at feelings, sarah mentioned

a/n: divider by @saradika-graphics. Alright, well. I’m crying because this is the end. I am so grateful for all the love and support.

Two months later…

Life had settled into something easy, something Joel never thought he’d have again.

It was in the small moments that snuck up on him when he wasn’t looking.

Stopping by your flower shop on his lunch breaks—not because he needed anything, but just to see you. To sit with you, sharing sandwiches wrapped in paper, listening to you talk about your day while he worked through a cup of coffee. Sometimes, Ellie would be there, her little feet swinging from the counter as she carefully arranged flowers, pausing only to ask Joel if dinosaurs would’ve liked flowers, too.

Joel never had an answer, but Ellie would always supply one, giggling as she made up some wild story about T-Rexes sniffing roses.

Most evenings, he’d end up at your place, easing into the rhythm of your life like he’d always been there.

Ellie had a habit of finding him the second he walked through the door, dragging him to the couch with a book already in hand.

She had favorites, of course—books about dinosaurs or space. Joel had read them all a dozen times over, but every time she looked up at him, wide-eyed, hanging onto every word, he’d start from the beginning like it was brand new.

More often than not, she’d fall asleep right there, tucked into his side, small fingers curled into his shirt. And every time, without fail, you’d appear in the doorway, arms crossed, a soft smile on your face.

"You spoil her, you know," you’d tease in a whisper, watching as he carefully shifted, lifting Ellie into his arms and carrying her to bed.

Joel would smirk, brushing a piece of hair from Ellie’s face as she settled into her pillow. "Ain’t spoilin’ her if she deserves it."

Then, it would be just the two of you, curling up in bed, his body solid and warm against yours.

You had a habit of playing with his hair, running soft fingers over his skin, and tracing patterns over his chest until his breath evened out. Then, he drifted to sleep with you safely tucked against him.

Sometimes, he’d wake in the middle of the night, feeling the gentle weight of your arm draped over him, the steady rise and fall of your breath.

Sometimes, that old familiar ache crept in—the guilt, the shadow of before. The thought was that maybe he didn’t deserve this, but then, he’d see you in the morning light, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep as you handed him a cup of coffee with a knowing smile.

Or he’d hear Ellie giggling as she ran through the house, telling him some nonsense story, looking at him like she’d known him her whole life.

And that ache, that gnawing feeling—it was replaced by something else.

By the echo of Sarah’s voice in the back of his mind.

It’s okay, Dad. You deserve to be happy.

So Joel believed it.

He hadn’t planned on letting himself have this. Hadn’t planned on getting too close, but then there was you and Ellie. You both ran to him without hesitation, seeking comfort, trusting him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. You had opened your life up to him, let him in, given him a place to belong again, and Joel couldn’t shut himself off.

Not when you had been so unwaveringly open with him. Not when Ellie beamed at him like he hung the damn moon, curling up at his side like it was the safest place in the world. Not when you looked at him like he mattered.

One night, as you lay together in bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting golden light across the room, you had turned to him, voice barely above a whisper.

“I was scared.”

Joel had frowned, shifting to face you fully, his hand instinctively reaching for yours.

You blinked quickly, your lashes wet, a sad smile tugging at your lips. "When I first had Ellie. When it was just me, I was terrified of being a single mom. Of screwing her up. Of not being enough."

Joel felt his chest tighten, his heart ache at the raw honesty in your voice.

You swallowed, your fingers gripping his a little tighter. “I never thought I’d have this. Have you.”

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip on you firm but gentle, grounding. The vulnerability in your eyes and the quiet confession of fear wrecked him because he knew that feeling.

He knew what it was to worry that you weren’t enough.

He reached for you, pulling you against him and holding you close. His lips pressed a slow, lingering kiss on your forehead.

"I got you, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin. "You ain't gotta be scared anymore."

Your breath hitched, and Joel felt the way you melted into him and trusted him to hold not just your body but your heart.

His arms tightened around you like some part of him knew he needed to hold on, like if he let go, you might slip right through his fingers.

You exhaled softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "It’s like we were made for each other."

Joel went still. The words wrecked him. More than when you’d first told him you loved him. More than anything else you’d ever said. Because you meant it.

His hand kept moving against your back, slow, steady circles, grounding himself as the weight of that realization settled deep in his chest.

He needed you. Ellie. This life and the thought of ever losing it. His heart clenched, a sharp, quiet panic threading through his ribs.

It scared him—more than he’d ever admit.

Then you shifted against him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and letting out a small, contented sigh. Your fingers traced absent-minded shapes against his chest, warm and familiar, like you belonged there, like you always had.

Suddenly, the fear didn’t seem so big.

Joel let out a slow breath, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering there.

"Yeah, sweetheart," he murmured, voice rough with tenderness. “We were.”

____________

You had been with Joel for a few months, though it felt like forever. Life had a way of slipping into place so naturally, so effortlessly, with him that you barely remembered what it had been like before.

Everything was simple.

It was not always easy—because nothing with Joel came easy—but simple in the way that mattered. The way he made space for you in his life. The way you fit into it, like you had always belonged there.

But Joel still had his moments.

The nights he’d go quiet, his eyes distant, walls creeping back up before he realized he was doing it. Old habits were hard to break.

You knew that. So you didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t pry open the doors, he wasn’t ready to unlock. You just waited.

And slowly, he let you in.

You had been to Joel’s house a handful of times, but you had never stayed the night. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it was easier for Joel to stay at your place.

That was where Ellie’s books were stacked in a crooked pile by the couch, where her favorite stuffed giraffe sat waiting for her on her pillow.

That was where she felt safe, and Joel would never take that from her.

However, tonight was different.

Your mother had come into town and, much to your surprise, offered to watch Ellie for the night. You had hesitated at first—because as much as you wanted a night alone with Joel, it was hard to leave Ellie behind—but the opportunity was too good to pass up.

So here you were, standing on Joel’s front porch, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his favorite western film in the other.

His brows lifted when he opened the door, amusement flickering in his deep brown eyes.

“Darlin’,” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Ain’t I supposed to be spoilin’ you?”

You gave him a pointed look before brushing past him into the house. “Don’t start, handsome. My mom’s in town, and I wanted to see you.”

You paused just long enough to let the words settle before adding something softer and more honest. “I missed you.”

Joel shut the door behind you, following you into the living room with slow, deliberate steps. “We just saw each other yesterday,” he teased, though there was a warmth in his voice, in the way his lips quirked up like he liked hearing it.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, his arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against him. His body was warm, solid, and when he dipped his head, his lips skimmed the edge of your jaw.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

You exhaled a laugh, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. “You really wanna act like you didn’t miss me, too?”

Joel huffed, his breath hot against your skin. “Didn’t say that.”

“Mm-hmm.” You smirked, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Just admit it, Miller. You were lonely without me.”

Joel turned you in his arms, his eyes darkening just a bit as he studied you. “That's what you wanna hear?”

Your heart fluttered.

His hands slid lower, settling on the small of your back as he leaned in. His voice dropped to a slow, rough whisper. “Yeah, I missed you, too.”

"I figured so," you murmured, your fingers trailing along the bridge of his nose, then down to his jaw, memorizing every rough edge and smooth plane.

Joel's eyes fluttered closed momentarily, his expression softening under your touch. But when he opened them again, something knowing was in them, like he could already tell where your thoughts were headed.

"Sweetheart," he said, voice low, a hint of a warning in it. "Don't start all that."

You grinned, tilting your head as your fingers slid into his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp. "Start what?"

Joel huffed, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "You know what."

Feigning innocence, you pressed closer, standing on your toes to brush your lips against his. "I just missed you, that’s all."

Joel let out a low chuckle, his hands tightening at your waist for a fleeting second like he was tempted—before he pulled back, shaking his head.

“Darlin’, if you wanna eat sometime tonight, we should start cookin’ before you go distractin’ me with those lips.”

You groaned dramatically, letting your forehead fall against his chest. “Ugh, Joel, c’mon. I came over here with whiskey and a movie, and you’re making me wait?”

His chest rumbled with laughter. “Ain’t makin’ you do nothin’.”

You lifted your head, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “Fine,” you relented, sighing like it was the biggest inconvenience in the world. “We’ll cook first. Then you can make it up to me.”

Joel chuckled, brushing a kiss against your forehead before stepping back and nodding toward the kitchen. “Atta girl. Now, you gonna help me, or you just gonna sit back and look pretty?”

You shot him a grin. “Can’t I do both?”

He shook his head, smirking as he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the kitchen.

____________

The movie dragged on. It was a slow, dusty western that Joel was entirely absorbed in, but you? Not so much.

Your attention drifted, first to his lack of home decor—plain walls, minimal furniture, everything practical, nothing decorative. The most personal thing in the whole place was a coffee ring stain on his side table.

Then your focus shifted to something far more interesting. Him.

God, he was handsome even though he didn’t seem to think so. Even though he always scoffed whenever you told him. That dark brown hair, the streaks of silver at his temples. The firm curve of his jaw, the way his broad shoulders stretched against his worn-out t-shirt. And his eyes—those eyes—warm and deep, like aged whiskey, catching the flickering glow of the TV.

“You’re starin’, darlin’,” Joel muttered, not looking away from the screen.

You smirked, shifting closer to him on the couch, pulling your legs up to curl beside you. “Maybe I just like what I see.”

He let out a low grunt, still watching the screen. “Movie’s on, sweetheart.”

“I noticed,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder, deliberately pressing closer so he could feel your warmth against him. “But this is so boring.”

Joel exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Boring? This is a classic.”

“Hate to break it to you, handsome, but it’s just a bunch of cowboys staring at each other dramatically.”

“That’s called tension.”

“That’s called bad pacing,” you countered, letting your lips brush against his neck, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Know what’s not boring, though?”

Joel turned his head slightly, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were darker now, his jaw tense like he was fighting the pull of you. “What’s that?”

You swung a leg over his lap, straddling him with a playful smirk. “This.”

Joel let out a slow, controlled exhale, his hands automatically finding your hips. “Now, darlin’, I thought we were watchin’ a movie.”

Your fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt, dragging along the exposed skin of his chest. “I changed my mind.”

Joel swallowed hard, his grip tightening just a little. “That right?”

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Mhm. I think we should find something else to do.”

Joel’s smirk deepened as he traced his thumbs slowly over your hips. “You know, sweetheart, you’re makin’ me think you only came over here to get laid.”

You smiled against his lips, your fingers skimming up the nape of his neck, toying with the curls there. “Maybe I did,” you murmured, teasingly kissing his jaw. “Can you blame me?”

Joel sucked in a slow breath through his nose, his grip tightening.

“Don’t tell me you’re not into it,” you continued, shifting slightly in his lap, feeling the proof that he definitely was. “Because I can just—” You started to move off him, feigning innocence.

Joel didn’t let you get far. His hands clamped down on your hips, keeping you firmly in place. “Oh, no you don’t,” he rasped, voice dropping to that low, rough drawl that sent shivers down your spine. “I’m just tryin’ to be a gentleman, honey. But if I had it my way, you wouldn’t have made it through the door without me takin’ you on the floor.”

Heat flared in your stomach; your thighs squeezed around him. “That so?”

Joel tilted his head, his lips ghosting over yours, teasing, torturously slow. “Mhm. Think about it, darlin’. Door barely closed behind you, and I’d have you up against it—” His hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, pressing you closer until there was no space left between you. “Dress bunched up, legs wrapped around me—”

A quiet gasp slipped from your lips as he rolled his hips up into yours, slow but firm, dragging friction exactly where you needed it.

“Or maybe the couch,” he continued, voice like gravel, his mouth skimming along your jaw, down your throat. “Could’ve had you right here, ride me slow while that goddamn movie plays in the background.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Joel.”

He hummed in satisfaction at your voice's breathlessness and how you were already unraveling just from his words.

He leaned back slightly, dragging his lips just out of reach, the hint of a smirk still playing at them.

“Still wanna tease me about my movies, darlin’?”

You grinned, brushing your nose against Joel’s, your lips barely grazing his. “I’ll always tease, handsome.”

Joel huffed out a low chuckle, shaking his head, but his hands told a different story—gripping your ass with a firm squeeze that had you gasping. A squeal of surprise slipped from you before he swallowed it with a kiss, deep and possessive.

“Maybe I oughta teach you some damn manners,” he murmured against your lips, voice thick with amusement but there was a roughness beneath it, a promise.

A delicious shiver ran down your spine. His words sent a spark straight between your thighs.

“Wait—” You barely had time to catch your breath before Joel’s hands gripped your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back. You landed against the couch with a soft thud, blinking up at him, breathless, dazed.

He didn’t waste a second. His mouth was on you before you could form another word, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

“Still feel like teasin’?” he drawled, voice rough as his lips traveled lower, over the neckline of your dress.

You exhaled sharply, arching into him. “Maybe,” you whispered, just to push his buttons.

Joel groaned, shaking his head like you were impossible, but the way his hands started working your dress higher, gathering the fabric in deliberate strokes, told you he was more than happy to take on the challenge.

He pushed the material up past your thighs, his fingers tracing feather-light over the tops of your stockings, before dipping lower, to where you were already warm and aching for him.

A pleased hum rumbled in his chest as he hooked his fingers under the band of your underwear, dragging them down inch by agonizing inch. “Damn, sweetheart,” he murmured, pulling his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. “Already so wet for me?”

Heat flared in your cheeks, but you refused to look away, to let the weight of his gaze fluster you. “Told you I missed you,” you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, something dark flickering behind his eyes, before he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Then let me make up for lost time.”

With a swift tug, Joel pulled your underwear down your legs and tossed them behind him, not giving a damn where they landed. His rough hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wide, exposing every slick inch of you to his hungry gaze.

A deep groan rumbled in his chest, his dark eyes locked onto you like you were the only thing that mattered. He dragged his bottom lip between his teeth, his breath heavy and uneven. “Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with want. “So damn pretty, honey.”

The warmth of his breath against your bare skin sent a shiver rippling through you. Your head fell back against the couch, anticipation building so fast it made you dizzy.

“Joel,” you whined, lifting your hips slightly, searching for friction, for relief. “Please.”

He hummed in amusement, his hands pressing firmly against your thighs to hold you still. “Always so needy for me, huh?” He leaned in, his nose grazing your inner thigh, his lips brushing featherlight over your skin, making you squirm. “You don’t gotta beg, sweetheart. I’ll always give you what you need.”

Then, finally, his mouth was on you.

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he wrapped them around your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with deliberate flicks of his tongue. A strangled moan followed, your fingers flying to his hair, tangling in the thick strands as heat coiled tight in your belly.

Joel groaned against you, the sound vibrating through every inch of your body. He licked into you, slow at first, savoring every little twitch, every desperate noise that spilled from your lips.

“Fuck,” he murmured between strokes of his tongue, voice rough, wrecked. “Tastes so goddamn sweet.”

Your body arched, chasing more, needing more, but Joel kept you pinned, entirely at his mercy. “Patience, darlin’,” he drawled, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Ain’t lettin’ you go till I’ve had my fill.”

Your moans filled the dimly lit room, each one sweeter than the last as your fingers twisted in Joel’s hair, tugging desperately. You knew he loved this—loved tasting you, loved wrecking you with nothing but his mouth and hands until you were trembling beneath him.

His tongue dragged slow and purposeful over your clit before he sealed his lips around it, sucking just hard enough to make your whole body jolt. A broken cry left your throat, your hips lifting, but Joel’s hands pressed you right back down, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

“That’s it, honey,” he rasped against you, the heat of his breath making you shudder. “Take it. Let me hear you.”

He slipped two thick fingers inside you, the stretch making your breath hitch, your walls clenching around him. He worked you open, pumping them slow, curling just right, his lips never leaving your clit.

Your back arched off the couch, your thighs trembling around his head. “Oh, yes—fuck, Joel.”

He groaned at the way you said his name, the deep vibration shooting straight through you. His free hand slid up your stomach, splaying against your hip, holding you steady as he sped up, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue teased mercilessly.

You tugged harder at his hair, your legs threatening to snap shut around his head, but Joel only growled, his grip tightening. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice thick with hunger. “Not till I feel you come all over my tongue.”

Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body shaking beneath Joel as he lapped up every drop of your release. You gasped, a sharp cry escaping as your walls pulsed around his fingers, pleasure rolling through you in waves. But Joel didn’t stop.

He groaned into you, the sound low and rough, his tongue still flicking against your clit, his fingers still thrusting deep. Your body twitched, overstimulated, but he held you down, keeping you spread open for him.

“Joel—fuck, I—” You whimpered, tugging at his hair, trying to pull him away.

His grip on your thighs only tightened. “Just one more, gorgeous,” he murmured, the heat of his breath making you shudder. “Be a good girl for me.”

A helpless moan slipped from your lips as his fingers curled just right inside you, dragging against that perfect spot. He knew your body too well now—knew exactly how to push you past your limits. He flattened his tongue against your clit, sucking softly before flicking it just how you liked, coaxing you right back up to the edge.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs trembled. That unbearable pressure coiled in your belly all over again, impossibly fast.

“That’s it,” Joel rasped, voice dripping with pride as he felt your walls clench around his fingers. “Knew you had another one in you.”

A sharp cry tore from your throat as pleasure hit you again, your back arching off the couch. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, your whole body tensing before you shattered, your second orgasm ripping through you just as fiercely as the first.

Joel groaned against you, drinking in your pleasure like a man starved, only pulling away when you whimpered, your body spent and trembling beneath him.

He pressed slow, lazy kisses to the inside of your thigh, his voice thick with satisfaction. “There you go. That’s my good girl.”

You sighed, boneless against the couch, a lazy, satisfied smile curling on your lips. “God, I don’t see how you’re so skilled.”

Joel smirked, wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb before licking it clean. “God’s got nothin’ to do with it, sweetheart.”

You huffed a laugh, rolling your eyes as you swatted at his bicep. “Smartass.”

Joel caught your wrist before you could pull away, his grip firm but warm. “Mm, that's the thanks I get?” He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, teasing but not quite kissing you yet. “Ain’t exactly fair, considerin’ I just had you fallin’ apart for me twice.”

Heat flushed through you again, but you refused to let him have the upper hand. You ran your fingers down his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath, the way his muscles tensed slightly under your touch. “Guess I’ll just have to return the favor, then,” you murmured, tilting your head, eyes flicking up to his with a challenge.

Joel’s smirk faltered briefly, his pupils darkening as he exhaled through his nose. “Now, darlin’, I was fixin’ to let you rest for a minute.”

You traced lazy circles over his stomach, slipping lower. “Who said I needed a break?”

His jaw ticked, his grip on your wrist tightening for a moment before he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “You really are somethin’ else.”

“And you love it,” you quipped, grinning.

Joel sighed, feigning exasperation, but his smile gave him away. “Yeah, I do.” Then, in one swift move, he had you pinned beneath him again, his mouth finally capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss. “Now, how ‘bout you put that smart mouth to good use, huh?”

____________

The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft golden streaks across the bed. Joel slept soundly beside you, his arm draped over your waist, his breath slow and deep against your shoulder. He wasn’t a morning person—you had learned that early on. It took at least two cups of coffee and a solid ten minutes of grumbling before he was fully functional.

You smiled, taking a quiet moment just to admire him—the crease between his brows even in sleep, the way his lips were slightly parted, the warmth of his arm that, even now, instinctively tightened around you when you shifted.

Carefully, you eased out from under his arm, moving slowly so as not to wake him. You reached for the first thing you could find—Joel’s shirt from the night before—and slipped it on, the fabric draping over you like a second skin. Your underwear was kicked somewhere near the bed, so you stepped into them before padding out of the room, deciding you’d make him coffee. Maybe breakfast, if he had anything besides whiskey and canned soup in his pantry.

As you passed down the hall, one door caught your attention. It was cracked open just slightly.

Joel’s woodworking room.

He had shown it to you once in passing, never making a big deal, just a brief mention that he liked to carve. But you had seen how his hands lingered over his work and his voice softened when he spoke about it.

Pushing the door open a little more, you stepped inside. The scent of sawdust and varnish filled the space, and in the morning light, you could see the careful work he had put into the small figures on his workbench. Tiny animals, wooden stars, even a couple of intricate, half-finished pieces you couldn’t quite identify.

Your fingers traced over one of them, a small giraffe.

Ellie loved giraffes. A warm ache spread through your chest. Joel would never say it out loud, but he had made this for her.

As you glanced around, your eyes landed on a small set of drawers tucked into the corner of the room. You hesitated before pulling one open, half-expecting to find spare tools or scraps of wood. Instead, your breath hitched.

Photographs.

Some were newer—pictures of Ellie, a couple of you, and her at the shop that you hadn’t even known Joel had taken. But beneath those, slightly worn and curling at the edges, were older photos.

Sarah.

Your fingers hovered over one of the pictures, Joel grinning beside a teenage girl with warm brown eyes and the biggest smile. Another of her sitting on his shoulders, arms stretched out like she was flying. There was one of just her alone, a birthday cake in front of her, candles mid-flicker as she beamed at the camera.

Your chest tightened.

You had heard stories of Sarah and knew she had been Joel’s entire world before everything fell apart. He didn’t talk about her often, and you never pushed. But seeing these now—this quiet, tucked-away part of his life—made something in your throat tighten.

Your fingers traced over the edges of the photographs one last time before carefully placing them back, your heart still tight in your chest. But just as you started to close the drawer, something else caught your eye.

Ellie’s drawing.

The crayon-streaked paper stood out amongst the neatly stacked items, its colors vibrant against the worn wood. You picked it up gently, recognizing Ellie’s messy handwriting scrawled in the corner: “Thank you, Mr. Joel.”

A smile tugged at your lips.

The drawing was from months ago—before you and Joel had even started dating, back when he had stubbornly insisted on helping you fix the broken floorboards in your shop. You had protested, of course, but he had just grumbled something about "not lettin’ you break your damn neck" and got to work.

Joel had kept this?

Your chest ached at the thought. Ellie’s version of him was a near-perfect representation—the slightly messy hair, the ever-present green flannel, the scowl that somehow still held warmth.

You placed the drawing down carefully, but your gaze landed on something else beneath it as you did.

A book. No, the journal you had given Joel for his birthday.

You had thought it was a terrible gift at the time. The man was a walking barricade of emotions, locked up so tight it was a miracle he ever let anything slip through. He had been opening up more since you started dating, but you had never expected him actually to use the journal.

Your fingers hesitated over the leather cover, your pulse quickening.

This was private. You were already pushing boundaries by being here and going through things that Joel probably didn’t even realize you were seeing. You should put it back and walk away.

And yet…

Your hands moved before your mind could catch up.

The journal flipped open somewhere in the middle, and your breath caught in your throat—something pink, delicate, pressed between the pages.

A tulip.

Your tulip.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you carefully picked up the journal, running your fingers over the petals. It had been months, so long that you had almost forgotten. You had worn the flower in your hair that day at the diner. Ellie had insisted on it, and you had forgotten about it.

Joel had noticed.

He had always noticed.

Even back then—before the first kiss, before the quiet nights curled up in bed together, before you realized you loved him—Joel had already cared.

More than you had ever known.

You swallowed hard, pressing the flower gently back into place, closing the journal with the same care as if it were something sacred.

Softly, you closed the drawer, momentarily pressing your hand against the wood before leaving downstairs. The house was still, the early morning light filtering through the windows in golden slants. You moved on autopilot, filling the coffee pot, as the rich scent slowly filled the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, your mind still stuck on the quiet revelations from Joel’s woodworking room.

He had always cared.

Even before you had realized it and fallen so hopelessly in love with him, he had already been there—watching, noticing, keeping little pieces of you tucked away like treasures.

The thought sent a deep warmth through your chest.

When you reentered the bedroom, Joel stirred lightly, his arm stretching across the sheets, blindly reaching for you. His brows furrowed when his hand met nothing but empty space.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you crawled back into bed, pressing against his warmth. A contented hum rumbled deep in his chest as he instinctively wrapped his arms around you, his grip tightening like he wouldn’t let you slip away again.

“Where’d you go?” His voice was thick with sleep, low and gravelly, the sound curling in your stomach.

You ran your fingers through his hair, kissing his forehead softly. “Just making sure you had coffee.”

A small grunt left him, but you caught how his lips twitched at the corners.

“Mm. You’re too good to me, darlin’.”

Your heart swelled—partly at his words, but mainly at the overwhelming realization that this man had always been yours, even before you knew it.

You curled closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his temple. “I love you so damn much,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Joel’s eyes fluttered open at that, deep brown meeting yours, hazy with sleep but sharp with something knowing. “I love you, too, sweetheart.” His voice was soft, certain, and unwavering. He studied you momentarily, his thumb stroking absent-minded circles against your hip. “What’s goin’ on in that pretty head of yours?”

You shook your head, tracing his jawline with your fingertip. “I mean it,” you murmured, voice heavier now. “I love you.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, his expression shifting into something impossibly tender. He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before letting his palm rest against your cheek.

“I know you do,” he said softly. “Just like I love you.”

You swallowed against the lump forming in your throat. He looked at you like you had given him something sacred, like you were something sacred.

Joel let out a small huff, shifting so he was propped up on one elbow. “Y’know…” He hesitated for a beat, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Been meanin’ to show you somethin’.”

You arched a brow, curiosity flickering in your chest. “Oh?”

Joel nodded toward the window, rubbing a slow hand down your back. “Out in the backyard. Was waitin’ for ‘em to bloom first, but… guess I could give you an early look.”

Your brows furrowed, but you allowed him to pull you from the bed, watching as he slipped his arms into his flannel before guiding you downstairs and out the back door.

The morning air was crisp, the soft hum of birds filling the quiet as Joel led you across the yard, right to a small patch of freshly turned soil near the fence.

Tulips.

Your breath hitched as you crouched down, fingertips hovering over the delicate petals just beginning to bloom—the same soft pink as the one you wore in your hair that day so many months ago.

You turned back to Joel, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. He stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you with a quiet anticipation, like he wasn’t sure what you’d say.

“You grew these for me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Joel shifted slightly on his feet, giving a slight nod. “Figured you got enough flowers at the shop,” he muttered. “But, uh… wanted you to have some here too.”

Emotion swelled in your chest so fast it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.

You surged forward, throwing your arms around him, burying your face against his shoulder. Joel stumbled back a step before his arms wrapped around you, holding you just as tightly.

“Joel,” you choked out.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. “I know.”

And he did.

He had always known.

[robinvomit]

he found you curled against the far corner of the room, your back to the wall like it was the only thing that wouldn't give way. the words from earlier still hung in the air, sharp and cruel, the kind you didn't mean but said anyway because the world had spun too fast, too loud, and it felt safer to push than to fall.

damian stood in the doorway for a moment, silent. he didn’t look angry. he didn't look cold. just… steady. like he always did. he crossed the room without a word, lowering himself slowly until he was knelt down, settling on the floor beside you.

"i'm not going anywhere," he said. not tender, but sure. like a vow. "you could scream at me. tell me you hate me. burn everything we built to the ground.. and i would still stay until you felt safe again." he reached out, palm open, not touching you unless you gave permission. "you don't have to be soft for me. you don't have to be easy to love. you don't have to force yourself to be anything else. i chose you knowing exactly what storms live in you. and i'm not afraid of drowning."

you didn't speak at first but your hand found his, trembling, unsure if you were even allowed. damian's fingers closed gently around yours like he was holding something sacred. that's how he always held you. before and after a split. like he still saw the same person either way.

"the way your mind turns on you," he mumbled, "i've seen it. you tell yourself i'll leave. that i'll grow tired. that i'll use this moment to walk away. but i need you to hear me, beloved, i don't love you in pieces. i love you even when the pieces are sharp. even when they try to cut me. even then, i will never stop reaching for you. i will not step away over something you can not control."

he stayed there long into the night. holding your hand, forehead pressed gently to your temple, grounding you with the weight of his presence alone. not trying to fix it. not offering empty reassurances. just being there. letting you fall apart and still be loved. teaching you that falling apart didn't mean pushing him away.

that he could handle the screaming. the crying. the breaking. because he would still hold you, whisper to you.. he would still be there when the thoughts and aches subsided.

[tinytarotandtea]

「 ✦ PICK A PILE✦ 」

What part of you is quietly healing?

Masterlist GET YOUR PERSONAL PAID READING HERE <33 Directions: Take a moment to breathe, calm down and focus as you choose a picture from above. From left to right is pile 1, 2 and 3. Then Scroll down to your pile! Please remember to only take what resonates with you and leave the rest 🫶

Pile One -

Cards Pulled - Knight of Wands Reversed • Ace of Wands • King of Swords

So, pile one, your healing right now is all about finding your spark again. But, in a way that is softer and more grounded than before. With the Knight of Wands Reversed, there is a sense of burnout or hesitation in your drive. Perhaps you’ve felt like you’ve been going full speed ahead with no clear direction or that your energy has been scattered, and now you are pulling back a little to focus on what really lights you up. This part of you is healing from the rush, from the pressure to always be on the go, and it is finding a more aligned path.

The Ace of Wands is telling me that this healing process is all about a new beginning for you, a fresh burst of energy or creativity that is coming in slowly, but surely. It might be quiet at first, like a small flame flickering inside, but it is growing. You are rediscovering your passion, your desire to create and your motivation. But, it’s happening in a way that might feel more like a gentle rise rather than a forceful push.

And with the King of Swords here, your healing has a lot to do with how you think and communicate. There’s a healing in your mindset and the way you make decisions, along with how you’ve come to understand yourself and your boundaries. You’re reclaiming your mental clarity, your sharpness, and your ability to speak your truth confidently. There is a shift happening inside you where you are moving from self-doubt into self-assurance. And it is so damn empowering.

Pile one, you’re quietly healing your inner fire, your ability to take action without burning out and finding your voice again in a way that is more aligned with who you are becoming. It’s slow and steady, but it is going to be so worth it when you step into that energy full force.

Pile Two -

Cards Pulled - King of Pentacles • The World Reversed • Queen of Cups reversed

Okay, so! Pile two, your healing right now is happening in that deep, under-the-surface kind of way. This isn’t flashy and it might not even be something others can see, but it’s powerful. The King of Pentacles tells me that you’re slowly rebuilding a sense of inner security. You’re learning to feel more stable, grounded and safe within yourself, no matter what happens around you. You’re healing the part of you that felt like you had to constantly prove your worth through what you could do or give. Now, though? Now you’re learning that just being is enough.

The World Reversed suggests that you’ve been stuck in a loop for a while. Maybe a cycle that you’ve been unable to close. You might feel like you’re “almost there” but something always feels just out of reach. That part of you, the one that keeps feeling like you’re not finished, or like something is missing, is healing. You’re learning that it is okay for some things to be left imperfect, unfinished, or unknown. You don’t have to rush to the finish line. You’re healing your relationship with completion, and how you define success and closure.

And with the Queen of Cups reversed, you’ve been carrying so much. Emotionally, spiritually, energetically. This card is telling me that your heart’s been a little overwhelmed, perhaps stretched too thin from always holding space for others. But now, you’re healing your emotional boundaries. You’re slowly remembering how to pour into your own cup first. You are learning to hold yourself gently without feeling guilt. This is big. Tender healing in your heart space is happening, and it’s making room for softness, safety, and self-love to come flooding back in.

Pile two, you’re healing the part of yourself that has been holding the world together for everyone else. You are coming home to your own centre, and even if it is a little messy, it is still magic.

Pile Three -

Cards Pulled - The Hierophant • King of Cups • Six of Pentacles.

Oo, okay. Pile three is healing in the spaces between tradition and heart, structure and softness. The Hierophant says that you’ve been carrying a lot of responsibility, maybe you are the one expected to do things “the right way” or always be the strong and wise one. You are healing the part of yourself that feels like it has to follow all those rules just to feel safe or accepted.  Now? Now you’re slowly unlearning what doesn’t serve you anymore. And you’re building a belief system that actually aligns with your spirit, not just what you were taught.

With the King of Cups, we’ve got emotional depth. You’re healing your relationship with your emotions, how you express them, how you hold them, and how you give them space. You might be someone who has always been the calm in the storm, the shoulder for others, the one who knows what to say. But now? Now you’re being asked to turn that same emotional maturity inward. To care for yourself the way you care for everyone else. And you’re doing it. Gently, quietly and beautifully.

And the Six of Pentacles is here to tie it all together! You’re healing your balance between giving and receiving. You’ve perhaps over-given in the past, be it emotionally, physically, or spiritually. And now you’re learning that you are just as worthy of care, time and love. You’re someone who deserves to feel supported too. This healing is showing you that you don’t always have to be the one pouring. Sometimes it is your turn to be poured into. That's not selfish, that’s sacred.

Pile three, your healing is wise, heart-cantered and so full of soul. You’re learning to be your own guide and your own emotional anchor. That’s powerful.

[bjlipss]

— until the quiet finds you;

༉‧₊˚. synopsis: you’re 24, a single mom just trying to survive off of temporary jobs—until a chance elevator ride with gojo satoru, the too-charming ceo of gojo industries, shifts everything. what starts as coffee and kindness slowly turns into something real. but when you’ve spent the last 2 years in survival mode, learning to trust might be the hardest thing of all.

contents: ceo!gojo x single mom!reader, slow burn-ish, slice of life maybe? fluff, some angst, trust issues ig, very exhausted reader, eventual smut, office setting, i will add warnings as the story goes on! current word count: 9,6k. header art: @_3aem on X.

miyan’s notes: i’m so sorry for the long wait!!! i hope you guys enjoy this :))

chapter 1 <- chapter 2 -> chapter 3

mornings start early.

too early, if you’re being honest.

tomo wakes up around five-thirty these days—grumpy, half-hungry, and somehow full of energy despite not sleeping through the night. it’s a cruel magic, the way babies defy exhaustion with wide eyes and flailing limbs, like they’re immune to the laws of physics.

you’ve mastered the art of one-handed bottle prepping and diaper changes in the dark. your body moves on autopilot now: shuffle to the kitchenette, warm the bottle while bouncing tomo on your hip, whisper soothing nonsense into his ear even though your eyes are barely open. the floorboards creak like they’re complaining. the fridge hums. the radiator clicks. it’s a tired symphony you’ve come to know by heart.

by six, you’re both on the floor, surrounded by plastic stacking rings, a half-eaten teething cracker, and the giraffe tomo loves chewing on more than any pacifier you’ve ever bought. the news plays low in the background, not that you’re listening. it’s just noise—something to fill the quiet and keep your mind from spiraling.

your apartment is small. one room that serves as bedroom, nursery, and living space all at once. the kitchenette is barely a step away from the foot of your mattress. the bathroom door doesn’t close all the way unless you jiggle it just right. there’s a crack in the ceiling you’ve learned to stop noticing, and the window sticks if you try to open it too fast. the wallpaper near the radiator is peeling like sunburn.

but it’s yours. it’s warm. it’s safe.

barely paid for, held together with goodwill and duct tape, but clean enough that you can pretend. pretend this isn’t the furthest you’ve ever felt from the version of yourself you used to be.

tomo babbles through most of his morning bottle, half-asleep in your lap, his tiny fingers tangled in the fabric of your stretched-out cardigan. sometimes you just sit there like that, still and quiet, the two of you curled up on the thin rug, watching the light crawl through the blinds while the rest of the world wakes up without you.

this morning is no different.

except it is.

because today marks a week since your temporary shift at gojo industries.

a week since the elevator. the accidental coffee date. the skyline office. him.

you’ve stared at that business card more times than you’d like to admit. it lives on the windowsill now, right beside the sad little basil plant that’s somehow hanging on by a thread—much like you. you water it out of habit, even though the leaves are already curling. something about it makes you feel less like you’re failing. like maybe hope is still salvageable.

his number is written on the card in looping, swooping handwriting. only if you say yes, he’d said.

you’re not.

you don’t think you are.

but every day, that little white card weighs heavier in your chest. the possibility of something better. something different. terrifying and fragile and real.

gojo satoru offering you a job felt like something out of someone else’s story. not yours. someone with options. someone with time. someone without a baby strapped to their chest and formula stains on their shirt and a bank account that makes your stomach hurt to look at.

and yet his voice keeps echoing in your mind.

you shouldn’t have to choose between your kid and your career.

you wish that didn’t make you want to cry.

you think about the day everything changed.

you were sitting in your old boss’s office, clutching a printout of your blood test results with fingers that wouldn’t stop shaking. the numbers were clear. the double lines were real. and in that moment, the version of you that had worked late nights, prepped pitch decks, graduated with honors, mapped out five-year plans—she disappeared.

your ex didn’t stick around long. he panicked. said all the right wrong things. “it’s not the right time.” “we’re too young.” “you’ll ruin your future.” then he ghosted, like a bad memory you still dream about.

your mother didn’t react much better.

she stared at you like you were an alien. like she didn’t know the girl sitting in front of her. you can still hear her voice—tight, cold, disappointed.

“you had potential.”

“you could’ve done something with your life.”

“don’t expect me to clean up after your mess.”

you chose tomo anyway.

and that choice cost you nearly everything.

she stopped calling. stopped asking. months passed in silence. and when the silence finally broke, her voice was always clipped, edged with guilt and bitterness. she never apologized. never asked if you were okay. just called occasionally, like she wanted to check if you were still struggling.

today, the phone buzzes on the counter like it knows.

you glance at the screen. mom.

you hesitate. but you answer.

“hello?”

“so,” she says, immediately, “did you find another temp job yet?”

no hello. no warmth. no curiosity about her grandson.

just judgment in the shape of a question.

your jaw tightens. “i’m figuring it out.”

a pause.

“you know, if you’d just moved back in with us when i asked, you wouldn’t be scraping by in a shoebox. but no, you always have to be so independent.”

tomo stirs in your lap, sensing the shift in your energy. you press a hand to his back, trying to stay calm.

“i’m doing the best i can.”

“well, your best clearly isn’t good enough if you’re still struggling. maybe if you’d listened to me before getting involved with that deadbeat—”

you hang up.

not intentionally. not dramatically. just… automatically.

your hand moves faster than your brain.

the silence afterward is deafening. it fills your ears, your chest, your throat. you press your lips together. hard. try to blink the heat out of your eyes.

tomo reaches up. his hand brushes your cheek.

and you break.

quietly. completely.

because this isn’t just about a phone call. it’s about every time you’ve felt like a disappointment. every time someone looked at you and only saw a mistake. every time you told yourself this is enough, even when it wasn’t.

you hold tomo close. breathe him in. he smells like oatmeal and baby soap and home. he looks up at you with those big, blinking eyes like you are his whole world.

and maybe that’s what makes your hand move.

you reach for your phone. pull the business card off the sill. trace your thumb across his name.

gojo satoru.

you open your messages.

type. delete. type again.

your fingers are trembling.

then, finally, you hit send:

hi. it’s me.

i’ve been thinking.

can we talk?

you stare at the message. the little “delivered” icon pops up. the screen goes still.

tomo gurgles softly, gnawing on his fingers like he knows something’s shifted.

you exhale slowly. your heart is pounding.

you don’t know if this is the right decision. you also don’t expect an immediate reply.

gojo satoru strikes you as the kind of man who’s constantly busy—meetings and contracts and boardrooms with floor-to-ceiling windows. the kind of man who probably has three phones, all managed by assistants in suits sharper than your best kitchen knife. the kind of man who silences his personal messages after a certain hour because nothing is ever that urgent. who leaves people on read because he can. because that’s what powerful people do.

and you’re not anyone important. you’re a temp who spilled coffee on her blouse and once cried in the break room over an expired granola bar.

so when your phone buzzes—less than two minutes after you hit send—your breath stutters.

come by the office tomorrow.

10 a.m.

i’ll be waiting.

no emoji. no fluff. no awkward exclamation point to soften the impact.

just quiet, grounded certainty.

like he already knew you’d say yes.

like this was never a gamble to begin with.

you stare at the message, rereading it so many times it starts to blur. your thumb hovers over the screen, like you might reply. like you might ask, are you sure? but your heart is already racing, too fast, too loud. you can hear it in your ears.

tomo babbles beside you, kicking his chubby legs on the couch cushions and patting your knee like he’s trying to get your attention. like he can feel the shift in the air. the electric current in your chest.

“baby,” you whisper, eyes still on the screen, “what are we doing?”

he offers you a gummy, two-toothed smile in response. utterly unbothered. utterly safe.

ten a.m.

you don’t even have clean dress pants.

panic clicks in like a switch.

you check the time—already past seven—and scramble to your feet. tomo lets out a squawk of protest as you scoop him up and carry him to the bouncer, apologizing softly as you buckle him in. he’s tired, cranky, but mercifully distracted by the blinking toy lights and the soft jingle of the hanging elephant.

you dart to your closet—a shallow thing wedged into the wall, the sliding door forever off-track—and rifle through hangers with increasing despair.

you pull out your nicest blouse. cream-colored, once. now vaguely off-white, with a few suspicious stains near the cuff and a hem that’s coming undone. still, it’s the only one without a cartoon character or formula spit-up on it, so it wins by default. you toss it onto the bed. dig out the one pair of black pants you haven’t worn to death, and hold them up with a silent prayer. they might still fit.

your stomach clenches.

you turn on the iron—cheap, secondhand, missing the water cap—and lay the blouse flat on a towel. the fabric hisses under the heat. it smells faintly of lavender detergent and old stress. you imagine walking into that skyscraper tomorrow, the doors opening with a soft chime, gojo standing there in his tailored suit, smiling like this is all perfectly normal.

and you—creased blouse, worn shoes, baby bag slung over one shoulder—walking toward him like you belong.

you don’t. not really. but maybe you want to.

and that want is dangerous.

you glance over at the business card on your windowsill again, resting beneath your sad little basil plant that’s more stem than leaves. it’s been there all week—untouched, waiting, like it knew you’d cave eventually.

you didn’t text him because you were ready.

you texted him because you were tired.

tired of shrinking. of pretending. of feeling like the world is slipping through your fingers while you juggle formula prices and unpaid bills and the lingering voice of your mother in your head.

you smooth the blouse down with your palm and stare at the makeshift outfit on your mattress.

it’s not perfect. it’s not polished or expensive or anything that screams “CEO material.” but it’s yours and it’s important.

your chest tightens in a way that’s hard to explain. not panic. not dread. just the slow, aching stretch of something you haven’t let yourself feel in a long time:

hope.

not the glittery, unrealistic kind.

but the quiet, stubborn version. the kind that crawls into your lungs when you let your guard down for half a second. the kind that whispers, maybe this time it’s different.

maybe this time, someone actually means it.

you scoop tomo into your arms. press a kiss to his soft, downy hair.

“we’ve got somewhere to be tomorrow,” you murmur.

he yawns, already half-asleep.

you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, blouse cooling behind you, and stare at gojo’s message again.

10 a.m.

you don’t know what’s waiting on the other side of that elevator.

but you’ll be there.

and for the first time in what feels like forever—

you don’t feel alone walking toward it.

you step into the lobby of gojo industries at 9:56.

the security guard waves you through this time without a second glance. someone must’ve cleared your name.

you glance down at yourself once more. sweater neat. hair in place. tomo fast asleep in his carrier, his little nose pressed against your collarbone. you adjust the strap on your shoulder and exhale.

the elevator ride feels faster than last time.

you keep one hand against the cool metal of the wall and the other cradled under tomo’s bottom, grounding yourself with his soft, rhythmic breathing. you’re not sure what to expect when the doors open.

but you don’t expect him to be standing right there.

no assistant. no buffer. just gojo, leaning casually against the frame of his office doorway in a dark slate suit and a crisp white shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up. he’s looking at his phone until the soft ding draws his eyes up—and when he sees you, he smiles.

not the cocky grin you’ve seen before.

something gentler.

welcoming.

“you came,” he says simply.

you nod, a little breathless. “i said i would.”

“yeah, but people say a lot of things.” his gaze drops briefly to tomo, then back up. “you look good.”

you huff a laugh. “i feel like a walking spit-up rag.”

he steps aside, gesturing for you to come in. “then you wear it well.”

you follow him into the office.

the space is just as pristine as you remember—sunlight spilling through the windows, soft leather couches, a faint scent of something expensive and citrusy hanging in the air. it should feel intimidating.

but it doesn’t.

maybe because he doesn’t make it feel that way.

“sit wherever you want,” he says. “can i get you anything? water? tea? another overpriced pastry?”

you blink. “…you remembered.”

“how could i forget? you were seconds away from stabbing me with a plastic fork.”

you snort, easing down onto the couch and shifting tomo slightly. he stirs but doesn’t wake. gojo sits across from you, legs crossed, that same calm expression on his face.

“i’m glad you texted,” he says.

you nod slowly. “i wasn’t sure if i should.”

“you should’ve.” he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “and i’m not just saying that to be polite.”

you study him. his tone, his posture, his eyes.

he’s serious.

“i’m not just saying that to be polite,” he says again, gaze steady.

you believe him. and that’s maybe the strangest part of all this—how easy it is to believe him. you’re used to sugarcoated pity, to people who speak in soft tones and wide eyes, offering hollow compliments as if they’re handing out charity. but with gojo, there’s none of that. just… honesty.

you look down at tomo, curled safe against you, and then back at him.

“so,” you say cautiously, “what exactly does ‘come by the office’ mean?”

he grins, leans back into the couch. “well, that depends. are you here because you’re curious, or are you here because you’re ready?”

you frown a little. “i’m here because i’m desperate.”

“wrong answer,” he replies, shaking his head. “try again.”

you blink. “excuse me?”

“you’re not here because you’re desperate. you’re here because you’re smart. because you’ve done the math. because you know you’re capable and tired of pretending that barely scraping by is some noble sacrifice.” he tilts his head. “desperation didn’t get you here. you did.”

you sit there, stunned.

“…that was weirdly motivational.”

“i’ll take that as a compliment.” he claps his hands once, like he’s shifting into business mode. “okay. here’s what i’m offering.”

your breath catches.

“there’s an open position in operations. mid-level, but room to grow. salary’s decent. benefits are better. part of your contract would include an in-office childcare stipend—either on-site or third-party, depending on what makes you more comfortable. i don’t want you worrying about coverage. i want you here.”

“what would i… be doing?”

“project tracking. internal comms. streamlining client onboarding. we’ve got systems in place, but they’re clunky. we need someone who can translate chaos into clarity. from what i’ve read about you—and what i’ve seen—you’re built for that.”

you stare at him.

he says it so matter-of-factly. like this isn’t some massive life change. like he’s not throwing you a rope in the middle of the ocean.

“gojo—”

“satoru,” he corrects gently. “you can call me satoru.”

“okay, satoru…” you exhale slowly. “i haven’t done this in a long time. i’m… rusty.”

“so oil the hinges,” he says. “you’re allowed to learn. you’re allowed to be human. hell, i’m winging half of what i do on any given day. we all are.”

your lips twitch into the smallest smile.

“i haven’t even updated my resume in years.”

“don’t care. i’ve already seen it.”

“…i don’t have a suit.”

“neither do half the engineers here. you’ll be fine.”

you look down, suddenly blinking back tears. you don’t even know why—nothing he’s said is new. he offered this before. said all of it, more or less. but hearing it again, spoken so clearly, with no condescension, no caveats—it hits different.

because he doesn’t just believe in your potential.

he treats it like a fact.

“you okay?” he asks, voice softer now.

you nod, throat tight. “yeah. just… processing.”

“that’s fair.”

a long pause stretches between you.

outside, the city glows gold and glass, the skyline catching every shard of morning sun.

“you don’t have to decide today,” he says gently. “you don’t owe me anything. this offer doesn’t expire.”

you nod again. then, after a beat: “you always this generous with your temps?”

he shrugs. “only the ones who make me laugh and threaten me with forks.”

you laugh, watery and real.

“okay,” you whisper. “okay. i’ll think about it.”

he smiles.

and something in you—something small and scared—starts to breathe again.

“can i ask you something?” you say quietly, after the laughter fades.

gojo’s still watching you—relaxed, open, sleeves rolled up, tie askew like he’s not the ceo of anything. like he’s just… someone. someone who happened to be in the elevator at the right time.

he nods. “sure.”

“why me?”

he doesn’t look surprised by the question. if anything, it seems like he’s been waiting for it.

“because you didn’t flinch,” he says simply.

you frown. “what do you mean?”

“the elevator. the first day. tomo crying. the phones blowing up. half the execs acting like you didn’t exist—and you just handled it. no panic, no fake smiles. just you, doing what needed to be done.” he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “most people would’ve crumbled. you didn’t.”

you look down at your lap, cheeks hot.

“i didn’t really have a choice.”

“you still could’ve walked away.”

“yeah, well.” you adjust tomo gently in your arms. “he deserves better.”

gojo smiles, slow and thoughtful. “so do you.”

those three words settle heavy in your chest—simple, but seismic.

“i think you’ve been underestimated your whole life,” he continues. “and now you’re doing the same to yourself. i’m not offering you a favor. i’m offering you a damn seat at the table. because you’ve earned it. even if no one ever told you that before.”

you blink fast, because now your eyes are stinging.

you’re so tired of fighting for space. so tired of squeezing yourself smaller, of pretending you don’t want more than survival. you forgot what it even felt like to have someone see you.

and now—this.

him.

“i don’t know if i’ll be good at it,” you say honestly.

gojo tilts his head, then grins. “so what? that’s what training is for. you’re not a robot. you’re not supposed to be perfect.”

“i just… i’m scared,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “what if i mess it up?”

he doesn’t even hesitate. “then you try again.”

a beat.

“i’ll make mistakes.”

“great. so does everyone.”

“i might cry in the bathroom.”

“we’ve got tissues. very soft ones.”

you huff a laugh, wiping at your eyes.

“you’re really not letting me talk myself out of this, huh?”

“nope,” he says, popping the p. “not a chance.”

you breathe, deep and slow. then again.

tomo stirs in your arms, his little face smushing into your chest, a soft snuffle escaping him. instinctively, you run a soothing hand along his back, and the motion calms you, too.

“okay,” you say, finally. “i’ll take the job.”

gojo doesn’t cheer. doesn’t fist-pump or throw confetti. he just smiles—warm, genuine, and full of something you can’t quite name.

“good,” he says, voice softer now. “i was hoping you’d say that.”

another silence settles between you. this one gentler. easier.

you feel it now—that strange, tentative hope curling inside your ribs.

“i’ll email you the contract this afternoon,” gojo says as he stands. “start date’s flexible, but i’d love to get you onboard by next week. sound good?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “that sounds… really good.”

you shift tomo and rise slowly, adjusting the strap across your shoulder. he walks you to the door, hands in his pockets.

“i mean it,” he says one last time. “whatever you need—childcare, flexibility, mentorship—ask. you’re not doing this alone.”

you nod, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from crying again.

“thank you,” you whisper.

he holds your gaze a moment longer, then smiles, just a little crooked.

“you’re welcome.”

──────────────────────

you wake before your alarm.

not because tomo stirs—miraculously, he’s still asleep—but because your body is brimming with something close to anticipation. not quite excitement. not quite dread. somewhere in the middle. like standing at the edge of a cold pool, toes skimming the surface, heart hammering.

you watch him for a few seconds—your son, curled like a little comma under his blanket, his mouth slack with sleep. it’s rare to catch him this still. your phone says 5:38 a.m., but you already know you won’t fall back asleep.

today’s your first day.

you don’t let yourself overthink it. you can’t.

you just move through the motions—bottle, diaper, quiet lullabies hummed through trembling lips. you pull on the outfit you ironed last night (twice, just to be sure). hair pinned, blouse tucked. cheap drugstore concealer dabbed under tired eyes. you look… okay. passable. maybe even competent, if no one looks too close.

you drop tomo off with the woman from down the hall—mrs. suzuki, kind-eyed and no-nonsense, who agreed to help watch him for a few hours while you figure out the new schedule. she pats your shoulder and tells you to “go get ‘em, tiger,” which is strange coming from someone old enough to be your grandmother. but you smile anyway.

your bus is late, of course.

and then it’s crowded.

and then a man steps on your foot and doesn’t apologize.

by the time you reach gojo industries, your nerves are twisted tight in your chest, coiled like piano wire.

you recognize the lobby immediately—same pristine floors, same enormous glass windows spilling light in from every direction. same elevator.

you press the button with a shaky breath.

this time, it opens right away.

no crying babies. no spilled coffee. just the quiet whir of movement and your reflection in the mirrored walls, staring back at you like she’s still not sure this is real.

the 27th floor is sleek and intimidating. desks arranged in polished rows, computer monitors blinking to life. the sound of typing, soft chatter, the smell of fresh espresso. people move with purpose, confident and dressed like they know what they’re doing.

you do not feel like you know what you’re doing.

but you walk forward anyway.

“you must be our new admin,” a voice says cheerfully from a nearby desk.

you glance over. a woman—probably mid-thirties, stylish, smart eyes—rises and offers you a smile and a handshake.

“i’m rika. i work in project development. gojo told me to expect you.”

you nod, fumbling briefly before managing a proper handshake. “nice to meet you.”

“he’s in his office,” she says. “go on in. don’t worry—he’s actually on time today, which is a miracle.”

you give a nervous laugh and thank her, crossing the floor with stiff steps. the glass door bears his name in gold letters—GOJO SATORU, CEO—and your reflection wavers as you lift a hand to knock.

“come in,” he calls, already grinning as you open the door.

he’s standing by the window, suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands in his pockets. casual. like he’s been waiting.

“you came,” he says, like he didn’t expect anything else.

you nod, closing the door behind you.

“i did.”

“and you’re still standing. impressive.”

“barely,” you admit, and that earns a warm chuckle.

“well,” he gestures to the empty seat across from his desk. “welcome to your first day. let’s make it a good one.”

—

he starts simple.

“i’m not throwing you into the deep end,” he says, sliding a stack of neatly printed documents across the desk. “no terrifying spreadsheets. no corporate jargon. not yet, anyway.”

you glance down at them. a list of contacts. an office map. a gentle breakdown of your responsibilities in plain, human language.

“you’ll be assisting rika mostly,” he explains, leaning back in his chair with a lazy sort of ease. “she runs project development and needs someone organized, fast-thinking, and impossible to intimidate.” he grins. “you’ve survived parenthood and public transit—i think you qualify.”

you huff a breath of laughter, nerves dissolving just a little. “what exactly does assisting her involve?”

“scheduling, emails, helping prepare reports, making sure our more chaotic team members don’t miss deadlines.” he pauses. “also, making sure i remember to eat lunch.”

you blink.

“i’m serious,” he says, holding up a hand. “rika tried. she gave up after a month.”

you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “so i’m… part-time executive babysitter?”

“exactly.” he flashes you a thumbs-up. “you’re gonna be great.”

—

the first hour is mostly learning names. faces. passwords. where the emergency coffee stash is kept. your desk is tucked near the back corner—small, but sunlit, with a decent chair and a drawer that doesn’t stick. someone left a little sticky note on the monitor that says “welcome!” in loopy handwriting. you suspect rika.

it’s… quiet. peaceful. structured.

your fingers move cautiously over the keyboard as you set up your email. every so often, someone walks by with a nod or a friendly smile, but no one overwhelms you. rika checks in once with a smooth, “doing okay?” and offers you half a croissant from the breakroom.

by noon, you’ve sent your first batch of confirmation emails and helped organize a messy meeting schedule. nothing exploded. no one yelled. no one looked at you like you didn’t belong.

that alone feels monumental.

you eat lunch by the window—just a sad little sandwich from home, but it tastes better than usual. there’s a sense of calm in your chest you haven’t felt in… months.

and just as you’re finishing, someone taps on your desk.

“you didn’t remind me to eat,” gojo says, holding up his own sad little bento with an exaggerated pout. “you’re already failing me.”

you give him a flat look. “you’ve been in meetings since nine.”

“excuses, excuses.”

but he’s teasing, light and warm, and you find yourself rolling your eyes in a way you haven’t in a long time.

“how’s day one?” he asks after a beat.

you hesitate, then tell the truth. “better than i expected.”

he nods. “you’ll settle in fast. just don’t be afraid to ask questions. or tell me if someone gives you trouble. or if you need time for tomo. that’s not negotiable.”

the mention of your son tugs something deep in your chest.

“…thank you.”

“don’t mention it.” his voice drops, just a touch.

and then he walks off, humming to himself, leaving you blinking at the space he left behind.

—

by late afternoon, your fingers ache a little, but it’s the good kind of tired—earned and real. you check your phone. mrs. suzuki sent a picture of tomo gnawing on a rattle, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. your heart stutters.

you text her a thank-you. linger on the photo for a few seconds. then gently set the phone aside and return to your screen.

you’re not just surviving today.

you’re working.

you’re rebuilding.

you’re here.

──────────────────────

you make it to five o’clock without breaking anything. without crying, freezing up, or doubting your right to be here.

that, in itself, feels like a small miracle.

you pack up slowly—careful, quiet, your hands moving on autopilot as your brain replays the day like a reel. names and notes and little victories. no disasters. no one looking at you like you’re fragile or temporary.

just… steady, real work.

you’re slipping your bag over your shoulder when you hear his voice.

“heading out?”

you glance up, startled. gojo’s leaning against the nearest cubicle wall, jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loose around his neck. the office has mostly cleared, the usual hum of chatter and clacking keys now faded into evening stillness.

“yeah,” you say, adjusting your strap. “just—finishing up.”

he nods, eyes skimming over you—sharp, but not in a way that makes you nervous. just observant. curious.

“you taking the train?”

you blink. “um. yeah.”

a pause.

then, casually: “let me give you a ride.”

you stare at him. “what?”

he shrugs. “i’ve got my car downstairs. you’ve had a long first day. let me drive you.”

“you really don’t have to—”

“i know.” he smiles, boyish and light, like it’s no big deal. “but i want to.”

you hesitate. not because you don’t trust him—surprisingly, impossibly, you are more inclined to do rather than not—but because it’s been so long since someone offered without expecting something in return.

you grip your bag a little tighter. “it’s kind of out of the way…”

“lucky for you,” he says, already turning toward the elevator, “i’m rich and have no concept of time or fuel efficiency.”

you snort and something in his expression softens, like he’s glad he made you laugh.

“you sure?” you ask again.

“deadly.”

so you follow him.

his car is sleek, smooth, dark inside and out. it smells like leather and mint gum and something expensive you can’t name. the stereo’s turned down low—some mellow instrumental track pulsing like background noise.

he drives like he talks. relaxed. confident. one hand on the wheel, the other draped across his knee.

for a while, it’s quiet. the good kind. you watch the city roll by, neon signs blurring past. he doesn’t fill the silence, doesn’t ask questions he knows you’re too tired to answer. he just lets it be.

after a while, he glances over. “you hungry?”

“a little,” you admit. “but i’ve got leftovers at home.”

“hm.” he taps the wheel. “well, if you ever want something better than sad fridge rice, i know a great takeout place.”

“is this part of the job?”

“mandatory,” he says solemnly. “nobody works well when they’re underfed and miserable.”

you smile again—smaller this time, but real. “noted.”

he pulls up in front of your building without asking for directions. you don’t know why that doesn’t surprise you.

you glance up at your window. the light is still on.

“thanks,” you say softly. “for the ride. for… everything.”

he meets your eyes, one arm still slung over the back of his seat. “you’re welcome.”

you open the door, step out. the air is cooler now. crisper.

before you shut the door, he says—like it’s nothing, like it’s everything—“text me when you get inside.”

your breath catches.

you nod.

and upstairs, with tomo curled against your chest and the world finally quiet again, you stare at your phone for a long moment before texting back:

home. thank you again.

the reply comes seconds later.

anytime.

taglist: @nina-from-317 @theanaoevre @poopooindamouf @asxprse @satorusinfinityy @lost-but-done-for-you @changbinsalonsblog @satorupied @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @kanekisheart @ssetsuka @auroras-pleasures @bexxli (comment or dm me if ya wanna be added)

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i’ll make you lose

pairing: lee felix x reader

word count: 10.6k

summary: you wanted to tease your cute nerdy tutor. how could you not? he looked like he short circuited whenever you both made eye contact. well, as it turns out, untouched nerds do it best.

tags: flustered felix. university au. implied friends to lovers. flirting, teasing. unprotected sex, dry humping, oral (f recieving). enjoy

this is my longest work yet. safe to say i got carried away lol.

You sat at the long, rectangular desk in the lecture hall, your fingers lightly tapping against the surface as the professor’s voice floated in the background. Your mind wandered, the jumble of equations and formulas in front of you blurring into abstract shapes. The announcement that your professor had just made, however, cut through the fog in your thoughts, and it was only then that the full meaning of their words sank in.

Felix. Lee Felix.

He was going to be your tutor. You had heard the rumors. Felix was brilliant. His grades were flawless, and his understanding of the material was unparalleled. He had the kind of intellect that earned him respect from professors and peers alike. The kind of intellect that made people expect perfection from him in everything he did.

But as much as Felix was known for his academic prowess, there was another side to him that never failed to catch your attention. He had this nerdy charm that was impossible to ignore. The way his tousled hair always seemed to fall into his eyes no matter how much he tried to push it back, the way his shy smile made him look both endearing and just a little out of place in the sea of confident university students. He was smart, yes, but there was something almost adorably awkward about him that always made you want to push his buttons.

“Felix will meet you in the library after class,” the professor continued, oblivious to the mischief stirring in your mind. “He is more than capable of helping you grasp these concepts, so please do not hesitate to reach out if you need assistance.”

You had to bite back the grin threatening to spread across your face. Felix would be your tutor? Oh, you could already imagine how it would go. You would be sitting there in the quiet, academic setting of the library, surrounded by endless shelves of books, and all you would need to do was drop a few playful comments and watch him squirm. Felix was too polite, too aware of how smart he was, and you knew that his discomfort would only make him more adorable.

He would try so hard to keep the focus on the subject, to make sure you understood every little detail. But you? You would make it impossible for him to stay composed. You could already hear his voice wavering, see the flush creeping up his neck when your teasing got to him.

You were going to enjoy every second of it.

With a sly grin, you gathered your things and headed out of class. Your mind was already turning, plotting exactly how to push his buttons in all the right ways. He was going to be your tutor, but that didn’t mean you were unallowed have a little fun while you learned, right?

The library was, as usual, a quiet sanctuary, with the scent of paper and ink filling the air as students hunched over their textbooks. Your ears were filled with the distant clicking of keyboard keys as other students desperately attempted to finish their assignments on time. You found an empty table by the window, settled into a chair, and waited. Your heart beat a little faster than usual, not from nerves, but from the anticipation of what was about to unfold. You were going to have Felix all to yourself, and the idea was enough to make you smile to yourself, just a little.

Minutes later, Felix entered, his presence immediately drawing your attention. He had a large backpack slung over one shoulder, and his eyes scanned the room, moving quickly over the rows of tables. When his line of sight finally landed on you, he froze, looking just a little startled, like he hadn’t expected you to be so... ready.

“Hi,” he said, his voice soft and careful as he made his way over. “Sorry I’m late, I—uh—had to finish something for another class.”

You nodded slowly, watching him as he set his things down on the table, arranging them with a precision that made you wonder how long he had spent perfecting the art of being neat. “No problem,” you said, your voice light, casual. “I was just looking forward to some... expert tutoring.”

Felix blinked at you, a faint frown tugging at the corner of his lips. He pushed his glasses up his nose, his fingers fumbling with the straps of his bag. “I—I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I just know the material,” he said quickly, glancing down at his notes, avoiding your sharp eyes.

You leaned forward just slightly, watching him. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Felix. They say you have all the answers.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, eyes flickering nervously as he finally looked at you, a little too long this time. “Well... I try to. But, um... math is... you know, it’s not—uh—difficult once you understand it. It’s not subjective.” He trailed off, almost as if he was trying to convince himself more than you.

You tilted your head, your smile widening just a fraction. “Hmm... so you are saying it is easy for you?”

Felix looked like he might crumble under the weight of your gaze. His fingers twitched, reaching for his pencil as if to busy himself, but his hand stopped just shy of it, his posture growing even more tense. “It’s... I mean, it’s not hard. Once you—”

“Once you focus,” you interrupted, your voice casual, but there was an undercurrent of something more. “And make sure your student focuses too, right?”

Felix cleared his throat, visibly flustered now. He nodded rapidly. “Yes, yes, exactly. If we just focus, it’s really easy to get through it.” His voice wavered slightly, but he quickly recovered, trying to mask the nervousness that was slowly creeping in. “So, um... let’s get started with this first problem. It’s all about understanding the process.”

You rested your chin in your hand, leaning slightly forward again. “Of course. But... I'm curious. What do you do in your free time, Felix? When you’re not, you know, tutoring, being cute, and getting perfect grades?”

Felix blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I... uh...” He hesitated, his face turning a deeper shade of pink. “I just... I like to study more. Or... play some video games. Just to relax.”

You grinned, sensing the opportunity for more teasing. “Video games, huh? That’s... interesting. I would have never pegged you as the type.”

Felix opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly unsure how to respond. His fingers drummed nervously on the desk, and you could see the tiny tremble in his hand. “I—uh—it’s just a hobby,” he said, the words coming out much faster than he intended. “It helps me unwind.”

“Mmm,” you murmured, eyes glinting. “I can imagine. You must get really into it. I bet you lose track of time... just focusing on the game.”

Felix was trying so hard not to react, but it was obvious he was flustered. His shoulders were tight, his cheeks flushed, and he avoided looking at you for a moment. “I mean, yeah... sometimes. But that’s not the point right now,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.

You leaned back, still smiling. “No, of course not. You’re here to tutor me. I get it.”

But the way his voice cracked slightly when he spoke—that was definitely the point.

Felix took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. His fingers slid over his notebook as he adjusted his glasses again, the motion a bit more frantic this time. The uncertainty was still there, evident in the way his shoulders stiffened as he tried to get his thoughts together. He focused on the material, but it was clear that the presence in front of him made it harder to stay on track.

“Alright,” he began, his voice more confident than before, though there was a slight edge to it. “This problem is about differential equations. First, we isolate the variable—”

You interrupted him, your voice light and teasing. “Mm, sure, but are you sure you want to go straight into all that? I mean, you’re looking awfully cute trying to explain this.”

Felix froze mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat. His hand, still gripping his pencil, trembled slightly. He glanced up at you, flustered. “I... I’m just trying to make sure you get it.” His voice was tight, but there was an unmistakable vulnerability to it, like he was unsure whether you were joking or being serious.

You leaned back in your chair, letting your eyes trace over his flustered expression. “I know, I know. You’re just so diligent,” you said with a smirk, your inspective eyes never leaving his face. “It’s kinda adorable, to be honest.”

Felix’s cheeks turned a shade darker. He cleared his throat, awkwardly glancing at the notebook, his focus now split between the problem in front of him and the teasing grin on your face. “Okay, well,” he stammered, his voice faltering. “Let’s just get through this first part, okay? The first thing you do is... uh, you isolate the variable, and then...”

“You know,” you interrupted again, raising an eyebrow, “you’re really good at this. I don’t even need to take notes. I’ll just watch you talk about math. You’re cute when you get all serious.”

Felix’s eyes darted up to meet yours, then quickly flicked back down, his face growing hotter. “I—uh—I think it’s better if you take notes. You’ll remember it better that way.”

You grinned, enjoying how much you were making him squirm. “Oh, but it’s more fun this way. You’re cute when you’re flustered. Besides,” you leaned forward slightly, “I think I’d rather pay attention to you than whatever’s on the page.”

Felix opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He swallowed thickly, his fingers nervously tapping the pencil against the desk. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on the equations now, not when you were looking at him like that. “I... I don’t think that’s the best idea,” he finally managed, his voice sounding almost strained. “We need to focus.”

“Focus, huh?” you mused, eyes sparkling. “Well, I’m sure I could focus... if you weren’t so intriguing.”

He was clearly struggling to maintain his composure. His gaze flickered between his notes and you, like he was unable to decide which was more important. “I—I’m trying to stay on track here,” he said, voice a little more forceful this time, though it was still laced with uncertainty. “But, uh... just, just try to take notes. Please?”

You smiled, leaning back in your chair with a teasing glint in your eye. “Alright, alright, Felix. You’re the boss. But I’ll admit, it’s hard to take notes when my tutor is so... distracting.”

Felix’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around his pencil. “I—uh—I’m not trying to distract you. I just... I want you to understand this,” he said quickly, his tone a little more defensive now.

You nodded slowly, your expression shifting just enough to let him know you were still in control of the situation. “Sure, Felix. Go ahead,” you said, your voice almost too sweet, too calm. “I’ll listen, I promise.”

But there was no mistaking the underlying amusement in your voice, the way you were watching him with that knowing smile, making it almost impossible for him to keep his focus. Felix’s pencil shook slightly as he attempted to continue, but his words came out stilted and unsure. “Okay, so... when you—uh, when you solve for the variable, you—”

You leaned forward just a little, your voice soft but pointed. “You’re so good at this, Felix. Really. But I’ve got to wonder...” You let the words trail off, watching the way he stiffened under your gaze. “Do you get this flustered all the time? Or is it just me?”

Felix froze, his face turning even redder as he quickly tried to look away. “I’m—uh—I’m not flustered,” he muttered, but his voice was weak, lacking the usual certainty.

For the first time, you saw a flicker of something else in his eyes—an edge, maybe, or a challenge. His hand gripped his pencil more firmly as he looked down at the page, his voice quieter but still undeniably more confident. “I can focus,” he said, his tone sharper than before. “Let’s just... finish this.”

“Alright,” you said, your voice softer now, almost intrigued. “Let’s finish it, then.”

“Okay,” he began again, though his voice was steadier than before, still tinged with that edge of determination. “Let’s go over it again. After we’ve isolated the variable, you need to—”

You interrupted him again, this time leaning forward, just slightly. “Felix,” you said, your tone laced with playful mischief, “do you always look this serious when you’re teaching? I mean, you’re making me think you have a secret life as a super serious tutor.”

Felix blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in your tone. He adjusted his glasses with a nervous gesture, but this time, the flush creeping up his neck wasn’t as obvious. “I—I’m just trying to make sure you understand,” he said, though there was an almost defensive quality in his voice now. “It’s not easy to explain this stuff if you’re distracted.”

You raised an eyebrow, letting a small smirk play on your lips. “Distracted? Me?” you asked, feigning innocence. “I’m completely focused on you, Felix. But you know, your whole ‘serious tutor’ vibe is... kinda working for me. It’s almost too cute.”

Felix’s eyes flicked to you, then quickly away, a small breath escaping his lips. His hands clenched around the pencil, a slight tremor running through him. “It’s not cute,” he said quickly, his voice sounding a little more forced now. “This is important. I need you to take this seriously.”

“Of course, Felix,” you purred, leaning back in your chair as you watched the way he shifted in his seat. “I am very serious. I’m just wondering... do you always get this uptight when you talk to girls? Or is it just me that gets under your skin?”

Felix’s eyes widened, a flicker of something almost daring in his eye before he quickly looked back down at his notes. The flush deepened in his cheeks, but there was a shift in his posture—a subtle but noticeable one. “I’m not uptight,” he said firmly, though the force behind his words caught you by surprise. “I’m just focused on making sure you understand the content. That’s all.”

You smiled knowingly, pushing your luck a little further. “Hmm, is that what it is? You’re not uptight at all? Because it sure looks like I’m getting to you, Felix.”

Felix’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might snap at you. But then, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his fingers loosening their grip on the pencil. “It’s just that... I know this stuff inside and out,” he said, his tone a little quieter but still confident. “I don’t want you to struggle with it, okay?”

You tilted your head, your smile softer now, though your eyes never left his. “I’m sure you don’t want me to struggle,” you said, your voice low, “but maybe... just maybe... you’re a little more interested in making me struggle in other ways.”

Felix’s face flushed, his expression faltering for a split second before he regained his composure. His gaze flicked to yours again, but this time, it lingered a fraction longer than before. “I... that’s not what I meant,” he stammered, his voice betraying him. “I just... want you to do well. Is that so hard to believe?”

You smirked, enjoying the way he was floundering just a bit. “No, Felix. It’s not hard to believe at all,” you said, your voice dripping with amusement. “I just find it interesting that you’re so focused on me doing well. What about you? You’re doing a great job. I’d say you're pretty good at this whole tutoring thing.”

Felix shifted, clearly flustered. His usual calm demeanor was beginning to crack, and he was no longer avoiding your line of sight. The hesitation was still there, but it was starting to feel like he wasn’t as afraid to face you anymore. “It’s... it’s not about me,” he said, voice still uncertain, but no longer as shy. “It’s about you learning, okay?”

There was a brief moment of silence, and you noticed the change in his posture—how he sat up straighter now, shoulders back, a subtle shift in his body language. His attempt at maintaining composure was no longer about simply getting through the tutoring session—it was about something else, something you couldn’t quite place.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him closely. “Alright, Felix,” you said, your voice softening just a little, “I’ll let you get back to the problem. But I’m starting to think that you’re not just tutoring me anymore. There’s a little something else going on, huh?”

Felix cleared his throat, his staring flicking to his notes for a second before he straightened up, more resolute this time. “Just focus on the material, alright?” His voice had a firmness now, an edge to it that hadn’t been there before. He now carried a commanding energy that you would be lying if you said you hated it.

For the first time, you felt a shift in the dynamic. The shift in the air was palpable—subtle yet undeniable. Felix was no longer just the shy, uncertain tutor, fumbling through every explanation with a nervousness that was, at first, endearing but now seemed out of place. No, there was something different in his demeanor now—something almost challenging. The softness he had shown earlier, the gentle hesitation, was slowly being replaced with a quiet firmness, and you could feel it in the way his eyes met yours. Steady. Calculated. Unwavering.

You couldn’t resist pushing just a little further. It's just so fun!

“So, Felix,” you said, a teasing tone slipping into your voice, “is this how you always talk? All serious, no fun? Because I think you'd be a lot more interesting if you let go a little, you know. Just a thought."

Felix didn't even flinch this time. His gaze held steady, the faintest spark of something deeper hiding behind those eyes. There was an edge to his voice, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift that you had not noticed before. “I can be fun when it matters,” he replied, his tone surprisingly assured. “But I’m not here to entertain you. I’m here to help you get it. If that means I need to stay focused, then so be it.”

You raised an eyebrow, momentarily taken aback by the calm intensity of his words. “Oh, I know,” you said with a feigned innocence, leaning back slightly in your chair. “But it’s funny, don’t you think? How you try so hard to keep it all together. Makes me wonder... if you’re trying to impress someone with all that focus.”

Felix’s posture stiffened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His fingers, still gripping the pencil, twitched as if he was about to speak, but instead, he cleared his throat, and a brief silence settled between you.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” he said, the words deliberate, slower this time. “I’m here to do my job. To help you. Nothing more.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you studied him. “Mm. Sure. But I can’t help but wonder, Felix,” you said, leaning in just a little closer, “does all this effort to be so... perfect make you feel better? Or is it just the way you think people expect you to be?”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you could see Felix’s jaw tighten. His eyes, previously avoiding your peering ones, now locked with them. There was something different in the way he held himself now, something new in the way he stood his ground.

“I’m not perfect,” he said, his voice low but strong, a subtle challenge laced in every syllable. “And I don’t need you to think I am. I’m just doing what I have to do.”

Your gaze softened, the teasing edge still present but now tempered with something else. Felix’s composure was beginning to shift, the walls he had built starting to crack, revealing something more—a strength, a quiet assertiveness that had previously been hidden.

“Alright, Felix,” you said, your tone slipping into something more genuine, less playful. “But I have to admit, this... side of you? Didn’t see it coming. I like it.”

Felix inhaled slowly, his eyes still fixed on you, but now there was a quiet confidence in his aura. He set his pencil down, his movements deliberate, and you watched as he leaned forward just slightly.

“I’m not the nervous guy you think I am,” he said, his voice steady, no longer stumbling over his words. “And I’m not here to let you get away with everything, either.”

The change in his tone caught you off guard. There was no hesitation now, no nervous stammering. Felix, the tutor you had been teasing so relentlessly, was looking at you with the kind of quiet authority that made your pulse race.

Your smile faltered for a second, a small surprise flickering in your chest. “Well,” you said, your voice softer now, “guess I’ve been underestimating you.”

Felix’s deep eyes never wavered, and the corner of his lips curled into the faintest of smirks. “Maybe you should stop,” he said, his tone teasing now, but there was an undeniable edge to it. His voice dropped low, firing quick heat straight to your chest, “You might just find out that I’m not so easy to read.”

You swallowed, your heart picking up its pace at the challenge in his voice. There was a new tension in the air now, a quiet storm brewing between the two of you. And for the first time, you wondered just how far this teasing game could go.

The study session had dragged on, the numbers blurring into a haze that you could no longer focus on. Felix’s voice was a calm cadence, his explanations intricate yet smooth, but your mind had long since wandered. The air between you had thickened, a subtle charge building, lingering just below the surface. You stretched your arms overhead, an exaggerated motion that only further fueled the unspoken tension between you.

“Felix,” you drawled, your voice languid as you settled back into your chair, letting your eyes settle on him. “I think I’ve earned a break, don’t you think?”

Felix glanced up, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes before he smoothed it over with a quick smile. “A break?” he repeated, his tone light but the gleam in his eyes betraying the small flicker of interest. “For what exactly?”

You leaned back, the chair creaking beneath you as you tilted your head, assessing him in that way that made him uncomfortable without him even realising it. “I’ve been listening, Felix. Really listening. And you’ve been talking non-stop about equations. It’s only fair I get a little reward for being so studious.”

Felix’s lips twitched at the corner, but he didn’t break. “Reward? I didn’t realise listening was an activity worthy of prizes.” There was a playful bite to his words now, as if he were starting to realise just how much you were enjoying this.

You let your smile linger. “Oh, but it is,” you replied, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you two. “I’m being patient. I’m being good. And that, Felix, deserves something in return.”

The words came out with just enough sweetness that it almost sounded genuine, though the challenge behind them was unmistakable. Felix blinked once, twice, his brow furrowing as he processed it, before he straightened slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “And what exactly would you want as a reward? Another lecture on algebra?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, rolling your eyes. “Nah, I think I’ve had my fill of that for the evening. Maybe you could entertain me instead?” You let the word entertain hang in the air between you, casual but heavy with implication.

Felix hesitated, a momentary falter before he regained his composure. “Entertain you?” He leaned forward, now more intrigued than flustered. “I think you’re the one who’s been doing the distracting here.”

Your lips quirked at that. “Oh? You think so?” You shifted slightly, your body angling toward him in a way that felt just a touch too close. “I’m just sitting here, Felix. But it seems like you’re the one who can’t quite keep his mind on the equations.”

Felix’s gaze sharpened, though there was a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “I’m focused,” he said, his voice even, though the tension in it was palpable. “And I’m not the one who’s been looking at the clock every five minutes.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m just trying to learn, Felix. I can’t help it if your genius is just... so distracting.”

His eyes flickered at the word genius, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Distracting, huh?” He paused, then leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make your heart race. “Maybe you’re the one who’s distracting me. You’ve been distracting me from the very beginning.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. Felix wasn’t just playing along anymore. He was starting to push back, and it felt different—more deliberate, more confident.

“Oh really?” you murmured, the words slipping from your lips with a mix of amusement and challenge. “How exactly am I distracting you, Felix?”

Felix’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the self-assurance growing in him like a steady wave. “Well, for one, you won’t stop trying to flirt with me. I’ve been trying to focus on these problems,” he gestured to the scattered equations on the table, “but all I can think about is how much you enjoy messing with me.”

The words were out before you could stop them, a laugh escaping you. “Flirting? Me? I’m just being friendly, Felix.”

“Friendly?” he repeated, eyes narrowing as he leaned closer, so close that you could feel the heat from his body. His voice lowered, edged with something darker. “You’ve been pushing me ever since we started. Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You swallowed, but the smile never left your lips. You weren’t expecting him to bite back this hard, but you liked it. “So, what?” you teased. “Am I a little too much for you?”

Felix didn’t flinch, not this time. He matched your gaze, leaning in just enough to close the gap, his voice a low murmur. “Maybe you are. But maybe I like it that way.”

Your breath caught, his words hanging in the air like a promise you were unsure if you wanted to acknowledge it just yet. Felix, the shy, smart tutor, was not so shy anymore. He was unafraid to meet you head-on, and that shift was more intoxicating than you would like to admit.

“Well,” you said, your voice breathy, the teasing edge still there but softer now, “I’m starting to think you might like the distraction, Felix.”

He paused, and for the first time, you saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Then, with a smirk that was all confidence, he leaned back, his posture changing entirely. “Maybe I do,” he said, his voice even, his gaze still holding yours, “but I’m not sure you’re ready for it. You think you've got me all figured out, hm?”

You couldn’t help the subconcious reaction in you—your smile widened, and the challenge grew thicker in your chest. “Oh, I don’t need to figure you out. I already know what buttons to press. It’s just you're a little more... unpredictable than I thought.”

Felix’s eyes narrowed, his expression now a perfect mixture of amusement and something else—something sharper. “Unpredictable?” he repeated, his tone lowering. “I think you’re the unpredictable one here. You’ve been pushing my buttons from the start. But now...”

His voice took on a teasing, almost dangerous edge. “Now I’m starting to wonder how far you’re willing to push before you realise you might’ve gone too far.”

“You think I’ve gone too far?” you asked, your voice soft and mocking, and not doing very well at disguising how your heart skips beats when his voice drops in the way it has. “I’m just getting started, Felix.”

He leaned even closer, his voice now a near-whisper. “Then you’d better be careful,” he said, the words so close to a challenge that you couldn’t quite tell where the game ended and something else began. “Because if you keep pushing me, I might just let you go too far.”

For a moment, you both stared at each other, the air thick with a tension neither of you seemed willing to break.

“Well,” you said, leaning back, your voice back to that teasing edge, “looks like you’re the one distracting me now, huh?”

Felix smirked, leaning back in his own chair, but there was something in his posture now—something that made you realise he hadn’t been flustered at all. “You’ve been distracting me all this time,” he said, his voice steady. “But I think you’re right about one thing—you’re just getting started.”

You blinked, caught by surprise at the intensity in his voice. You were uncertain what had just shifted, but something between you had changed—Felix wasn’t just the shy, nervous tutor anymore. He was playing the game, and he was playing it well.

You barely made it through another page. Felix had resumed his explanation, something about polynomial division, but your thoughts were no longer tethered to the textbook. They wandered—to the way his fingers drummed lightly against the table, to the slight rasp in his voice when he became too focused to notice. He had not looked flustered since that last retort. In fact, it felt as though you were the one squirming now, each shift in his gaze a little too assured, each silence weighted with implication.

“You done spacing out again?” he asked, lifting his eyes just as yours trailed down the slope of his jaw.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Was not spacing out. I was contemplating the deeper meaning of poly-whatever division.”

Felix gave a slow nod, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Right. Deep. Like a spiritual experience.”

You exhaled a light laugh, chin propped in your hand. “You know, for someone who spends his nights talking to himself on Discord, you’re getting real confident.”

He blinked. “Wait—how do you know I—”

“I have ears,” you said simply. “And the guys talk. You all aren't exactly quiet.”

Felix stared at you, momentarily thrown. Then, in a move that felt strangely bold, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Okay. If you’re gonna mock the way I unwind, you’ve gotta at least try one of my games.”

“Try one?”

“Yeah. Come to my place. Pick a game. Let’s see if you’re any good.”

You raised a brow, amused by the casual offer—more amused by the confident glint in his eyes. “Is this a trap?”

“No,” he said, standing and stretching, his shirt riding up just slightly to reveal a sliver of pale skin. “But if you lose, you have to stop pretending you’re not interested.”

“And if I win?”

Felix paused at that, considering you with a gaze that lingered too long to be platonic. Then, with a crooked grin: “You won’t.”

You followed him out, the air charged in that low-simmer kind of way, the silence between you growing more alive with each step. His apartment was only a few minutes’ walk off campus, small and cozy, the kind of place that smelled faintly like cologne, old textbooks, and lavender laundry sheets.

“Shoes off,” he called as he moved toward the living room, kicking his own beside the door. “And no cheating.”

You stepped inside, eyes sweeping the space—books stacked on shelves and windowsills, a mess of cables near the desk, and, of course, a massive monitor glowing faintly in the dim light.

You turned toward him slowly, lips curling. “This is... alarmingly nerdy.”

He handed you a controller. “I know. You gonna keep talking or you gonna lose?”

"Put your money where your mouth is, Felix. Try me and find out."

You sat on the edge of his low couch, controller in hand, your knees drawn close and posture too poised for someone allegedly ready to relax. Felix, in contrast, looked perfectly at home—hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, one leg tucked under the other as he navigated the menus with muscle memory. His jaw was set, eyes flicking over the screen, the pale glow catching on his cheekbones, that singular beauty which softened every time he forgot to guard it.

“Alright,” he said, voice casual as though he had not just invited you into his domain. “Simple practice match first. No stakes. You just gotta learn the controls.”

“I know what a joystick is,” you replied, shifting beside him, your shoulder brushing against his lightly. “I’m not a caveman.”

“No,” he said, glancing sidelong at you. “Just an academic liability.”

You made a sound of mock offense, elbow nudging his arm. “Wow. The ego on you.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Oh, so I taught you arrogance?”

Felix smirked, his eyes not tearing from the screen. “You’re an excellent role model.”

You were not entirely paying attention to the tutorial. Your fingers moved, but your thoughts trailed elsewhere—the rise and fall of his breath beside you, how his hands moved on the plastic controller with such nimbleness, the way his voice dipped low when explaining something technical, the subtle rasp that crept in the longer he talked.

“Here—hold A and rotate here. Like this.” He shifted, his hand coming over yours before you could react, guiding your fingers carefully. His touch was light, but deliberate, and far too warm.

You glanced at him.

He didn't move away.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So... this is your master plan? Lure girls into your apartment and seduce them with thumb placement?”

Felix’s ears flushed red immediately. “What? No—no. That is not—”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, feigning deep thought. “Honestly, it is kind of working. But you should pace yourself, you know? Not every girl likes it rough on the joystick.”

He sputtered. Actually sputtered. “That is not—You—God—”

You grinned, victorious.

“I knew you were a menace,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

You tilted your head toward him, gaze lingering. “Still think you can handle tutoring me twice a week?”

Felix exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable now—focused, perhaps, or maybe just attempting not to combust. He turned his attention back to the screen, but not before murmuring under his breath:

“Barely.”

The practice round ticked down to its final seconds, the countdown flashing across the screen like a warning bell. The room around you was thick with warmth and shadow, your shared laughter from earlier settling into something quieter now—something edged.

Felix sat forward with that same focus as before, fingers loose on the controller, brow furrowed, jaw taut with effort. You watched the light flicker across his features—the soft glow of the monitor catching in his lashes, gilding the curve of his cheekbone. He hadn't even noticed how close you were.

But you had.

You tilted your body just enough that your thigh brushed his. “So intense,” you murmured. “Bet your heart rate goes up when your health bar drops.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You talk too much when you're losing.”

“You're cute when you pretend this game matters.”

He finally looked at you. Not a glance, not a flicker—looked, head turning toward you fully, slow and unreadable.

“I'm cute?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.

You leaned in, feigning casual, letting your lips hover just near his ear. “Adorably so. Like a sweet little overachiever who's never had anyone play dirty with him before.”

Felix’s breath hitched. You felt it more than heard it.

He turned back to the screen, but his voice had shifted—lower now, smoother, each word curling with quiet intent. “Let's make this interesting.”

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “Go on.”

He pressed a button—your character flailed helplessly on-screen.

“If I win…” he said slowly, “you have to tell me exactly what kind of thoughts you have when you look at me, when you listen to me.”

Your grip on the controller tightened and your heart lurched, were you that obvious?

“What do I get if I win?” you asked, trying not to sound too breathless, too flustered.

Felix’s smirk curved like something dangerous. “Then I want to hear the same thing. Just... slower.”

“Alright, fine. But one more warm-up. Need to level the playing field.”

He answered with a chuckle and a soft shake of his head. The 'rematch' button was selected.

Competitive silence hovered in the air longer than it should have.

Your character lay defeated on the screen, the soft flicker of pixelated flames the only movement in the room. Felix had not moved either—still leaned forward, still watching you, though his gaze had shifted. Less playful now. More precise. Like he had studied the moment, found the crack in your composure, and was waiting to press into it.

You shifted where you sat, suddenly aware of the heat in the room, of how close his knee was to yours, how low his voice had gone and how it still echoed in your skin. His eyes dropped—briefly—to your mouth. Then rose again.

“So,” you said, clearing your throat. “That was a warm-up, right?”

His lips curved, slow and wolfish. Not a smile. A promise.

“Practice,” he corrected. “That was just practice.”

And then—he sat back.

Not away from you. Into himself. Like something in him had settled. His posture eased, but his presence intensified, like the air between you had suddenly thickened.

He resumed the game, eyes still on the screen, voice low and smooth. “Ready to actually play?”

You blinked. “What was I doing before?”

He clicked a button. The screen glowed. “Losing. Distracted. Making it too easy.”

“You're—”

“Still winning,” he cut in, and this time the look he gave you was direct, calculated. “But now… now I want to see what you're like when you stop pretending that you 'don't care'.”

You felt your stomach drop and flutter all at once.

Felix shifted again, closer this time—close enough that you could feel the press of his thigh against yours, the heat of him radiating through the minimal space between you. And then his voice came again—just behind your ear, thick as honey and impossible to block out.

“No more practice,” he murmured, the lowness of his voice shooting heat straight to your gut. “Show me how good you really are.”

You exhaled slowly and reset your grip on the controller, forcing your shoulders to loosen, your jaw to unclench. You had teased him first. This was just payback. You could handle it. It was still just a game.

But Felix was no longer playing the same one.

He didn't fill the silence between rounds with jokes or quips anymore. He didn't glance at your screen. He didn't need to.

He stayed close. Still and aware and quiet—except for that voice.

Not even a full sentence. Just fragments, murmured in that devastating octave, as if they slipped out of him without effort. Too casual. Too effective.

“Focus,” he whispered, as your thumb slipped on the analog stick again.

You swallowed hard.

“You're holding your breath,” he said next, voice lilting downward like a slow descent into something dangerous. “Is it me?”

You turned your head toward him—your mistake.

Because his eyes were already on you. Lazy, unreadable, and far too warm. His gaze flicked to your lips for half a second before he leaned in, so close you could feel the shape of his breath against your cheek when he spoke again.

“Tell me what you hear.”

Your pulse kicked hard against your throat.

“My voice,” he murmured, lips barely moving, “or your thoughts?”

You blinked, rapidly turning to look back at the screen, face burning. He had guessed. Or no—known. Felt it in the way you tensed. The way your thighs pressed together, just slightly, when he got close enough to speak low.

He smiled, soft and dangerous. “Thought so.”

You fumbled a combo. He leaned back, hands never leaving his controller, the heat of him still very much present.

“You keep teasing like you want me to lose,” he said. “But I think you want me to win.”

“I do not,” you said too quickly, too sharply, and he laughed—quiet, deep, the sound dragging along your spine.

“Then concentrate,” he said. “You're about to lose again.”

And that would be right, you did.

He paused the screen.

This time, he did not gloat. He set the controller down and turned toward you with a steady, almost clinical curiosity—like you were a riddle he was determined to solve.

“So,” he said, voice gentled back into a hush, “what exactly is it?��

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned in again, this time letting his mouth hover near your ear, not touching, just close enough that your breath hitched.

“The pitch?” he asked. “The rasp? Or is it just knowing I'm using it on purpose?”

You could not answer. Not right away. He waited.

Still.

Quiet.

Patient.

And then, softly—“Tell me everything. You lost the bet. You owe me that much.”

You hesitated—just a moment, but it was enough. The truth sat heavy in your chest, and you could feel it like a secret you had tried to keep hidden. You knew why he made your breath catch. It wasn’t just the voice. It was how it wrapped around you, how it hit those places you tried not to think about.

But now that he had cornered you—his eyes steady, voice calm, as if he knew—you could hardly breathe without him seeing right through you.

You blinked quickly, trying to steady yourself, but it did not work.

“I think,” you started, your voice a little too tight, “I think it’s the way you speak when you’re not... trying.”

Felix’s lips quirked, like a secret he had not expected you to admit.

“You mean when I’m casual?”

“Not casual,” you forced out, your heartbeat picking up. “When you’re—” You tried to think of the word, but it was impossible. “When you’re barely trying at all. Like you're not even aware of how much you're—" You stopped yourself, eyes narrowing. “You're affecting me. You’re just… too good at it.”

Felix leaned back, lips curling in amusement, eyes locked on you like a challenge. He wasn’t going to let you off easy. You were playing this game now.

“So, you like it, then? My voice?”

You shot him a look, half-rolling your eyes. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Mm. But I think you can say it louder.”

“You’re pushing it,” you warned, voice low, but Felix knew—he knew exactly what he was doing. You could see the way he leaned closer, just enough to make your pulse spike, his eyes twinkling like he was the cat and you were the mouse.

And then he spoke again, his voice darker this time—sweeter in its low rumble.

“You like it when I’m casual, right? When I don’t even try to make it sound like I’m saying it for you. That’s the part you’re not telling me, isn’t it?”

You swallowed, trying to look away, but you couldn’t. He had you in his grip now—his voice, his words, everything about the way he knew. And he was right. You couldn’t stop yourself from reacting to it.

But he had no plans of letting up.

“Or is it something else, hmm?” Felix’s voice lowered even further, an almost unbearable, husky murmur. “Do you like it when I speak just like this? Like I’m giving you everything you don’t want, but you can’t pull away.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to maintain some sense of control. “You really think you know that much about me?”

He grinned, that teasing flicker in his eyes returning. “I do now.”

And then—he did it again. His voice, barely above a whisper—“Focus. You’re still distracted.”

You flinched, shifting uncomfortably, and then—just to push back—you threw him a glance, daring him.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping in challenge, “I think you like knowing how much it gets to me.”

Felix froze, his gaze sharpening. The edge of something dangerous settled between you both.

“Is that so?”

You didn’t flinch this time. You met him, eye for eye. “You’re not the only one who can play this game.”

“Prove it,” he said, his voice lowering to the kind of hunger that made your breath hitch. “Let me hear it. Let me hear what really gets you worked up.”

And that—that was the final challenge.

You leaned in, close enough that your words came out soft, teasing, barely more than a whisper.

“You really want to know?” You paused just a beat. “I think it’s the way you think you have all the answers, but you’re about to lose.”

Felix laughed, dark and quiet, but there was something heavier in it now. His fingers, light and steady, brushed the edge of your knee. “Is that so? Somehow you still think you’ve got the upper hand. That's bold of you.”

You tried—you really tried—to stay focused, to force your eyes on the controller, the animations of the pause window, anything. But every second, Felix’s voice seeped into your skin, his words curling around your senses like smoke. It was intoxicating, heavy, and too much.

You could feel your pulse quicken, the rhythm of your breath growing shallow. His voice, so warm, so rich, pressed against your ear, vibrating through your bones. Each word he murmured was like a wave, pulling you deeper into his orbit.

"Felix," you whispered, barely able to contain the way your breath hitched in your throat. “Stop... teasing."

A grin tugged at his lips. He knew. God, he knew how much he was getting to you. The bastard knew exactly how his words made you tremble inside, the way his voice curled around you, making it impossible to think about anything else.

“I’m not teasing, sweetheart,” he replied, his voice a lazy drawl, thick with satisfaction. “I’m just making sure you’re paying attention.”

You couldn’t deny it. You weren’t focused on the game anymore—not even close. Every syllable that slipped from his lips was a distraction, a pull, a magnet that made your body feel like it was on fire. It was as if his words had their own gravity, pulling you under, drowning you in the sound of him.

“Focus,” he whispered again, his breath ghosting over your ear, making your skin prickle, your whole body flush. He was so close now, too close, and yet it wasn’t enough. You wanted more. You needed more.

You felt his fingers brush over your wrist, light and teasing, sending jolts of electricity shooting up your arm. He knew exactly how to touch you, knew exactly how to get you to react. His fingers were like fire against your skin—deliberate, slow, dragging out the tension.

“You’ve already lost,” Felix murmured, his voice thick with a kind of wicked amusement. The words sank into your chest, heavy and final, but there was something in his tone—something low and dangerous—that made your stomach flip. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Your throat went dry as the heat in your body intensified. The screen was just a blur now. Your eyes could barely focus on it. Your whole world was Felix—his presence, his scent, his voice dripping with authority. His words, coated in that delicious, teasing edge, twisted in your mind and made your body react before you could even think about it.

And then—finally—you gave in.

“Okay,” you breathed out, voice barely a whisper, but it was enough. “I lost. You won.”

Felix’s breath shuddered out, a soft exhale of satisfaction. He didn’t move right away, didn’t rush to claim his rightful victory. No, he took his time—because he knew, and you knew, he didn’t need to rush. He had you exactly where he wanted you.

His fingers traced the line of your wrist, slow and deliberate, his touch sending shivers across your skin. You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him. The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on you, and you could feel the heat between you building, curling in your gut.

Felix’s voice dropped even lower, a velvet murmur that practically slid under your skin. “I knew that was coming, I told you you wouldn't win, remember?” he said, his lips close enough that you could feel the breath against your ear. The words were a command, wrapped in satisfaction and something darker—something you weren’t sure you were ready for.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing over your ear in the most maddening way, his voice practically dripping into your ear. “But it’s not over yet, sweetheart. You’re still here. Still with me.”

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You were lost in the sound of him, the way his voice felt like a touch, like a caress. You wanted him to stop, wanted him to give you space, but the truth was—you didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want to fight it anymore. Every inch of you screamed for him to keep going, to make you lose again, because losing meant he’d take more, and you’d give him more.

He took his time, waiting. Watching you squirm. Watching the way your chest rose and fell, the flush on your face. He was savoring this—savoring the way he had you wrapped around his finger without even touching you.

Felix’s lips brushed your ear one last time. “Do you want me to stop?” he murmured, his voice laced with that same wicked teasing. “Or do you want me to make you lose all over again?”

Your body was trembling in desire, the answer so close to your lips that it nearly slipped out on its own, but you were still holding back. You still wanted to fight. But when his fingers brushed down your arm again, slow and deliberate, the touch igniting your skin, you knew.

This was no longer a game. This was something else.

And you were far too gone to turn back.

“Yes,” you breathed, unable to hold back any longer, the word slipping out in a breathless rush. “I want you to win.”

Felix let out a low, satisfied chuckle, the sound dripping with so much pleasure you could barely stand it.

“Good, then let’s see just how much you can handle," Felix chuckled darkly, and in that moment, everything changed. The teasing was gone. The games were over. He moved with purpose, his lips crashed against yours, the kiss hungry and desperate, as if he had been waiting for this moment. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you as he pulled you into his lap, not once breaking away from your lips.

His body was firm, hard, and you felt every inch of him pressed against you, his desire unmistakable. It was like electricity crackling between you, sparking the need, the hunger you’d been trying so desperately to control.

Your thighs bracketed his, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline as you subconciously rocked your hips down against him. The thick, hard length of him pressed up between your legs, and even with both of you still clothed, it felt obscene—too good, too much. Every movement dragged your against your aching core, the rough texture of denim making you gasp, tremble.

Felix’s hands gripped your hips tight, fingers digging in like he needed to ground himself. “Fuck,” he groaned, his voice dark and wrecked, like gravel dragged across velvet. “Do you feel what you’re doing to me?”

You nodded, breathless, hips rolling down again just to hear that sound leave him. His head dropped back against the couch for a moment, jaw clenched, lips parted. You could see how hard he was beneath you, how much effort it took to let you keep control.

But you never really had it—not with the way he looked up at you now, eyes dark, mouth curling into something hungry. “Move for me, baby,” he said, voice dropping even lower, like a secret whispered straight to your spine. “Let me feel you.”

You obeyed without thinking, grinding down against him in slow, aching circles, chasing friction, chasing heat. His breath caught, hands tightening as he guided your rhythm—deliberate, delicious. Every roll of your hips dragged a new sound from him, low and broken, and it made you feel powerful—until he growled.

“Enough teasing,” he muttered, and before you could blink, he sat up, chest flush to yours, arms locking around your waist.

Now it was him rocking up into you, grinding hard enough to make your breath stutter, your back arch. You clung to him, whimpering at the new angle, the intensity.

“You’re gonna make me lose it,” he hissed against your throat, voice cracking with restraint. “Keep grinding like that, and I’ll come just like this. With you on top of me, clothes on, moaning my name.”

He buried his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you could barely hold on. There was no air, no room, nothing but the heat of him, the way his hips met yours again and again, perfectly, mercilessly.

You were soaked. Shaking. Seconds away from shattering.

He whispered in that wrecked, perfect voice—“I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

You could feel your pulse racing, your body betraying you with each passing second. You wanted more—wanted him to take you, claim you, make you lose all over again. You needed him to show you just how far you could go with him.

“Then take me,” you breathed out, the words slipping from your lips without thought. You wanted him, wanted everything he was offering. “I’m already yours, Felix. Do what you want with me.”

His eyes darkened, a predatory gleam flashing in them as he heard your words. The smirk on his lips deepened, as if he had been waiting for you to finally admit it—to finally give him the green light to take control completely.

Without a word, Felix flipped you both, placing you beneath him with a precision that sent a rush of heat through your body. The world around you seemed to fade into nothingness, leaving only him—his touch, his voice, his body against yours.

He paused, hovering above you for just a moment, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes searched yours, a silent question in them—one you didn’t need to answer. You had already given him every word he needed in the moment. He was in control now, and you were more than willing to let him have it.

“Good girl,” he praised, his voice a velvet growl that made your skin prickle. His lips crashed down on yours again, this time with an intensity that stole your breath away, the kiss hard, demanding, as if he needed you just as badly as you needed him. After he had stripped you down to your panties, his hands roamed freely, touching you with a hunger that made you ache.

His lips trailed down your neck, nipping at the soft skin there, then trailing down to your chest, where he focused his mouth on your breast, rolling his tongue around your nipple, and his left hand attending to your other breast, kneading the supple skin.

His right hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your panties to trace his fingertips ever so lightly through your folds.

"Look at you, so eager. This wet for me, already?" He murmured against your skin, moving away to stare at your pussy, to which he dragged his tongue across his lip. If you weren't embarassed yet, you certainly were by now. "All I've really done is talk to you. You want this that badly? Where did all that biting confidence from this afternoon go, hm?"

You barely managed to muster a reply before his hands fled their posts to lift your hips, to allow for his teeth to catch the elastic of your panties and drag them down to your ankles and tossed to who knows where. He tossed them with his mouth. That image would be engraved in your brain forever.

Wordlessly, he dove straight in.

His tongue moved with a slow, devastating precision—savoring every inch of you as though you were a delicacy he had waited lifetimes to taste. Each stroke was skillful, hungry, and maddeningly thorough, his mouth worshipping you with an unrelenting hunger that bordered on reverence. His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging into the softness as he spread you wide for him, holding you open as though he couldn't bear to lose a single moment of access.

When he moaned against you—low, rough, trembling with need—it reverberated straight through your core. The sound alone nearly broke you.

You shamelessly let out moans, huffs, and groans as needed, you were helpless beneath the weight of his mouth, and he only smiled proudly against you—tongue flicking over your clit with wicked precision, then sucking hard enough to make your vision go white. You cried out, hips jolting, thighs beginning to close around his head in a desperate, overwhelmed instinct.

You shattered with a sob, your release tearing through you fast and violent, your body trembling as the orgasm overtook you—but he did not stop.

He held you in place, relentless and devoted, licking you through it with obscene focus, tongue fucking you slowly, deeply, while your body broke apart beneath him. You were unraveling in his hands, and still—he kept going until your twitching had slowed to a stop.

When he finally pulled away, his chin was slick, his lips glistening. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

You moaned, your hands clutching at his hoodie before he leant up so he could strip it off, revealing smooth, pale skin stretched over lean muscle, his chest heaving with restraint. His eyes were molten, locked on yours as he tugged your thighs apart with strong hands, settling between them once again like he belonged there—because he did.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his fingers replaced his tongue—two of them sliding deep inside you, curling just right, hitting that perfect spot that made you cry out. He worked you open with smooth, steady strokes, watching you unravel under his touch, his thumb drawing slow, tight circles around your clit while his free hand pushed your shirt up to bare your chest.

"You’ve been so good for me," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "But I want to hear you say it again. I want you to beg me."

Your heart raced, your mind spinning with the control he had over you. You could feel the fire building inside you, your breath shallow and fast as you fought to keep yourself from completely losing it.

“Felix, please,” you gasped, eyes glassy with need. “I want your cock inside me. I need it.”

"That's it, who am I to deny such a pretty plea like that?"

He pulled back, his fingers slipping from you, wet and glistening as he reached down to undo his belt. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick, veins prominent along the shaft. You reached for him, but he caught your wrist, pinning it beside your head.

He lined himself up, nudging at your entrance, dragging the head through your slick folds until you were trembling with anticipation. Then, with one slow, merciless thrust, he filled you.

You gasped, nails digging into his back as your walls stretched to accommodate him, the pressure overwhelming in the best way. He paused only a moment, letting you adjust to the size of him, before drawing his hips back and slamming into you again.

“Relax, breathe,” he murmured, pulling back slightly, only to thrust deeper, his breath ragged against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

He groaned as he buried his face in your neck and set a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, meeting him thrust for thrust, the angle perfect, the drag of his cock inside you enough to make your vision blur. His hand snaked up to your throat, fingers curling there—not tight, just enough to remind you who was in control.

“You’re mine,” he growled into your ear, biting the lobe. “All of you. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “God, Felix, I’m—”

And when the words finally slipped from your lips, breathless and raw, Felix’s eyes darkened with triumph. “Good girl,” he muttered. “I knew you were mine.”

He shifted, hips grinding against yours as he fucked into you, stroking that sweet, devastating spot again and again until you were sobbing with the need to come. His thumb found your clit again, circling fast and merciless now, pushing you to the brink.

And then you were falling—your body clenching around him, stars exploding behind your eyes as your second orgasm ran through you like fire. Felix didn't stop, chasing his own high, thrusting into you through your climax until his rhythm broke and he spilled inside you with a shudder and a curse.

He collapsed onto you, both of you panting, slick with sweat and trembling from the aftershocks. The tension had finally broken, but you could feel it lingering, the heat between you not quite fading. Felix didn’t seem in a rush to pull away. His gaze lingered on you, and you could see the soft smile tugging at his lips, the same man who had been bold, teasing, and oh so confident moments ago, now softened by the shared intimacy.

“You lost, by the way,” Felix murmured with a playful smile, his fingers tracing over your lips. “And I’m going to make sure you remember that. You were so embarrassed under me.”

“I thought I was supposed to be the one flustering you,” you said softly, voice not quite steady, betraying the remnants of your earlier surrender.

He tilted his head, curls falling over his brow. “You do. Constantly.”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, but you like it now.”

“I liked it before,” he murmured. Then, quieter, as though it startled even him, “I liked you before.”

The air shifted.

You blinked up at him, smile faltering—not in discomfort, but in the way something deep in your chest tugged, slow and aching. “You… mean that?”

Felix looked at you like he had studied you for days, like you were an answer to something he never wanted to say aloud. “I'm not very good at pretending,” he confessed. “Not with you.”

There was no teasing in that. Just truthful, soft, and raw tenderness.

Your hands found his cheeks, thumbs brushing the warmth of his flushed skin. “You really have the worst timing,” you whispered, trying to smile. “Saying stupid sweet things when I'm still technically trying to beat you.”

Felix smiled back—crooked, lopsided, unfairly boyish. “Then lose. Again. On purpose this time.”

You leaned upward, just close enough to feel his breath catch against your lips. “And if I do?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth. “Then let me make it worth your while.”

You kissed him slowly, like the match had burned down, like the game had ended, and only the wanting remained.

guys pls lmk if the long stuff is too much,,,,, i keep getting carried away LOL thx for reading allat

taglist (ask to be added here): @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @burlesquerade @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness…

Pancakes (Bucky x Reader)

word count: 0.7k

masterlist

You lived in the Avengers Tower. You were on pretty good terms with everyone there—Steve was sweet, Sam made you laugh, Tony made you snicker, Natasha made you feel both safe yet threatened, Clint made you feel comfortable, Thor entertained you, and Bruce made you relax. There was only one person in the tower you had issues with. 

Bucky. 

It wasn’t even like there was anything wrong with him, he just never talked to you or interacted with you at all unless it was to get on your nerves. It drove you crazy.

You went into the kitchen to cook some pancakes. You’d had a craving for them for some reason, and had decided to make them. When you went to gather your ingredients, however, you found many of them on the top shelves of whatever cabinet they were in. Unfortunately, you couldn’t reach the top shelves. 

Steve and Sam, while both being tall, liked to have things at a level they didn’t have to bend down to pick up, but they never put anything so high that you couldn’t reach it. Well, that was probably because Steve and Sam were decent, thoughtful people. So that just left Thor and Bucky. But Thor rarely used the kitchen—it perplexed him and he preferred not to use it, especially after that one time he nearly burnt the ceiling. 

So you sighed, frustrated, got out the step stool, and carried it to all of the cabinets, getting the ingredients from high up one by one. When Bucky walked into the kitchen, he smirked. “Need any help?”

You rolled your eyes and turned to look at him. “No. Did you seriously put all of these up here?”

“It’s just autopilot!” Bucky argued with a relaxed shrug. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you grabbed the container of salt and carried it down, stepping down from the two-step tall step stool. 

“Damn, you’re short,” Bucky chuckled. 

You glared daggers at him. “I’m not that shortYou just put things so damn high up that nobody under six feet could reach it.” 

“You ever notice how you only talk to me when I’ve done something that bothers you?” Bucky questioned. 

You stilled for a half-second. “…it’s not like you talk to me otherwise, either.”

“I’m just making an observation.”

“Just… make it someplace else. I’m hungry, I’m gonna make my pancakes.”

You thought about what Bucky had said, though. About you never talking to him unless he’d pissed you off. And you decided to give him a shot. 

So forty five minutes later, you walked into the living room and found him. “Hey, do you uhm… do you wanna have pancakes with me?”

Bucky looked up, surprised, but nodded. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He followed you to the kitchen table and filled his plate up with pancakes. The conversation was a little uncomfortable at first, but you soon found a bit of common ground over different kinds of breakfast foods and chess. You were horrible at chess. He wasn’t all that much better. But you had found the game in the living room cabinet and pulled it out, playing it at the kitchen table with your sticky, syrup glazed plates. Since neither of you were particularly good at the game, that made it all the more fun. And you were beginning to realize that maybe Bucky wasn’t so bad.

Over the next few days, you found yourself talking to Bucky more often. You didn’t resent the sight of him every time you walked into a room. And the salt? It went back to the lower shelves in the cabinet. He was trying to do something nice for you. It made you smile. You never told him, but he knew. 

One morning, when you woke up, you walked over to your mirror, as you did most mornings. A sticky note was on the surface. You pulled it off and read it. 

Wanna go out somewhere maybe a little fancier than pancakes?

— Bucky 

P.S. Yes, I am asking you out. 

The note made you grin. So you walked over to your nightstand, pulled out a sticky note of your own, and wrote: “yes.”

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@spaceycat @vidanand @xo-cench @raikan624

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ TROPICA FOOD COURT ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader You Both Find A Vending Machine Full Of Strange Drinks

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You spotted it first: an ancient, flickering vending machine tucked behind a crooked lamp post, buzzing suspiciously. The buttons were labeled with things like “Quantum Slush,” “Elixir of Partial Success,” and “Liquidated Memories.” ENA immediately stiffened at the sight, her Meanie side scoffing, “What kind of idiot puts a death trap in a box and sells it for three fake quarters?!” Her Salesperson side, chipper and delighted, started patting down her pockets. “If we play our cards right, we could unlock a fantastic business opportunity here!” she beamed, completely missing the point. You were halfway between concern and excitement yourself.

☆ ENA insisted on letting you pick the first drink, citing it as “user testing.” She even pulled out a fake clipboard, nodding sagely. “This is most categorically doable. Your liver is simply a business expense.” When you hesitated, she leaned down, smiling crookedly, and whispered, “What’s the worst that could happen? Ha ha. Don’t answer that.”

☆ You chose something relatively tame-sounding: “Mildly Unpredictable Tea.” The can hissed open and a bunch of multicolored bubbles floated out instead of liquid. ENA immediately leaned in, trying to “capture the aromas for professional analysis,” only to accidentally inhale one. It popped inside her nose, making her entire left side turn a luminous blue for thirty seconds while she shrieked, “I AM TRANSCENDING STUPIDITY!!”

☆ Her Salesperson side tried to play it cool. “Ahem, minor cosmetic rebranding is normal after product testing.” Her Meanie side immediately clapped her hands over her face and shouted, “MY CELLS ARE COMMITTING TAX FRAUD!”

☆ When it was ENA’s turn to pick, she deliberately chose the most ominous can: “Hot Chocolate, but Worse.” You begged her to reconsider. She did not. The can exploded the second she cracked it open, spraying both of you with a gooey, magma-thick brown liquid that smelled faintly of despair and burnt toast. “THIS IS HELL’S FLAVORED SLUDGE!” she barked, staggering backward. “I’d call it… an acquired taste,” Her Salesperson side added, wiping her eyes and giving you a sticky thumbs-up.

☆ At one point, you noticed that some of the cans had strange little “effects” icons printed on the sides — wings, hourglasses, melting clocks. ENA, squinting at one of the labels, whispered like it was a state secret, “If we drink the wrong one, I might turn into a pyramid scheme.” You deadpanned, “You already act like one.” Meanie screamed, “HEY! MULTILEVEL MARKETING IS A SYMPHONY OF SUCKERS!!!”

☆ You and ENA sat cross-legged in the grass, lining up a few more “experimental beverages” in a row like a tasting event. She made you swirl the cans, smell them dramatically, and describe the “bouquet.” When you hesitated or said they smelled like “wet sidewalk,” Salesperson would encourage you with a very businesslike, “Wonderful, let’s put that in the customer review section!” Meanwhile, Meanie muttered darkly about how “the sidewalk smells better than this rotgut slop.”

☆ At some point, ENA drank a “Lemonade of Emotional Honesty” and instantly folded in half, grabbing her face. “I hate meetings! I hate empty promises! I hate soup that’s too hot!!” she wailed in a confession avalanche. You gently patted her back while she continued shrieking into the dirt about grievances you hadn’t even known she had, like the way clowns tie their shoes.

☆ One drink (“Essence of Charisma”) actually worked. After a few sips, ENA stood taller, glowed slightly, and started rattling off the most absurd sales pitches you’d ever heard — effortlessly persuasive. “Have you ever considered investing in the cyclical futility of your own desires?” she asked an old mailbox. You had to physically drag her away before she sold it a timeshare in the afterlife.

☆ Eventually, you both collapsed under the vending machine’s neon haze, surrounded by half-drunk cans, sticky clothes, and the faint suspicion you were no longer in the same dimension you started in. ENA, lying beside you, lazily spun a can in the air and murmured, “Maybe tomorrow we’ll sell drinks like these ourselves.” Then, Meanie immediately snapped upright to yell, “AND WE’LL PUT A HUGE WARNING LABEL THAT SAYS ‘YOU WILL BECOME STUPIDER’ BECAUSE IT’S TRUE!!” You laughed so hard you almost choked on your own unfinished “Liquidated Memories” soda.

[stove-top96]

Wicked Game

Ch. 03

Y Batfam x Gn Reader

Featuring Platonic: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Tim Drake, Damian Al-Ghul Wayne

2.6k words

Ch. 02 <- Ch. 03 -> Ch. 04

Class schedule

1st period - Art

2nd period - Maths

12:00 - 1:00 Lunch

3rd period - Biology

4th period - English

3:50 Dismissal

4:00 - 6:00 - Basketball practice.

“You know they’re gonna flip when they wake up,” Dick muttered, arms crossed as he stared down at your limp body.

You looked peaceful for once. That constant tension in your shoulders had finally eased, the nervous twitch in your fingers stilled. Even that crease between your brows—the one that would show up whenever you were thinking too hard or worrying too much—had softened. Sleep smoothed over all the sharp edges life had carved into you.

“They’ll understand eventually,” Bruce said, dismissive but gentle, his voice quieter now.

He reached out, brushing a few strands of hair from your face with a touch far softer than anyone would expect from Batman. Moments like this were rare—when he could just be a father, taking care of his kid.

Without a word, he lifted you from the desk you’d passed out on, cradling you like something fragile. The rest of the family fell into step behind him as he carried you to the Batcave.

"You sure they won’t notice?" Steph asked, her voice barely above a whisper. She lingered near your side, eyes flicking from your face to your arm, then back again.

“There may be some discomfort,” Damian replied coolly, “but it’ll fade. They won’t even realize it’s there.”

His confidence was unsettling—but it worked. Steph nodded and stepped back.

You’d been running yourself ragged for weeks—missing meals, taking late night shifts, throwing yourself headfirst into practice after practice. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. They were worried. Terrified, even. Gotham was dangerous and they couldn’t protect you if they didn’t know where you were.

So they decided to make sure they always would.

In the Medbay, Bruce laid you down gently on the table. For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. You looked so small there, so still. Alfred was the first to break the silence, rolling in a tray of neatly arranged medical instruments.

He cleaned your forearm methodically, the antiseptic smell sharp in the air. The needle was thin, almost invisible. It wouldn’t scar.

As he inserted the tracker beneath your skin, the family watched in silence. A mix of relief and guilt weighed heavy on the room.

They weren’t taking your freedom. Not really. They weren’t locking you in, or chaining you down. For now they’re making sure you were never completely out of reach.

It was the only compromise they could live with, for now.

Once the procedure was done, Bruce carried you again—this time to one of the manor’s guest rooms. He laid you in bed, pulling the covers up with surprising tenderness. He lingered for a second longer than he meant to, brushing his fingers across your temple.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered.

—————

Jason knew life wasn’t fair.

He was born into the world already losing, already clawing just to stay above the surface.

So maybe that’s why it was almost funny—in a cosmic, messed-up kind of way—that he’s the only one you haven’t met.

Jason Todd. Bruce’s second son. The one who died.

If you’d seen him tonight, you probably would’ve screamed. Or passed out. Or just left Gotham entirely.

And yet, it still doesn’t feel fair.

He should get to meet you. Know you. Love you.

He deserves that much.

With a sigh, he rakes a hand through his hair, the strands curling under his fingers. He pulls on his jacket, straps his gear in place. The routine helps. Keeps him grounded.

The guns are loaded. The helmet’s clean.

His phone buzzes.

A message from Dick.

<Dick>

it’s done.

Jason stares at it for a moment. Then opens the app.

A single, pulsing red dot glows softly on the screen—your location.

The manor. Safe.

His lips curve into a smile.

You’ll probably never understand why they have to do this. Why it has to be this way.

But that’s okay.

Jason has a different plan—his plan. One the others don’t know about. One that won’t hurt you if you ever find out.

One that keeps you close.

—

The warehouse near the coast was cold, damp, and smelled like rust and salt. Penguin was rumored to be getting another shipment in tonight.

Another bust. Another patrol.

But for Jason, it felt different.

Worse.

There was a brightness to the team tonight. A lightness in the way they moved, spoke, even fought.

Even Bruce and Damian seemed lighter.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why.

They’d spent time with you. You all Shared dinner, talked, and spent time together.

Jason’s nails dug into his palms, teeth clenched behind his helmet. He didn’t realize how tightly he was holding his fists until a familiar voice snapped him out of it.

“Oh—they were so nervous,” Dick said with a laugh. “It was adorable.”

Jason’s jaw tensed.

“Is that so?” His modulated voice came out low, hiding his frustration.

“They appeared stressed,” Damian added casually, “but with a few more meals, they will grow comfortable.”

Jason wanted to shove Damian into the nearest crate.

Their voices were like nails on a chalkboard.

Why was he stuck on patrol with them tonight?

“You should’ve seen them, Jason,” Dick added, voice all too smug. “You’d have melted.”

That was it.

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

The roar of engines echoed through the warehouse walls—Penguin’s men were arriving.

Before Dick or Damian could say another word, Jason launched himself forward.

No plan. No warning. Just rage.

Guns disarmed. Bones broken. Metal clashed and bodies dropped.

Jason tore through them like a storm.

By the time the last thug hit the floor, his chest was heaving, breaths sharp and uneven.

He stood over Penguin, battered and unconscious, fists still clenched at his sides.

Behind him, footsteps.

“Temper much?” Damian drawled, cocky as ever. “You better get that under control before you see Y/N.”

Jason didn’t turn around.

Didn’t speak.

Just stared down at the man on the ground, eyes burning behind his helmet.

It’s not fair.

They got dinners, conversations, memories.

And him?

Nothing.

But they didn’t know everything.

Jason just remembered his plan. A way in they hadn’t seen.

Soon, he thought, as a slow smile tugged at his lips.

Soon, he’ll be closer to you than any of them.

—————

Your eyes flutter open, still fuzzy from sleep. Exhausted from your late night, you instinctively roll over to go back to sleep.

But something’s wrong.

This isn’t your room.

Your blood grows cold, then panic races through your chest.

You rip the sheets off and scramble to your feet, but white dots cloud your vision. You collapse to your knees before you can even reach the door.

Your head pounds, each beat like a hammer inside your skull.

You try to lift a hand to your temple—but you can’t. Your arm feels like it's on fire.

The door slams open, but you barely register it. Tears blur your vision as you cradle your useless arm.

Someone's hands grab your shoulders.

You flinch, looking up—

Dick. Kneeling in front of you, blue eyes full of something like concern.

Damian looms in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you.

"Y/N, are you alright?" Dick asks softly, voice laced with concern. He holds your gaze, waiting.

You look between him, Damian, and your arm. It doesn’t look broken, but the pain is unbearable.

"I—w-why am I here?" you choke out.

Dick smiles. Calm. Reassuring. Too perfect.

"You fell asleep at Tim’s desk," he says, voice smooth. "We tried to wake you, but you wouldn't budge. So we moved you to the guest room."

You want to believe him.

God, you want to.

But you know you would never fall asleep here. Not with them.

"...No..." you whisper. Tears stream down your face.

"No?" Damian's voice snaps like a whip. He steps forward, anger flashing in his eyes.

Dick shoots him a sharp glare, silently telling him to back off.

"I wouldn’t do that," you sniffle, meeting Dick’s gaze.

He just smiles again. That boyish smile.

"Then you must’ve been really tired," he chuckles.

Liar.

"Then why do I hurt so much?" you mutter, voice shaking with anger.

Dick freezes—only for half a second—before smoothing his expression again.

"What do you mean?" he asks, dripping with concern.

"My arm," you grit out. Tears blur your vision again. "Why can’t I move my arm?"

Dick blinks, looking almost genuinely puzzled.

"I have no idea. Maybe you hurt it during your game yesterday?"

You stand, backing toward the bed. Every instinct in you screams run.

"Why did I just pass out at Tim’s desk and wake up in agony?" you hiss.

Tim got your number without permission.

He lied to you.

They fed you and 45 minutes later you just conveniently passed out.

There’s no way any of that is a coincidence?

"How are we supposed to know?" Damian snaps, stepping up beside Dick. His glare sharpens, like he’s offended you’re questioning them.

"What did you do?" you hiss, backing up another step. Your hand fumbles on the nightstand until you find your phone, quickly shoving it into your pocket.

"We didn’t do anything," Dick insists, still with that fake calm. "You’re overthinking this."

"Then how did Tim get my number?" you shout, voice cracking.

Dick opens his mouth, but you cut him off.

"I know he didn’t get it from Brandi. He lied to me."

They freeze.

Share a glance.

You don’t miss it.

Caught.

"What was that?" you shout, pointing at them. "I know you did something!"

"I’m going home."

You shove past them, but Damian’s hand shoots out—gripping your wrist.

Pain explodes up your arm.

You scream, jerking back. Damian’s eyes widen as he instantly lets go, staring at his hand like he can't believe he hurt you.

You don’t wait. You run.

Dick calls after you:

"It’s okay, Y/N! I’m sure if you just let Tim explain—!"

You don’t care.

You don’t need an explanation.

You just need to get the hell out.

Twisting and turning through the endless halls of Wayne Manor, you pray you don’t run into anyone else.

Somehow, you make it to the front door.

You slip on your shoes with one hand, heart hammering, and bolt.

It’s still only 10:00 a.m. You’ll have the whole day to hide. To think. To breathe.

The subway ride is a paranoid blur—you keep glancing over your shoulder, half-expecting to see one of the Waynes stalking you.

But no one follows.

When you get home, you barely make it to your bed before collapsing, curling into yourself, trying to sleep off the pain and the fear.

Trying to pretend today never happened.

—————

You wake up to the screeching of your alarm. With a sigh you roll over and shut it off.

You dreaded going to school today, the thought of seeing Tim again made you sick. Your arm throbbed, your eyes stung from crying, and your stomach felt ill. but you couldn’t afford to miss a class.

You wonder if the GCPD found Tim’s attackers yet, you silently prayed they didn’t.

With a grown you got out of bed and haphazardly got ready for school.

Looking in the mirror your eyes were so puffy from crying all weekend and your hair was a mess. You splash cold water on your face hoping to ease the swelling, and run a brush through your hair to somewhat reduce your rats' nests. As you finish up the rest of your morning routine you glance at yourself in the mirror— still a mess.

You skipped breakfast today, you haven't been able to keep much food down this weekend.

The subway to school is agonizing. All you are able to think about is bio class, and what will happen when you see Tim again.

You just focus on your breathing the whole ride to school. You don’t have to see Tim tell 1 O'clock today, until then you’ll just have to manage.

Your first two classes fly by, it’s only until Mr Snyder hands you back your Math test.

See me after class. Written in bright red sharpie.

you groan and sink back into your chair.

You were so sure you nailed that test.

You spent the rest of class numb, staring at the clock until it finally rang.

Dragging your feet to Mr. Snyder’s desk, you kept your eyes glued to the floor.

“You wanted to see me?”

He gave you a look full of pity you didn’t want.

“Y/N… I know math isn’t for everyone, but after last week’s test, you’re sitting at a 53. You need at least a 65 to keep your scholarship spot.”

The words barely registered.

Basketball was everything.

Without it, you had nothing keeping you here. Nothing at all.

“You have four weeks to raise it,” he added gently. “Plenty of time.”

You nodded numbly.

Maybe Brandi could help. Maybe you could pull it off.

You had to.

”thank you” you mumble before making your way to Lunch.

Lunch with Brandi flys by, it’s clear she wanted to know all about your time at The Wayne Manor, not noticing the way you stifinined when the topic was brought up. You kept your answers short and vague, avoiding most details.

Brandi had enough stress in her life. And although you two were friends your friendship was still fresh— you’ve only known her for a few weeks, you didn’t want to scare her.

Besides, would she even believe you if you told her? Would anyone?

That’s probably what they wanted, to continue to torment you and have no one believe it.

Did they enjoy tormenting people? Making their lives miserable? Especially when there was a clear power dynamic?

The thought made you shiver.

Before you could think about it for too long the warning bell rang. You froze. Biology was next. You would have to see him.

As you slowly stumbled over to your class you grew more and more nauseous, your legs felt like led, and your bag became heavier. As you rounded the corner and stepped through the door you saw him.

Tim Drake.

He glanced up from his phone and smiled directly at you. His smile was like any other smile you’d give your friend. It was so casual, so normal, it was like Saturday never happened.

You were going to be sick.

You turned around and rushed to the bathroom as fast as you could and emptied your stomach.

After flushing the toilet and rinsing your mouth out you stared at yourself in the mirror.

What do you do?

Mrs. Young hasn’t seen you yet, you could just go home, email coach saying you're sick.

Nodding to yourself in the mirror, you grabbed your bag and left.

The ride home was much more relaxing than the one to school. You emailed coach saying you were sick and would see him tomorrow, before plugging in your headphones and listening to music the rest of the way home.

When you got to your building, you noticed cardboard boxes littering the hallway.

Someone was moving in.

You snorted to yourself. Who the hell would choose to live here?

You made it to your door just as a man lugged another box toward the unit next to yours.

He caught your eye and smiled.

“I’m Jason Smith,” he said.

Something about his smile made your skin crawl. Like he knew something you didn’t.

But you forced a polite nod. No reason to be rude.

“Cool. I’m Y/N. See you around.”

You turned to unlock your door, feeling his eyes linger on you just a little too long.

He chuckled under his breath.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Looking forward to it.”

Taglist: @jjsmeowthie @crazycaoticsimp @lilyalone @shycreatorreview @caged-birdies-blog @shrip-collector-of-fixations @wizzerreblogs @c4xcocoa @cxcilla @staarflowerr @itzpeachts @roseytheteacup @nervousalpacalady @buckturd @cat-lover-over-9000 @vampire-oc-lover @00hellohello00 @jsprien213 @endaculi @vanilliona @br0ke-b1tch @tsuniio @hearts4mica

Hey y’all I’m back. I had to get surgery from when I broke my wrist snowboarding and I applied to so many scholarships for collage, I also got diagnosed with dyslexia and dyscalculia which kinda hindered my motivation to write but than I got over it cause I love writing so much, plus i had like 3 drafts that somehow got deleted, i lost a request from an anon which sucks. But I’ve outsourced, now I’m writing on docs than just copy and pasting it. I dont wanna make promises about when I’ll be posting but it should be a lot more frequent now!! Also some of the tags dont work so y’all might have to fix that in your settings.

If y’all have any one shot ideas please lmk I need more inspo!!!

[psformybss]

Can you do one where the public reacts badly towards Drew’s secret?fiancée? I know you have done a good one but can you do a bad one?

When the World Knew

series masterlist

warnings: internet hate, secret relationship reveal, angst, emotional distress, comfort, death threats (mentioned), protective!Drew, hurt/comfort

an: fun fact i originally wanted to make the reveal angsty, actually wrote a few different versions of it and this one is one of them except more angsty than it originally was

════════════════

The day they got caught was golden.

Not metaphorically—actually golden.

The light, the laughter, the way the ocean curled around their ankles as they kissed. Teddy chased a gull down the shoreline. Drew held her hand like it was second nature, like no one was watching. Because they thought—hoped—no one was.

For a few sacred hours, it was just them and the surf. A soft kind of joy.

Until it wasn’t.

Until the picture hit the internet like a match to dry brush.

By morning, it was a fire.

By evening, it was an inferno.

And by the next day, it was war.

She hadn’t meant to check her phone.

She shouldn’t have.

But the moment she saw her face plastered across fan accounts, tagged in screenshots of that photo, the dread sank into her like a stone in water.

They had found her.

Not just her name—her Instagram. Her photos. Her old high school posts. Her graduation selfie with Drew’s arm around her waist. The blurry prom pic she forgot even existed.

And they ripped her apart.

Her DMs were flooded.

“You’ll never be enough for him.”

“He deserves better.”

“You’re ruining his career.”

“He could have any woman he wants, and he chose you?”

Then it got worse.

“Die.”

“Go kill yourself.”

“He’ll leave you. They always do.”

She locked her phone and sat in the silence of their bedroom, blinds drawn, heart thudding behind her ribs like a warning bell. Her skin itched. Her throat burned. She couldn’t tell if she wanted to scream or throw up.

Teddy barked from the living room. She didn’t move.

Her hands were shaking.

Drew found out during a scene break on set.

His phone vibrated nonstop—texts from his sister, his publicist, old high school friends, “Check Instagram now.”

He pulled up Instagram.

Saw the photos.

Saw the screenshots.

Saw the hate.

Saw her name trending.

He didn’t even tell the director he was leaving.

She didn’t hear him come in.

She was still sitting on the floor of the bathroom, back against the tub, eyes blank. Her phone was on the counter with the screen turned face-down.

He said her name once—softly.

She didn’t answer.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, cupping her face with trembling hands. “Hey. Baby. Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to his. Shiny. Empty.

“They found me,” she said, voice hollow. “They found everything.”

Drew’s stomach twisted.

“They’re sending death threats.”

She blinked, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“They said I should kill myself so you can be free.”

“Jesus,” he breathed, pulling her into him. She didn’t fight it. Just collapsed against his chest like she had nothing left holding her up.

“I thought I could handle it,” she whispered. “But I didn’t think it would be this.”

His jaw clenched. He stroked her hair like it could ground her. Like maybe if he held her close enough, none of it would stick.

“They don’t know you,” he said, his voice raw. “They don’t get to touch you like this.”

“I feel disgusting,” she choked. “Like I ruined everything. Like I’m the villain in their fantasy.”

“No. No,” he said, pulling back to meet her eyes. “This is not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.”

“We waited, Drew. We waited. We wanted it to be ours. Safe. Now they’ve taken even that.”

He saw it then—the heartbreak buried beneath the fear. Not just the backlash. But the grief of losing something sacred.

“I should’ve protected you,” he said quietly.

She shook her head, voice trembling. “You did. You always have.”

That night, Drew didn’t sleep.

She lay in bed beside him, silent tears soaking into his hoodie. He stayed awake, watching the curve of her cheek against the pillow, the slight hitch of her breath. Every time her phone buzzed on the nightstand, he had to force himself not to throw it across the room.

By dawn, he’d had enough.

He opened Instagram. Sat on the edge of their bed. Hit record.

No lights. No filters. Just a man and his fury.

“If you’re my fan,” he said, “you don’t get to send death threats to the woman I love.”

His voice was low, but it shook.

“She’s been part of my life since we were kids. Before the shows. Before the cameras. She has never once asked for attention or clout or anything from me but love.”

He swallowed hard.

“And now, because someone snapped a picture, she’s being harassed, threatened—told to die. All because she wears a ring I gave her.”

A pause. His eyes narrowed.

“I’m done being quiet. This isn’t just internet drama. This is real. This is the woman I’m going to marry, and you’re hurting her.”

His hand tightened around the phone.

“If you say you care about me—really care—then stop. Right now. Because I won’t stand by and watch you destroy the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He posted it without rewatching.

Then he turned off his phone.

And climbed back into bed.

The internet fractured.

Some fans doubled down—called him whipped, dramatic, claimed he was “blaming his supporters.”

But others fought back harder.

“This woman has done nothing wrong. Leave her alone.”

“Imagine being with your high school sweetheart and people think you’re the villain?”

“I can’t believe how disgusting people are being. Drew’s right to be furious.”

“Love like this doesn’t happen often. Protect it.”

Slowly, the tide shifted.

Not fully. But enough.

She could breathe again.

Not because the hate was gone.

But because he didn’t let her drown in it alone.

They stayed inside for a few days.

Ordered takeout. Watched comfort movies. Played music too loud just to block out the world.

Drew held her through the panic. Sat with her through the silence.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he was building a new shield around her every time.

And eventually, she started to come back to herself.

She started answering texts again. Opened her camera roll and smiled at pictures of Teddy chasing his tail. Sat on their back porch with her knees pulled to her chest and said, “Maybe one day we’ll laugh about this.”

Drew kissed her temple.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

[eufezco]

WHAT WE DID 𓂃 𓈒 ❀

synopsis – after arriving to salt lake with ellie and joel, the fireflies take her away from you and you did what it took to get her back.

a/n – because since the last episode aired the only thing i can think about is destroying everyone ( ;) ) in that fucking hospital with joel. we're all in this together as they say in high school musical 😭 also this is my first time writing something with so many action and english isn't my first language so i hope you can understand everything

c/w – blood, violence, guns, shooting

angst. fluff

the last of us and pedro pascal masterlist

joel's eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, his expression unreadable. your arm rested against the window, hand holding your head up as you watched the trees blur past. your ears still rang from the shots, you could still feel the trigger in your fingers, the way the recoil bit into your shoulder, the smell of the blood staining your hands.

neither of you said a word. the windows of the car were closed shut, holding in the silence inside. the only sound that mattered was ellie's steady breathing from the back seats.

she let out a soft hum in her sleep, barely more than a breath, but enough for joel’s eyes to snap to the rear view mirror like a reflex. he had it angled just for her, didn’t care much for what was behind them anymore. you turned to look at her. ellie hadn’t moved. still curled up in the backseat, still in that hospital gown, though your jacket was wrapped around her like a shield. her face was calm, just sleep.

—she okay? —joel asked, voice low.

—yeah, —you said. —she's good.

it didn’t matter that joel tried to act like a human shield for ellie and you when that thing exploded, he still went down, and you still ended up in a hospital bed right beside him, with a strong headache, your body hurting. but none of that mattered the second your eyes landed on the red firefly symbol stamped across the wall. you pushed the sheets back, swung your legs over the side of the bed. you tried to stand, but the dizziness hit hard, your knees buckled, vision blurred, the taste of iron thick in your mouth.

—joel, —you swallowed and had to sit on the edge of your bed. his eyes opened slowly, he let out a low groan from his chest as he blinked against the harsh lights, —joel, are you okay? where's ellie?

and then marlene appeared, telling you how grateful she was to both of you for escorting ellie safe to the fireflies, yet joel and you cared only about one thing: where was she? marlene kept talking, trying to distract both of you, about purpose, about how special ellie was.

—just take us to her, —joel rubbed a hand over his face as he sat up straighter on the bed, the pain still into every movement.

—i can't, —that was all it took. your body went still, alert. she couldn’t? —she's being prepped for surgery.

joel’s head snapped toward her. your stomach dropped. —what kind of surgery? —he asked, looking around the room, confused. your eyes wouldn't left marlene. she took a few seconds before answering.

—our doctor thinks that the cordyceps in ellie has grown with her since brith.

—why is she in surgery? —you asked, sharp and clear. you wanted the truth, no more bluffing.

—he's gonna remove it from her, multiply the cells in a lab and then we can give it to everyone. he thinks it could be a cure.

—cordyceps grows inside the brain, —joel said immediately after.

marlene pressed her lips together, —it does.

you felt the breath catch in your chest, like your lungs had forgotten how to work. your hands trembled, but you curled them into fists. you looked at joel. his eyes were locked on marlene, but you could see it in his face. the way his shoulders had gone rigid, the way his fingers were holding onto the edge of the bed.

—we didn't tell her, we didn't cause her any fear, there won't be pain.

—no, no, no, no... —you muttered under your breath, pushing yourself up from the bed. your legs trembled, barely holding your weight, but you didn’t care. you needed to get to the door and you needed to get to her. one of the two guards flanking the exit moved and with no warning, the back of his rifle cracked against your legs.

your knees gave out, hitting the floor hard. —hey! —joel shouted. he was on his feet in an instant but the second guard was faster. the butt of his rifle slammed into joel’s side, and he dropped too, falling to his knees next to you.

marlene looked down to both of you. she pressed her lips together and just mumbled an i'm sorry, i have no other choice.

—we do, —joel said. his whole body tensed, ready to snap. you didn’t have to look at him to feel it, you had the same expression. fury. grief. betrayal. you looked up at marlene through teary eyes. yours were filled with disbelief, desperation, joel's eyes were pure wrath.

marlene shook her head looking at you two, —walk them out to the highway, leave them there. if they try anything, shoot them.

one of the guards grabbed joel by the arm, dragging him roughly to his feet. you tried to get up but the second guard didn’t wait. he shoved the barrel of his rifle against your back, hard, making you fall back to your knees. joel clenched his jaw, approaching the second guard but before he could reach him, the first guard grabbed him by his shoulder and yanked him back.

—don’t ever touch her again, —joel growled, eyes locked on the one who pushed you.

in that moment, you still on your knees and joel standing in front of you, you shared a glance, like two ends of a loaded wire. the same thought crossed your minds: we get out of here dead or with ellie. joel’s eyes darkened just enough for you to know he’d already chosen. you felt the same burning in your chest. you'd chosen too.

you left marlene behind and the guards got you through the hospital. you two walked between them. joel ahead of you, his hand behind him, stretched just enough so his fingers could find yours. you reached out, not hesitating, lacing your fingers with his in the space between you.

joel stopped halfway down the stairs, the guards barked a move! and pushed you forward. you both stumbled down a few steps. his hand held yours tighter and you understood that it was time. he slammed his elbow into the first guard’s face, bone meeting bone with a crack. the man stumbled back, you ducked and moved aside, slipping out of the way just in time as joel grabbed the first guard’s rifle before it hit the ground, and without even looking, aimed it toward the second guard.

bang.

you grabbed the dead man's rifle from the floor, and in one fluid motion, aimed it at the first guard still conscious. he was against the wall, one hand pressed over his bloodied nose. joel raised his rifle beside you. —where is she? —you asked.

—fuck you, —he said. and before he was done, you pulled the trigger.

joel and you looked at each other. there was no going back, whatever waited for you above, you were going to face it. together. you gave him a small nod. joel turned and started up the stairs, rifle raised, steps quiet. you followed close behind, watching his back like he watched yours.

you made your way to the top floor. every hallway was fire, every corner, another shadow with a gun. but you didn’t slow down. joel was just ahead, or just behind, depending on who needed cover. you moved like you'd done this a thousand times together. each time you pulled the trigger, each time a firefly dropped to the ground dead, it wasn’t hate in your chest. it was fear, desperation.

it was family.

you didn’t see enemies, you saw obstacles between you and her. between the three of you, between what the world wanted to take and what you refused to give up. your feet moved faster than your thoughts which is why you didn’t see him. he came out of nowhere, rushing from a side hall. his knife drove down into your arm, really close to your shoulder. the man pushed forward, trying to pin you, but before he could finish what he started

bang.

a single shot, clean, perfect, straight through the head, and his body hit the floor. joel was already there, eyes sharp, his focus was all on you. —shit, —joel lowered his rifle after the shot as he muttered with anger at the world, at the fireflies, at the fact that you were bleeding in front of him. —hold on. i got you.

your breath came in short gasps, the pain was sharp, the blood was hot, soaking through your shirt, running fast down your arm but the adrenaline was stronger. you shook your head, —we keep going.

he didn’t argue, he saw the determination on your face. he thought about it before he nodded once, jaw tight. you had to get to ellie.

the flickering light at the end of the hallway caught your attention. joel and you had cleared it, bodies left behind in silence and blood, rifles low now but ready. the echo of the last shot still seemed to ring in your ears, the pain in your arm ran through your whole body. joel stepped closer to the door, breath measured, eyes locked on it. he raised the barrel of his rifle and pressed it gently to the metal, pushing it open inch by inch.

joel lowered his rifle when he saw her. you straightened your back despite the weight of pain pulling you down and you lowered your rifle too. what did they do to her? what were they planning on doing to her? how could you have put it directly into the wolf's mouth? she was unconscious on the operating table. pale. still. surrounded by blue gowns and gloved hands.

—unhook her.

one of the doctors turned, startled. without a second thought, his hand grabbed the scalpel on the table beside him and also without a second thought, joel shot him. he didn't flinch, neither did you because if joel hadn’t made that shot, you would’ve.

—unhook her! —you repeated what joel said.

the nurses moved fast, trying to avoid the same fate as the doctor. the monitors stopped beeping and they pulled the needle free from her arm, and you saw the small, shallow prick of blood that followed.

—turn around, —joel ordered to the nurse, aiming his gun at them.

you approached ellie quickly, your heart hammering in your chest. you gently caressed her hair and leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, —we're here, you're safe, —you mumbled to her in case she could hear you.

joel was completely numb, his eyes were distant, as if he was still processing how you almost lost her. he moved quickly, almost mechanically, to the small supply closet in the corner of the room. he grabbed bandages, alcohol, thread and needles, anything that could be used to treat you and put it inside his pack. then he reached you and ellie, his focus shifted completely. his hand gently passed down ellie’s neck and with the same careful movement, he slid his other hand behind her knees, lifting her just a little more securely in his arms, his grip solid but not too tight.

the nurses stood frozen, their backs to you, hands raised in silent surrender. they didn’t dare move, barely breathed. they’d seen your faces. they’d seen what you and joel were willing to do. it wasn’t personal, but they were witnesses now and you couldn’t leave anyone who might come back for ellie. or for you. or for joel.

your shot echoed in the sterile, tense air, a sound so sharp it almost didn’t seem real, and the nurses fell to the floor.

you stepped out of the operating room first, your rifle at the ready. behind you, joel moved with ellie in his arms. you reached the elevator, your eyes scanning the empty hallway, but the quiet was short. the sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor, drew your attention. you tensed, instinctively raising your rifle.

—you go with ellie, i'll take care of that.

joel's voice came softer, almost pleading. —don't make me leave you.

you turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. you stepped in close, your free hand rising to cradle the back of his neck, forehead to forehead. —i'll meet you in the parking lot, i swear. get her safe.

joel stepped into the elevator as the footsteps rounded a corner far down the hall, still unseen but coming fast. the doors began to close and you gave him a small nod of reassure. you stayed back against the edge of the elevator shaft, just out of sight, waiting for the person to get to where you were hiding.

her braid hung low and her hand trembled around the grip of her gun. she stood in front of the door like she wasn’t ready to go in, like some part of her still didn’t want to believe what might be waiting for her inside. and you shot her. quick. right in the back of her head and she fell to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. she was young, probably a few years older than ellie but you had no choice, it was you or her.

you took the elevator, feeling the dizziness of your wound finally hit you. your hand moved to your arm and you hissed when you pressed to stop it from bleeding anymore. when you got to the parking lot, you heard a voice.

—it's not too late. even now, even after what you two have done. we can still find a way.

marlene.

you walked slowly, trying to go unnoticed, until you realized there was a gun in her hand aimed directly at joel and ellie, her finger already on the trigger. you didn’t think. you didn’t wait. you couldn’t lift your rifle with both hands, your injured arm hung useless by your side, so you raised it with one. it shook under the weight, your hold unsteady, vision narrowing. but your aim? your aim was clear. the bullet hit her low in the back and she fell to the ground.

joel moved fast, cradling ellie tighter. he opened the back door of the car and eased ellie inside, laying her across the seats as gently as he could, brushing her forehead before pulling your jacket tighter around her. then he turned in a hurry, eyes scanning until they landed on you. you were leaning against the wall now, rifle still in one hand, the other gripping your bleeding side, your knees looked ready to give out.

—got you, —he muttered, breath hot against your temple. you nodded, swallowing a groan as you moved. every step felt like fire, but he kept one arm firmly around your hips, guiding you to the car.

you stopped. joel felt it and he turned with you, both of you staring down at marlene where she lay on the floor, blood pooling slowly beneath her. her hand was raised, shaking, reaching toward you.

—wait, wait, wait, no. please. let me go.

your rifle was still in your hand, but lowered now. joel looked at you, not pressuring, just watching. the choice was yours.

—you’d never stop. —your voice quiet. —you’d come for her again.

and you shot one last time into her head. no hesitation. you leaned into joel without a word, your weight folding into the side of his body as his arm around your hips tightened, steadying you. he helped you to get to the car, his grip never leaving you.

you fell into the passenger seat with a grunt, the door slamming shut beside you as joel slid in behind the wheel. he didn’t waste a second. the engine roared, tires squealing, —press your arm, —he said, eyes moving from the road to you and back. you needed to get as far as possible from the fireflies before even thinking about stop and focus on the pain at your arm. and you did as he said, your hand to your wound, wincing hard, your fingers slick with blood.

a couple of miles passed like a blur. he drove in silence. ellie lay unconscious in the backseat, small and pale under your jacket. you were in the passenger seat, blood soaking through your shirt and running down your arm. his heart beating so hard against his ribs he swore you could hear it. he pulled off the road without warning, parking behind a cluster of rusted-out cars lining an overgrown roadside. joel rubbed his forehead. he slammed the driver’s door shut and came around to your side of the car.

he crouched down, eyes scanning your face before dropping to the blood still soaking your side. —shit, —he muttered. joel's hand careful pinched your chin. —hey. look at me. you still with me? —you gave a small nod. —alright, i'm gonna get you out of the car. you need fresh air and i'll patch you up. —he helped you to get out, his hands holding your hips as he closed the door behind you and sat you on the ground, letting you rest your back against the car. joel grabbed the pack from the back seat, dropping to his knees by your side. he started digging through the supplies he had grabbed from the or.

you swallowed hard as you watched joel rip the sleeve of your shirt with the knife. the alcohol from your flask hitting your wound was the worst, the sting was almost unbearable. then he reached for the needle, his hands trembling more than you’d ever seen before which made it very hard for him pass the threat through the needle's eye. his hands were still unsteady as he began to stitch the wound, the needle going through your skin, pulling the edges together. you closed your eyes shut and held your breath, your fingers dug into the dirt beside you.

—breathe. please. you're scaring the hell outta me.

you opened your eyes, met his, and let out the breath you didn’t realize you were still holding.

—hurts like hell, —you whispered, the corners of your mouth twitching, like you were trying to make it a joke but didn’t quite have the strength.

—i know, `m sorry. i'm almost done.

you looked down at your stitched-up wound, the edges of your torn skin now held together in a rough but solid line. blood still stained the surrounding skin and joel's hands but it wasn’t pouring out anymore. he carefully wrapped a clean bandage around your arm, putting a little pressure on the wound to make sure it stayed in place. —you did great, joel. thank you.

you closed your eyes and let your head rest against the metal of the car. joel sat next to you, his arms hung loosely on his knees. you hadn’t had time to process what you just did. the violence, the blood, the choices.

—we did what we had to do.

you nodded slowly, —we couldn't lose her, joel. she's like our-

you stopped before the word left your lips. daughter. but it hung there anyway—unspoken but clear. ellie was more than just a kid. she was more than just a cargo. joel didn’t need to hear the word to understand.

—yeah, she is.

you sat there together for a moment, enjoying the silence as your head rested on his shoulder. he didn’t speak, but his arm around you told you he was just as lost in his thoughts. then, without a word, before getting into the car again, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. and joel drove, as fast as he could, to jackson.

ellie rubbed her eyes in the backseat. joel's hands on the steering wheel tightened, your back tensed. she tried to sit but the effects of the anesthesia were still there, —it's alright, you're with us. take it slow, the drugs are still wearing off.

—i was with the fireflies and the... what drugs?

joel swallowed and you decided to talk for him. you told her they had run tests, that it turned out she wasn’t the only one and there were others like her, people who were immune. you said the doctors tried everything, but none of it worked. that all their research for a cure had led nowhere. and that they’d stopped trying.

she took a second before answering. then, she asked for her clothes, after noticing that she was wearing an hospital gown. joel told her there had been raiders. that things got messy. he said you barely made it out. you stayed quiet beside him, the lie sat on top of the others, fragile but necessary.

—were people hurt?

joel nodded. she noticed joel's hands on the steering wheel with dried blood and the way you held your arm close to your body, the dark patch of blood that had seeped through the edge of the bandage.

—is marlene okay?

you swallowed but said nothing. joel didn’t answer either. ellie waited but that silence told her more than any words could. she turned her back, curling into herself. joel took your hand, the one resting on your leg. his thumb brushed lightly over your skin, comforting, like a reminder of the words he said before,

we did what we had to do.

[half-of-a-gay]

PART 4 OF RUGBY VIKA X MANAGER READER PLEASEEEEE ITS SOO CUTE <\3

[A/N: You guys keep asking for this and I have a problem saying no so here you go. Enjoy!]

Links: part 1, part 2, part 3

PART 4:

Rugby player!Sevika x Team manager!Reader

The morning after the date starts slow.

You're in bed longer than usual, half-buried in blankets and replaying everything from the night before on a loop - the warm light of the diner, the way Sevika’s laugh had turned unguarded by the end of the evening, the brush of her hand finding yours. 

You try not to think about it too much. You try to school your expression and put on the best poker face you could muster. But the second you step into the coffee shop to meet your friends, you know you’re not getting away with anything. 

They’re already at a booth by the window, hands wrapped around steaming mugs, mid-conversation until one of them spots you and immediately smirks.

“Well,” she says before you’re even seated. “Someone’s looking suspiciously well-rested this morning.”

You slide into the booth and fight the smile tugging at your lips. “I’m just in a good mood.”

“Mhm. Spill.”

You hesitate for a moment. It’s not that you don’t want to tell them - it’s just that talking about it out loud makes it feel… fragile. But they’re your friends, and you did promise to fill them in.

“We went out last night,” you say finally. “Me and Sevika.”

You keep going, your words measured. “She took me to this old diner. Said it was kind of her safe spot. We just talked, ate pie, nothing wild. But it was… good. She was different than I thought she’d be.”

There’s a brief, telling pause. One of your friends glances at the others, exchanging a look that’s hard to miss.

“She didn’t even kiss me until I did it first,” you add quickly, almost too quickly. “She was actually kind of nervous.”

Another pause- longer this time. The weight of it hangs between you, and the air feels suddenly thick.

“I thought she ghosted you after the away game,” one of them says, their tone carefully neutral, but the undertone is there. It’s pointed. “Didn’t you say something happened, and then she just… disappeared?”

You feel your chest tighten at the reminder. Your hand wraps around your cup, fingers tightening around it, but you force yourself to stay calm.

“It wasn’t like that,” you insist, a little too forcefully. “She didn’t ghost me. She just… shut down for a while.”

“Isn’t that worse?” someone else chimes in. “I mean, you barely said what happened but we just don’t want you getting blindsided again.”

You stiffen. “It’s different now. She opened up. She took me somewhere that matters to her. I don’t think she does that with everyone.”

“Are you sure?” one of them asks gently. “You’ve had a thing for her for ages. You really think you’re seeing this clearly?”

You blink. The warmth from earlier starts to feel thinner. Shaky. 

Another one of your friends leans back in her chair, arms crossed. She’s quiet for a beat, then speaks slowly, as if weighing her words. “I don’t know… I mean, it sounds nice and all, but you’re talking about Sevika. The same Sevika who’s kind of known for sleeping around and disappearing when things get real? And, I don’t know, you really think she’s different with you? After all that… history?”

Her words are gentle, but they sting, the undertone of doubt there- unavoidable.

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady. “She’s been different. I’m telling you, she’s not what you think.”

They exchange another look. You know they’re trying to be careful, but there’s something in the way they’re looking at you- something a little too knowing.

“She’s got a reputation,” another says, a shrug in her voice. “It’s not personal, it’s just… you said yourself  she doesn’t let people in, right? How do you know she’s not running the same play she always does? Maybe that diner’s her move. Sob story, meaningful eye contact, pie, boom. Hooked.”

Your heart sinks, but you fight it. You’re not going to let them make you doubt this. Not yet. Not when you know, deep down, it’s been real between you two.

“She’s not like that,” you say, quieter now. You take a breath, then meet their eyes, more firm. “You don’t get it. Sevika’s… complicated. But I’m telling you, she’s trying. And she’s not the person you think she is.”

There’s another long pause. This time, the silence feels different- not like understanding, but like uncertainty. 

—

The conversation with your friends lingers in the back of your mind as you walk towards the field for practice. The buzz of the café around you fades, but their words, the doubts - they stick. You had been so sure of yourself before, so open, so willing to jump in without hesitation. But now, a voice in the back of your head asks: What if they’re right? What if you’re just another one of Sevika’s fleeting moments?

You push the thoughts away, trying to focus on the here and now, as you arrive at the field earlie like you usually do. The sun paints the world in soft, golden hues. The morning air is cool, a contrast to the rising heat of the day. It's quiet, just the sound of your footsteps echoing across the grass, your mind still tangled from your conversation with your friends. You tell yourself it’s no big deal, that you’ll shake it off, but a little knot of doubt lingers.

As you make your way across the field, you spot Sevika already warming up. She straightens when she sees you approaching. Her posture is relaxed,arms crossed, but there’s a quiet tension in the way she watches you approach. She’s early. You weren’t expecting her to be, since she’s late for practice. For a moment, you can’t help but feel a little warmth in your chest. That’s what she does to you - makes you feel like you’re the only one in the room, even when it’s just the two of you.

You step closer, the soft crunch of grass beneath your shoes the only sound between you.

A slow smile tugs at the corners of Sevikas lips as she greets you. “Hey,” her voice is low but warm. “I didn’t think I’d beat you here.”

“Neither did I,” you say, chuckling softly, though you can’t help but feel a little lighter in her presence. You don’t want to overthink it, but it’s hard not to. “How long have you been here?”

“Not too long,” she replies, not offering more than that, but the way she glances at you - just a little longer than necessary - lets you know she’s been waiting for this. For you.

There’s a beat of silence, and you feel the familiar stir of doubt creeping in. Your friends' words still echo in your mind. You try to push them away, but they linger, casting a shadow over everything. You bite your lip, not sure if you should say anything. You should just act normal, but you can’t help the way your heart stutters when Sevika looks at you like that.

You don’t say anything right away, just stand there in front of her, your eyes bouncing from her to the side and back, not quite sure how to act. It’s quiet, uncomfortably so. There’s an expectant hum beneath it . She doesn’t tease, doesn’t smile - just looks at you with that open, steady expression of hers that always makes it hard to hide.

"You’re being kinda quiet today,” she says finally, tone low, careful. “Everything alright?”

You hesitate. There’s a soft warmth in your chest at her asking, at the way her voice dips, gentle just for you. You nod, but it's shaky, uncertain. “Yeah, I just... stuff’s been on my mind.”

She doesn’t push. Just tips her head slightly. “Want to talk about it?”

You almost say yes - almost spill all your insecurities - but then your chest tugs and twists and you find yourself unable to loosen your tongue. Your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Sevika just waits patently, eyes locked on yours. You’re about to finally spit it out, about to open the door to the mess you’ve been carrying all morning - when the sharp crack of a cleat on gravel pulls your attention.

Voices. Laughter.

The sound of Sevikas teammates spilling onto the field bursts the quiet little world you'd just started to build between the two of you.

You blink, shoulders tensing. Like you’ve been caught. You take a step back before Sevika can say anything. “I- uh- I’ll see you out there.”

Her brows knit, confused. You don’t wait to see if she calls after you.

Practice is a blur and Sevika can’t focus at all.

Not on the drills, not on the plays, not on her teammates shouting out positions or the coach barking through a megaphone. She runs the plays, hits her marks, does everything right on paper- but her mind keeps drifting.

To you.

You, on the far side of the field, planner in hand, expression tight. You’re not watching her. Not like you usually do. Usually, you steal glances when you think she’s not looking- those little flickers of interest, that slight raise of your brow when her muscles flex. Sevika's always noticed. Always looked for it.

But today? Today, you're all business.

Eyes on the team. Voice clipped, efficient, distant. And Sevika hates it.

She catches herself glancing over at you again- fourth time in ten minutes. Her steps stutter. She curses under her breath and pushes harder through the drill, jaw tight. "Focus," she mutters to herself.

But she can't- not when something’s wrong and you won't even look at her long enough to say what it is.

On the other side of the field, you're trying to look like everything’s normal. Pen tapping the cover of your planner in a controlled rhythm. But your eyes keep drifting too. To her and worse- to the girl beside her- number 9.

A newer teammate, a year younger, shorter than Sevika but just as quick on the field. You’ve noticed the way she hovers around Sevika for a while now. Always close. Always laughing at anything Sevika says. Always “accidentally” brushing against her arm when they line up. And Sevika never pushes her off. 

You’d told yourself it didn’t bother you. That it didn’t mean anything. That Sevika’s body language was stiff- barely engaged. And besides who were you to be bitter about it, she wasn't even yours.

But you couldn’t help it. Today your chest is tight with every little interaction. Every time she stretches way too close beside her. Every time she leans in, grinning like she knows something you don’t.

And Sevika just stands there. Not encouraging it- but telling her to fuck off either.

It gets to you even if it shouldn’t.  Because you can’t help but think: Was there something between them?  Did she ever bring her to the diner?

You shake your head, trying to shove the thoughts down. Trying to focus on your job. On the team. On not caring.

But your eyes find Sevika again, just in time to see the girl laughing too loudly at something and resting her hand on Sevika’s arm- too casual, too familiar.

And the way Sevika doesn’t flinch- doesn’t shrug her off-  It hits you right in the stomach. You look away before you can let it show.

But Sevika sees your eyes narrow, sees the set of your jaw shift, and her gut twists. She doesn’t know what she did, but she knows something’s off.

The rest of practice blurs by in a haze of second-guessing and tension. And the secondit+s over, you’re gone. Your strides are long and brisk, head down like you’ve got somewhere urgent to be. You don’t. You just can’t be here. Not with the weight in your chest getting heavier every time you catch Sevika out of the corner of your eye. Not with that girl still smiling at her like she knows her. Like she’s been there.

Maybe she has. Maybe that diner wasn’t special.  Maybe  all of it was just another version of a thing she’s done before.

You feel stupid. You told your friends they were wrong. That Sevika was different. That what you had meant something. But now, with every second that passes, you’re starting to wonder if you just saw what you wanted to see.

She didn’t even pull away from that girl…

Across the field, Sevika sees you move. Sees your sharp exit, the set of your shoulders, the way your head stays low. And her stomach drops.

She doesn’t move. Just stands there, eyes fixed on the corner you disappeared around. Her hands flexing at her sides like she doesn't know whether to chase you or punch something. And the only thought running through her head is: Fuck. I messed up again.

Behind her, number 9 walks up and bumps her shoulder bringing her out of her daze.  “Hey, Cap,” she says, voice bright. “Drinks with the team tonight?”

Sevika blinks at her. “What?”

“You know. Post-practice. You in?”

She hesitates, eyes still on the space you just vacated. “…Not tonight.”

The girl’s smile falters. “Oh. Okay.”

Sevika doesn’t even offer an excuse. Just turns and starts walking toward the locker room.

—

Sevika sits alone in the locker room long after most of the team has cleared out. The only sound is the low hum of the overhead lights and the occasional creak of pipes somewhere in the walls.

She hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Just sits there, elbows on her knees, hands loosely hanging, staring at the floor like it might give her answers. But all she can think about is the way you walked off the field. And the way you refused to look at her. Her stomach churns.

What the hell happened?

The date had gone well. At least she thought it had. You said you had a good time. You wouldn’t have said that if it wasn’t true… right?

So what changed? Was it the diner?

She swallows hard, jaw tightening as her thoughts circle back there.

Was that too much? Too personal?

She wanted it to mean something. She thought it did. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe it scared you off. Maybe you saw too much of her, too much of the quiet, lonely parts and decided she was too much, too complicated.

She scrubs a hand down her face, leans back against the lockers with a dull thud. Her eyes squeeze shut.

She can’t remember the last time she felt like this. So off-kilter. You weren’t supposed to matter this much, this soon. But you do.

And now she doesn’t know what to do with herself. She replays every moment from the date again. The way you looked around the diner like it was magic. The way your fingers had brushed hers across the table. The way you kissed her so softly at your door.

She’d gone home that night feeling something she didn’t let herself name. Something that sat heavy in her chest and warm in her ribs. Now she feels like she’s watching it slip away. And she doesn’t even know why.

Behind her, there's a quiet scuff of feet and a soft thunk of a locker door.

Then a familiar voice- calm and too perceptive by half. “Hey.”

Sevika stiffens slightly. Looks up.

Ran.

They’re leaning against the lockers across from her, one leg crossed over the other, arms folded like they’ve been there long enough to read Sevika’s whole emotional state and draft a thesis on it.

But her expression isn’t mocking. Not this time. Just curious. Concerned. Sharp around the edges in that way only Ran can pull off without sounding like they’re lecturing you.

“You good?” she asks.

Sevika exhales, slow and tight. “Fine.”

Ran tilts their head, unconvinced. They sit in silence for a while. Sevika keeps scowling at the floor until– “...No.”

Ran’s arms loosen just slightly across their chest. They don't smirk, don't push. They’re reading the room, watching Sevika carefully like she’s a skittish animal ready to bolt.

“She left fast,” Ran says, voice even, like it’s just an observation.

Sevika’s jaw flexes. “I noticed.”

Ran shifts their weight but doesn't break eye contact. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

After a long pause, she adds, casually: “She looked upset.”

That lands hard. Sevika doesn’t respond, but her eyes flick up- sharp, stung. Ran watches her reaction. Tucks the confirmation away without comment.

“I don’t know what I did,” Sevika mutters finally.

Ran nods slowly, arms still folded. “Date go bad?”

“No. It went—” Sevika breaks off, shaking her head. “It went good. She smiled. She kissed me. We texted after.”

“Then maybe it’s not about the date,” Ran says.

Their tone stays light, neutral. But they watch Sevika closely. Measure the way her brow furrows, the way her hands clench tighter between her knees.

“Could be something else,” Ran adds, “or someone.”

The shift is subtle. Intentional. She doesn’t say the teammate’s name. But Sevika’s body goes still.

Ran sees it but doesn’t press. Just lets the implication sit. A nudge, not a shove.

“Shit,” Sevika mutters.

And that’s all Ran needs to hear. They push off the locker, stretching lazily like they’re just making conversation. “Look, I don’t know what happened,” they say. “But if it’s important maybe stop staring at the floor and start figuring out how to fix it.” And just like that, they turn to go.

No judgment. No teasing. Just their usual quiet brand of tough love, dropped like a stone in the middle of Sevika’s spiral.

Sevika stays where she is for a few more seconds. Then drags both hands down her face with a groan, before reaching for her phone.

—

You’re halfway through changing when your phone buzzes across the desk. You don’t even look at first. You know who it is. You feel it in your chest.

Eventually, you check– Sevika. Calling.

Your thumb hovers over the screen but you don't answer. Not out of spite. Just… you’re not ready. Still too wrapped up in your own head, caught between doubt and guilt and god, I wanted her to be different.

The call rings out. The screen goes dark. You sit back against the chair, heart pounding, mind racing. You tell yourself it’s fine. That she’ll get it. That you’re allowed to need space.

But a minute later- She calls again.

You stare at the screen longer this time. There’s a weird ache in your chest. The same ache you felt after that night at the away game- when she pulled away without a word. When she vanished and left you scrambling, wondering what you’d done wrong.

And now you’re doing the same thing. You sigh. Run a hand through your hair.

Then you swipe to answer.

“…Hey.”

There’s silence on the other end for a second too long.

Then: “You picked up.” Her voice is rougher than usual tense, but quiet. Like she wasn’t expecting you to actually answer.

“Yeah,” you say. “I didn’t want to ignore you. I just… needed a minute.”

Another beat. Then she asks, cautious: “Did I do something?”

You close your eyes.

“No,” you say softly. “I mean- not on purpose. I don’t know.”  You pause, then add, “It’s not fair to make you guess.”

More silence. You hear her exhale through her nose.

“Can we talk?” she asks. “Like- really talk?”

You hesitate, then nod before realizing she can’t see you. “Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

You don't know exactly what you’ll say yet, or how to explain the way your mind spun out all day over something that probably wasn’t even real. But you know one thing for sure: You don’t want to hurt her. Not like that. She doesn’t deserve that.

—

Twenty minutes after the call, there’s a knock at your door. You hesitate for a second, then cross the room and open it. And there she is- Sevika.

In a hoodie that’s a little too big on her, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the veins in her forearms. Her hair is still damp from the shower, pushed back messily like she didn’t bother with a mirror. Her jaw is tense, her mouth set in a line that tries to stay calm, but the twitch in her fingers gives her away. Like she couldn’t stay still after hanging up. Like she came straight here, nerves and all, just to make this right.

She looks beautiful. Your breath catches a little. Because somehow, she always looks the best when she’s like this- unguarded. Like she doesn’t know how fucking magnetic she is.

The hard line of her shoulders. The storm in her eyes. The rawness she doesn’t know she’s showing.

God, she’s too much.

“Hi,” she says, voice low and rough at the edges.

You blink, breath still caught in your throat. “…Hey.”

You step back. “Come in.”

It’s quiet for a while.

You sit on the couch with Sevika, the space between you charged with quiet tension. She’s waiting. Not pushing- just waiting. You take a shaky breath, looking down at your hands in your lap. You’ve been turning the words over in your head all day, but now they feel jagged in your throat.

“I know it’s dumb,” you start. “But… I saw you today. With her.”

Sevika’s eyes narrow slightly, not defensive- just focused. She knows who you mean immediately.

“That girl- on the team. The one who’s always- flirting with you. All over you.” You say it flatly, trying not to sound bitter.

“Oh,” Sevika says, voice low.

“And it just… got in my head,” you admit. “Because you didn’t push her away.”

Sevika shifts like she wants to explain, but doesn’t interrupt.

Your throat tightens. “And then I couldn’t stop thinking about what my friends- ” The words come too fast. 

You freeze. Eyes wide. You cover your mouth with your hand like you could shove the sentence back inside.

Shit. You didn’t mean to say that. But it’s out now.

Sevika sits up straighter, eyes sharpening immediately. “…Your friends? What did they say?” she asks carefully.

You look away. “Forget it.”

“No,” she says, firm but low. “Tell me.”

You shake your head, but she leans in- voice softer now, but insistent. You stare at the coffee table like the grain in the wood might save you. Then, reluctantly: “They said some stuff. After the date.”

Her hands are already curled into fists in her lap.

You rush to soften it. “It wasn’t like- they didn’t mean it like that. They just… they’re protective. And they remember how upset I was after the away game. And they think I’m-”

Your voice drops to a near whisper.  “-setting myself up to get hurt.”

That hangs there for a second too long. You look down again, swallowing hard. Sevika stills. Her hands curl into fists in her lap, slow and tight. And her jaw clenches so hard you see the muscle twitch. And when you finally glance up at her, her gaze is on the floor, her face holds an unreadable expression. But the silence is brutal.

She breathes in, shallow. Then finally says- soft, flat: “They think I’m not serious.”

You wince. “I’m not saying they’re right. I’m just- ”

“No,” she cuts in. “It’s okay. I get it. I know what I look like from the outside.”

You turn to face her. “Sev- ”

“I know what people say about me. That I’m cold, distant, not the relationship type. They're not wrong. I’ve always kept people at arm’s length, kept things short, casual. Easy to build a wall when no one expects anything from you.”

She swallows, jaw clenching.“So yeah, I get why it looks bad. Why they’d think I’m just doing it again.”

There’s no bitterness in it. Just cold honesty.

“But that’s not what this is,” she adds. She looks up, and her voice is rougher now. “I need you to know that.”

You don’t interrupt. You just watch the way her eyes shine more than they should, the way her jaw clenches like she’s holding something back.

“I’m trying,” she says. “I’m fucking trying.” Her voice breaks- just slightly. Her jaw flexes again. Her chest rises with a shaky breath, and her eyes flick down, then quickly away, like she doesn’t want you to see it.

But you do.

You see the way her eyes gloss over, the way her shoulders tense like she’s barely holding it together. Not crying, but on the edge of it. Misty and raw in a way Sevika never lets herself be seen.

And your heart just splinters.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, your voice catching. “I’m so sorry. I just-” You exhale shakily. “I got scared.”

You feel it more now- the weight of it. How unfair it was. The way her voice cracked. The way she’s sitting so still, trying not to fall apart.

“I let them get in my head,” you admit. “And that’s on me.”

She doesn’t respond, but her breath hitches. She blinks hard and presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to choke the feeling down. Her hand in yours is warm and solid, but her fingers twitch, betraying the spiral beneath the surface. Then her eyes dart away, and you catch it- the tear that spills over before she can stop it.

She rubs it away with the back of her hand- rough and fast, like it embarrassed her just to let it fall. You reach up, gently, and brush your thumb along the other side of her cheek. She stiffens at the touch, but doesn't pull back.

You search her face. “You’ve been doing everything right, Sev. I just- got in my own way. And I’m so sorry.”

She blinks again. Breath shaky. Voice rough.

“I’m not good at this.”

You give a tired, self-deprecating little huff in response. “I’m not proving to be much better…”

“I mean- I let a couple offhand comments from people who weren’t even there outweigh everything I saw and felt that night. I’m not exactly winning any awards over here.”

Her mouth twitches, just barely. “So we both suck at this.”

You smile, just a little. “Yeah, well… at least it keeps us even”

She huffs something close to a laugh, but it tapers off fast. Her face still feels warm and flushed.  “Fuck,” she whispers, sniffling. “I don’t cry. What the hell are you doing to me?” A shaky breath escapes her, half a laugh and half something else.

You lean in until your forehead presses to hers, your hand cradling the side of her neck. Her eyes flutter shut. Her shoulders finally drop. And for a long, quiet beat, you just sit there. Forehead to forehead. Fingers tangled between you.

After a while you pull back just slightly, just enough to look at her. Her eyes are still red around the edges, still glassy, but she doesn’t try to hide it anymore.

You tilt your head. “Wanna stay a while?” You smile, small and warm. “We could… put something on. One of those bad action movies you like. Something with explosions and horrible acting. Preferably violent.”

She huffs under her breath, but there’s the faintest lift at the corner of her mouth. “Watch it,” she mutters. “Those are classics.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Mmm, sure. Deeply nuanced storytelling… Nothing says emotional range like twenty minutes of slow-mo gunfire and a one-liner about justice.”

“Okay, now you’re just asking to be kicked off the couch.” she says, deadpan.

“I’d like to see you try, big girl” you murmur, grinning.

She looks at you, eyes a little softer now. Like she can breathe again. And then you tilt your head, tone dropping low, teasing around the edges.

“I mean… your shoulder must be acting up again. It’s been weeks since you crawled into my lap whining about how you needed to be held?”

She groans immediately, dragging a hand down her face. “Fuck’s sake.”

You smile—just a little. “I’m just saying. You made a very convincing case last time.I’m just trying to be a responsible manager here.”

“Don’t,” she warns, but she’s already fighting a smile.

You don’t say anything. You just tug her gently down with you, guiding her head onto your chest. And when she follows- quiet, still a little raw- you don’t push or tease anymore. You just cradle her into your arms, wrapping them around her and letting her sink into you, like gravity takes her. 

And maybe that’s all they need right now- just this. Just here. And for it to finally feel like a beginning.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hi sex witch! I have really complicated feelings about my body when it comes to sex. For context I am 21 years old so still pretty young and having been a child for most of my life until now I still tend to think of myself as such. This makes the idea of sex or masturbation feel like something I shouldn’t be doing. Additionally as a trans man there’s some dysphoria there as well, particularly around the idea of getting “wet”. It makes me feel messy and disgusting. I was wondering if you had any tips or knew of any resources to help me feel more comfortable thinking of myself as a sexual being and not be grossed out by my own body

hey man. can I be honest with you for one second. like can I be so for real here. you're 21. you are a grown ass adult by any legal metric imaginable, to say nothing of the fact that the vast majority of people start masturbating as children or teens (hell, there's evidence that some babies do it in utero) and a hell of a lot of teens also begin having partnered sex with other teenagers well before they are legally adults. both of which are completely legal and, more importantly, are completely safe and developmentally normal! people don't become sexual beings the day they turn 18.

if you're uncomfortable with sex or jacking off you can just say that, this self-infantilization really isn't necessary, nor is it doing you any favors to imagine yourself as a person with no legal autonomy or right to your body.

in regards to the dysphoria frankly I suspect that a lot of the disgust you feel about your body is deeply tied to the same impulse that compels you to think of yourself as a child, in that both distance you from any sense of belonging in your body.

I'd say that the best place you can possibly start here is at least reaching of point of neutral understanding with your body; it doesn't need to immediately become a source of intense erotic pleasure but it does need to at least feel like yours, a house where you're allowed to paint the halls and scuff up the floors rather than an apartment where you'll be penalized for any major changes.

there are tons of ways to help make your body feel more like something that's yours: dressing with intention; decorating yourself with tattoos, piercings, new hair colors or styles, etc; being physically active in whatever ways are pleasurable to you (that doesn't necessitate vigorous physical activity, taking a walk or following a gentle yoga flow on youtube are great options); feeding yourself with foods that make you feel happy and nourished. any kind of proactive choice making is going to be great here!

and also, sincerely, one of the most important things you can do here is just. talk with other trans guys and read their writing about their bodies and, yes, their vaginas and the sex they have. immersing yourself in spaces where it's extremely normal and even desirable for a guy to have a sopping wet pussy when he's turned on is so, so great for helping that feel more normal and okay.

[littlefreakrry13]

⟡ but you won’t forget me ⟡

masterlist

A/n: I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS AHH🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️🧚🏼‍♀️ also no hate to alex at all, this is pure fiction!! I love her she’s such a diva and a queen!!✨✨

Charles leclerc x childhood best friend! reader

Warnings: 18+ (minors dni),cheating, angst, emotional damage and healing, panic attack.

Word count: 3,888

You grew up on the same street.

Your childhood intertwined like a well-worn thread — inseparable, almost inevitable.

When you were kids, Charles used to race you to the end of the street. You'd always cheat — taking a shortcut through the alley that made him laugh and complain about unfairness. But you always let him win because you wanted him to keep smiling. He never needed to win to know he was better than you at everything.

When you were fourteen, you spent every summer evening by the docks, dangling your feet over the edge, looking out at the vastness of the sea. He was the kind of boy who didn’t need to say much — just enough to make you feel like the world revolved around you both. The air smelled of salt and possibility, and the whole world felt like it was waiting for something to happen. It was supposed to be your forever.

It all felt so simple then.

At sixteen, you kissed him for the first time. His lips tasted like summer — a little salty from the breeze, a little sweet from the lemonade you’d been drinking. You could feel the weight of it all, but you never said a word. You just kissed him back, soft, tentative, as if the world wouldn’t change in that moment. But it did.

And when you both dated through the rough patches of adolescence, no one ever really believed it would end.

But it did.

It ended the moment he left for Formula One. The moment the world became too big for him, too loud, and too bright.

And when he walked away, you let him go. You knew his dreams were more important than staying tied to your quiet street, the one that barely noticed the passing days. You made peace with it.

You’d still see his family, still visit his mom and brothers, pretending you didn’t feel the hole where he used to be. You made yourself believe that you’d moved on. But deep down, you were lying to yourself. You didn’t move on. You just learned how to live with it.

It’s been years.

Charles is back in Monaco for the first time in what feels like forever. He’s bringing someone with him.

Alexandra.

You don’t need to know much. You don’t need to know what she looks like, or how long they’ve been dating. All you need to know is that it doesn’t matter. Because Charles will always be Charles, and you’ll always be the girl who kissed him at sixteen and watched him disappear.

Dinner that night is slow, agonizing torture.

Alex is lovely, charming, easy to like. She’s everything that fits with him now — polished, sophisticated, radiant in a way you never were. And you can see it in the way she laughs at things that aren’t even funny, in the way she strokes his arm across the table like she’s claiming him.

You want to look away. You do. But every time you glance at him, his eyes find you. They never leave you.

When his hand brushes yours by accident, you freeze, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb traces the back of your hand just once, just enough to sting with memory. That simple, fleeting touch lights something in you that hasn’t been awake in years.

You catch him looking at you, his gaze sharp and intense, the kind of look that says I’ve missed you.

You feel it, too.

The ache.

The pull.

But you don’t let it show. You laugh, and pretend to be happy, and when Alex asks you about your life, you smile like everything is perfect.

But all the while, Charles’ eyes are on you, like they’ve always been.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

Later, after dinner, you slip outside to the balcony, hoping the cool air will help clear your head.

The night air smells like salt. Familiar. Safe.

You lean against the railing, eyes fixed on the moonlit water, trying to push away the warmth that lingers in your chest. The weight of his gaze still follows you, even from a distance.

Then the door creaks behind you.

“Always out here after dinner,” he says softly.

You turn to face him. “Old habit.”

He steps closer, his presence a weight you can’t ignore. “You still look the same,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost reverent.

You feel your pulse quicken, a familiar tension that you know all too well. The distance between you two has never felt more unbearable. The air is charged — thick with everything you’ve been hiding.

“You look… different,” you say, your voice barely a whisper. “But still the same.”

He smiles a little, but his eyes tell a different story. There’s something deep in them that makes your breath catch. It’s the same look he gave you back then, before everything got so complicated.

And before you can stop it, he’s standing right in front of you, his body heat radiating against yours. His hand brushes the side of your arm, sending a shiver down your spine. It’s not an accident this time. He’s deliberately close. You can feel the warmth of him, the tension between your bodies electric.

You don’t move. You just look at him. Waiting. Wanting.

“Do you love her?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

He hesitates. “I want to,” he says, but there’s no conviction in it. No strength.

Your heart sinks, but before you can say anything, he steps forward and brushes his lips against your forehead, gently, like a memory he’s afraid to let go of.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admits, his voice rough and low.

You close your eyes, your body trembling as you force the words out. “You shouldn’t be here.”

But it’s too late. His lips are on yours, soft at first. Tentative. Careful.

But the longer it lasts, the deeper it goes. You can feel the years of longing, the unanswered questions, the weight of what should have been. His hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss.

It’s slow at first, building. His lips on yours are soft, warm, almost too gentle. But there’s a hunger beneath it, something you both recognize. Something that has always been there, just beneath the surface.

You pull him closer, needing the contact, feeling the heat of his body against yours. His hands move down to your hips, gripping you firmly, pulling you against him, and the sudden pressure makes you gasp.

His lips trail down to your neck, kissing and sucking, leaving marks that burn like fire. You tilt your head back, giving him more access, your hands threading into his hair as you tug him back to you.

“Charles…” you breathe, your voice thick with desire.

His lips find yours again, harder this time. He kisses you like he’s starved for you. His hands explore, touching, feeling, pulling you closer until you can feel the unmistakable heat of him pressed against your thigh.

The tension is unbearable. Everything about this moment is wrong and right, but the way he feels against you is too much to resist. You slide your hands under his shirt, feeling the hard muscles of his back, the heat of his skin. He groans into your mouth at the contact, and you pull him even closer, if that’s even possible.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, his voice shaky, his hand trailing up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of your nipple.

You look into his eyes, and for the first time, you know what you both need. The moment has stretched into eternity, and you’re both losing control.

But you won’t stop.

You won’t say a word. You don’t need to.

You drag him closer, and in that moment, the years of waiting are over. You need him. You want him. And this time, you’re not going to let him slip away.

His lips devour you, hot and messy, as his hands slide under your skirt. The sensation of his fingers against your bare skin makes you gasp, and you meet his urgency with equal force, pushing him back against the wall. You press your body into his, grinding against the hardness that’s unmistakable, and you can feel the heat building, getting unbearable.

“Fuck…” he groans, breaking away for just a second to breathe. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Then take me,” you whisper, breathless.

Without another word, he lifts you easily, pushing you against the nearest doorframe. His hands work quickly, unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it aside before pulling down his jeans, his gaze never leaving yours. His movements are frantic now, desperate for the closeness you both crave.

You’ve never been so aware of the way your bodies fit together — so familiar, so right. His lips return to yours, harder now, as he pushes into you, making you both moan from the intensity. Every movement is deliberate, every touch a desperate promise that you’re not letting go again.

The world falls away as you both lose yourselves in the sensations, in the heat of his body, in the need for each other. The kiss deepens, becoming desperate, as he moves against you, both of you teetering on the edge, wanting, needing, more.

“Charles…” you moan his name, and his response is a low growl in your ear. He pulls you even closer, his body a living fire against yours, as the night turns into something neither of you will ever forget.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the warmth surrounding you.

It's not the crisp coolness of your sheets or the sterile chill of the guest room. No, this warmth is his. You’re wrapped in his arms, his body pressed against yours, and you can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against the back of your neck. It feels so familiar, so safe, and for a split second, you forget where you are.

But then reality crashes in.

You remember the night before — the kiss, the hunger, the desperate need. You remember the way his lips moved against yours, the way he felt inside you, the way you both lost control.

And then you remember her.

Alex.

The warmth in your chest turns into a sick feeling, the kind that coils tight and heavy. You sit up, your heart pounding, your body still warm from his touch but suddenly filled with guilt. Panic floods your veins as you glance around the room. You recognize it — Charles’ room. The expensive decor, the half-open blinds letting in the morning light, the lingering smell of sex in the air. But none of it matters right now.

What matters is the chaos swirling inside you, the whirlwind of emotions that threaten to pull you under.

You look down at yourself — your clothes from last night are in a crumpled heap on the floor, and you’re left with nothing but the remnants of what should have been a mistake.

Oh God.

What have you done?

Charles shifts behind you, his arm still draped across your waist, and you freeze. The sound of his breath, the way he shifts to face you, the soft groan that escapes him as he blinks awake — it makes your heart race in the worst way possible.

His hand finds your shoulder, and he pulls you back to him, pressing his lips to your bare back. You stiffen, trying to fight the flood of guilt that makes it hard to breathe.

“Morning,” he mumbles into your skin, his voice groggy, still thick with sleep.

But it’s not morning for you. Not anymore.

You don’t know how to respond. You can’t look at him right now. The shame, the overwhelming regret, it’s suffocating.

You cheated on her. You fucking cheated on her.

Your breath catches in your throat as the reality settles in like ice in your veins. You’ve never felt worse. The thoughts begin to spiral.

“I should go,” you whisper, but your voice cracks, betraying the panic that’s setting in. You feel like you’re suffocating in this moment.

Charles’ hand tightens on your arm, his thumb gently grazing your skin in that comforting way he’s always done, but this time, it only feels wrong.

“What do you mean?” His voice is soft, confused, still lost in the haze of sleep.

But you can’t deal with it. You can’t stay. Not like this.

“I can’t stay,” you say again, more firmly this time, pulling away from him. “I— this wasn’t supposed to happen. You’re with her. You’re with Alex.”

He blinks at you in confusion, his brows furrowed, the remnants of the night before slowly dawning on him. You watch as the light of realization flickers in his eyes. He sits up, looking at you, his hand still reaching for you as if he wants to pull you back to him.

“Wait, you’re panicking—” he starts, his voice thick with confusion and sleep, but you shake your head before he can finish.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” you say, your voice trembling now. “You’re with her. You cheated on her. On someone who… who trusts you. And I— I’m the one who—”

“No.” His voice interrupts you, harsh now, a little panicked, a little desperate. “Don’t say that. You didn’t cheat. I did.” He reaches for you again, but you pull away from his touch, your heart pounding too hard to ignore.

You stare at him, the words hanging in the air like they don’t belong in your world. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. Not with him. Not like this.

“Charles, you’re with her. You have to go back to her. She’s your girlfriend.” The words sound almost foreign coming from your lips, but they’re true, and they hurt more than you expect.

He runs a hand through his hair, his face twisted with frustration. He looks so… lost. But it’s not your responsibility to fix it anymore. It can’t be.

“Alex isn’t you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze is intense, searching, like he’s trying to find the words to explain this. To explain everything.

But you can’t take it anymore. You push yourself off the bed, grabbing for your clothes, your body shaking with anxiety and regret. You need space. You need distance.

“Don’t make this harder,” you say, as much to yourself as to him. “I need to leave.”

Charles doesn’t move. He just watches you, like he’s paralyzed. You can see the conflict in his eyes, the way he wants to say something — wants to fix this, wants to make it okay — but nothing he says can take away the guilt and the mess of what you’ve done.

Finally, he stands, a flash of anger flickering in his eyes, but it’s not aimed at you. It’s something else. Something buried deep inside him.

“You’re right. I fucked up. I’m so sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse with regret. “I should’ve never let it go this far. I should have never hurt you like this.”

The words stutter out of his mouth, but they don’t make things better. They don’t fix the reality of what’s happening. You’ve both crossed a line that can’t be uncrossed.

But you need to get away. You can’t stay here.

“Just… don’t contact me. Not now. Not after all this,” you say, your voice strained.

You pull on your clothes in a blur, trying to keep yourself together, but the tears are too close to the surface. You can’t cry. You won’t let him see how much this is breaking you.

“Please don’t do this,” Charles pleads as you reach for the door.

You don’t turn back. You can’t.

⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡ ⟡

It’s been two weeks.

Two weeks of silence, of you trying to move on, of pretending the night with Charles never happened. Every time you close your eyes, his face, his hands, the way his lips felt on your skin flash before your mind. But the guilt never fades. You knew what you did. You knew you weren’t the only one involved. You hurt someone who didn’t deserve it — and all the while, you could feel the rift between you and Charles widening with every passing day.

You thought it would get easier.

But it doesn’t. It only gets harder.

The first time you see Charles’ name on your phone, your heart stops in your chest. You almost don’t want to pick up. You don’t know what he could possibly say after everything. But you do.

“Hello?” Your voice is shaky, your heart racing. You didn’t expect him to reach out, not like this.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low, rough around the edges. “It’s me.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “I know.”

There’s a long pause on the other end, and you can practically feel the weight of everything he wants to say but can’t. You hold your breath, waiting for him to continue, to finally break the silence that’s been strangling both of you.

“Listen… I don’t know where to start,” Charles says, his voice thick with emotion. You can hear the pain in it. He’s not hiding it. He’s not pretending anymore.

But you don’t know how to react. You’re still trying to protect your own heart.

“Just say it, Charles,” you whisper. “I can’t keep doing this, pretending like everything’s okay.”

There’s another pause, but this time, it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full of unspoken words, regret, and something deeper. You can feel the storm building on the other side of the line, like he’s about to do something that might change everything.

“I ended it,” he finally says, and you almost drop the phone in shock. “I ended things with Alex.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“What?” You can barely get the word out, your breath catching in your throat. “You— you broke up with her?”

“Yeah. I did,” he admits, and you can hear the heaviness in his voice. “I couldn’t keep pretending. I couldn’t keep lying to her or to myself. I thought I could move on, that I could make things work with her, but I’ve been lying. I’ve been lying about you. About us. And I’m sorry, but I can’t keep doing this.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air between you both. He sounds raw, like he’s been carrying something too heavy for far too long.

“I didn’t want to hurt her, but I’ve been hurting you this whole time. Every second. And I couldn’t live with it anymore.”

You feel the tears prick at the back of your eyes, and for a second, you let yourself breathe. This moment — this decision — it feels like everything is shifting.

“Charles, I— I don’t know what to say,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. You don’t know if you’re angry or relieved or confused. There’s so much swirling inside you, it’s hard to make sense of any of it.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me right away,” he says quickly, his voice desperate. “I don’t expect anything. But I needed you to know that I made the decision. I chose you.” The words are heavy, deliberate. “And if you’re still willing to give me a chance, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right.”

You close your eyes, feeling the weight of his confession sink into your chest. You want to scream, to cry, to let out the years of frustration, but instead, you feel a strange calm wash over you.

You don’t know if you’re ready. You don’t know if you can trust him again, after everything. But the truth is, the love you’ve always felt for him — the feelings that never truly went away — are still there. And now, after all this time, they’re coming to the surface.

“I don’t know what happens next, Charles,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I can just pick up where we left off. I don’t know if I can forget that… that you were with her, and I…”

He cuts you off gently, almost pleading. “I fucked up. I know. And I’ll spend every day trying to make it up to you if you’ll let me.”

You want to believe him. You want to believe that this time, it could be different.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else,” you murmur, your heart heavy. “I don’t want to be the other woman.”

He lets out a slow, pained breath, and you can hear how much this is affecting him, too. “You’ll never be ‘the other woman,’” he says, his voice soft but firm. “You’re the one. The only one.”

For a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still. The silence that fills the space between you both isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It’s full of possibilities, full of the unspoken future you both might have, if you’re brave enough to face it.

“I need time,” you finally say. Your voice is calm, measured, as you let the weight of the moment sink in. “But I’m not saying no.”

You hear his sharp exhale on the other end of the line, a sound of relief that’s almost as overwhelming as the emotions you’re feeling.

“I’ll give you all the time you need,” he says. “I’ll wait. And I’ll prove to you that this was the right choice. For both of us.”

A few weeks later, Charles reaches out again, this time to ask you to meet him.

You still have your doubts. You still have your fears. But when you see him — standing at the edge of the street, looking like he’s about to ask for the world — you realize that some things never change. Some things were always meant to be.

And in that moment, you both know — this is your chance. A chance to heal, to fix what was broken, and to finally let go of the past.

You take a step forward, and he reaches for your hand.

And this time, it feels right.

END.