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cbeargyu · 16 days ago

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daddy's babygirl

summary: your childhood teacher jake is now your stepdad, and when you’re alone, you share a secret, forbidden, intense affair filled with domination and desire.

pairing: stepdad!jake x stepdaughter!fem reader

genre: smut, explicit adult content, forbidden stepfamily relationship, teacher/student past dynamic, dom/sub with daddy kink, slow burn, secret affair, angst, drama, heavy sexual themes, multiple positions, oral, creampie, emotional manipulation.

warnings: explicit sexual content, incestuous stepfamily relationship, non-consensual power dynamics implied, age gap, dirty talk, degradation, strong language, exhibitionism, oral sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink, emotional manipulation, secrecy, potential triggering themes.

STRONG WARNING!! this content contains sensitive themes such as forbidden family relationships, power dynamics, and explicit sexual material. if these topics make you uncomfortable or aren’t your preference, please do not read or leave hateful comments. respect and understanding appreciated. thank you.

wc: 5k

notes: don’t ask me where i got the inspiration for this lol 🤣 ok no for real i hope you like it, i’ve had this idea for a while but hesitated bc of how sensitive the topic is??? even tho i’ve read a lot of similar stuff here, i know it’s kinda taboo or frowned upon. but it’s all fiction and i write it for those who enjoy my content :) thank you all!! please leave your thoughts!

taglist: @hrtsformark @matchacake2 @sea-moon-star @itaehynz @mymayaship @reep04 @lexieisyourbestie @princesspeachicedtea @partyinthebackroom

it had been years since you’d last seen jake sim, and yet the memory of him had never really faded. back in primary school, he had been the teacher everyone liked—young, effortlessly charming, patient in a way that made you look forward to every day you had him. he never raised his voice, he always smelled like cedar and something faintly sweet, and his soft smiles lingered in your mind much longer than they should’ve for a little girl with a secret crush on her homeroom teacher. he was your first real fantasy, tucked away in the back of your mind like a guilty treasure you never planned to admit to anyone. but time passed, as it always does, and he was filed into that distant, unreachable place where childhood dreams went to quietly die.

until now.

your mother had been glowing the day she called you home, her voice light and airy as she said she had someone special she wanted you to meet. you hadn’t expected much—just another name to eventually forget, just another dinner to get through with a polite smile. you certainly hadn’t expected her to walk into the living room with jake fucking sim at her side, his arm loosely wrapped around her waist, that same smile on his lips that had once haunted your preteen daydreams. he looked even better now, age only sharpening the edges of his jaw, filling out his frame with something more solid, more commanding. his hair was darker, styled a little differently, but his eyes were still the same—warm, brown, and gently unreadable.

“you remember jake, don’t you?” your mother had asked, her voice chipper, oblivious. “he used to be your teacher. small world, right?”

you tried to play it off, tried to force a surprised smile that didn’t look as stunned as you felt, but the blood had drained from your face too quickly and your lips parted before you could control them. of course you remembered. he had been the blueprint of every silly romantic fantasy you’d ever had, the reason you started liking older men in the first place, the quiet storm that awakened something hot and confusing in you when you were barely old enough to understand it. and now—now he was your stepfather. your fucking stepfather.

the wedding had been small and quick, not even a year after they’d started dating. you smiled in photos, clinked glasses during toasts, hugged jake when it was appropriate. you kept your distance when it wasn’t. you’d convinced yourself you were being dramatic, that your feelings were just nostalgia and hormones, that he was just a man, and your mom was happy now, so you should be too. and for the most part, you managed. you were in university now, busy with exams and essays, and you didn’t even live in the same house. you only came back on weekends or for holidays—short bursts of time where you could avoid being alone with him, where you could keep yourself sane.

but then came the weekend your mom had to visit your grandmother, three cities away. she left on a thursday afternoon, bags packed and cheerful goodbyes tossed over her shoulder, her voice echoing from the hallway that she’d be back sunday evening, and to take care of each other. jake had offered to drive her, but she insisted he stay—he had grading to finish, classes to prepare. you had exams to study for, so you hadn’t planned on going either. it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. a few quiet days at home. easy.

except it wasn’t.

the house felt too quiet with just the two of you. every sound was louder, every interaction thicker with something unspoken. he was kind, attentive in that same subtle way that had always undone you—asking how your studying was going, offering to help if you needed a break, his voice low and calm whenever it caught you off guard in the kitchen or the hallway. he smiled at you like he always had, except now it lingered just a little too long. he didn’t look away as quickly anymore. and maybe you were imagining it, maybe you were projecting every filthy thought you’d buried deep down onto every glance and gesture—but something in the air was shifting, slowly, maddeningly, and you could feel it.

you didn’t plan to have dinner together, but jake insisted that night. it was saturday. he leaned against the kitchen counter with a glass of wine in his hand and said it made no sense to eat separately when it was just the two of you. “besides,” he said, tilting his head slightly, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read it. “i haven’t had a real conversation with you in weeks. feels like you’re avoiding me.”

you laughed too quickly, denying it without really denying it, trying not to focus on the way his voice sounded thicker when he spoke softly like that. you ended up sitting across from him, legs brushing under the table, wine warming your veins more than it should’ve. the food was good—he’d cooked, of course he had, because jake sim was perfect like that—and the conversation was easy, almost too easy. you talked about classes, books, music, and when your hand reached for your glass at the same time his did, your fingers touched and stayed there, barely, just long enough for the world to tilt a little.

you didn’t move your hand away, and neither did he. your eyes lifted slowly, caught in his gaze before you could pretend to be unaffected. something in the way he looked at you made your stomach twist—not fatherly, not polite, not innocent. it was too still, too focused, like he’d been waiting. the silence stretched between you, heavy and intimate, until he finally leaned in just a little closer and said your name—low, drawn-out, like a question and an answer all at once.

“do you think i haven’t noticed?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like it wasn’t meant for anyone but you. “the way you look at me? like you used to when you were too young to understand it.”

your breath caught in your throat. the wine had made you reckless, or maybe it was just the years of keeping everything bottled up, the months of pretending this house wasn’t suffocating you every time he was near. you didn’t deny it. you couldn’t. and maybe that was all he needed, because the next thing you knew, his hand was under your chin, tilting your face up, thumb grazing your bottom lip.

“you’ve grown up so much,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “beautiful. all this time i thought i was imagining it, but you want this, don’t you?”

you didn’t answer with words. you didn’t need to. your lips parted under his thumb, your thighs pressing together under the table, and when he leaned in the rest of the way and kissed you, it was nothing like your first kiss was supposed to be. it was desperate, hungry, years of suppressed want spilling over in the heat of his mouth. he kissed you like he was claiming you, and you let him. you kissed him back like you’d been waiting your whole life to be kissed like that—by him.

his hands were on your waist, pulling you out of the chair and up against him before you could think. your back bumped against the counter as he pushed between your thighs, his fingers trailing under the hem of your shirt, dragging up your spine and leaving your skin tingling in his wake. the kiss broke only when he had to pull your top off, lips returning to your collarbone, your throat, your jaw, biting and sucking like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted most.

“fuck, you taste the same as i imagined,” he muttered, voice ragged as his mouth found your chest, tongue swirling over one nipple before he sucked it into his mouth, making you gasp and arch into him. “i used to jerk off thinking about what you’d sound like. now i get to hear it.”

his words went straight to your core, shameless and raw, and it made your knees weak. you tried to speak, tried to say his name, but all that came out was a breathy whimper as his hand slid between your thighs, palming you over your shorts, feeling how wet you already were for him. you should’ve felt embarrassed—he was your mother’s husband now, a man you were supposed to call family—but all you felt was heat, like every nerve in your body was pulsing in time with his fingers.

“you’re soaked,” he growled, pushing your shorts down roughly, dropping to his knees like he was worshipping you, like this was something he’d been craving for years. he spread your legs open, hooking them over his shoulders, and dragged his tongue over your slit with a low groan. “this pussy’s been waiting for me, hasn’t it? fuck, i knew you wanted it. you were always such a good little girl in class… never thought you’d be such a needy thing underneath.”

you cried out when he sucked your clit into his mouth, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other tangled in his hair as he devoured you like it was his last meal. he didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, just kept licking, circling, fucking you with his tongue until your legs were shaking and your stomach was tightening with an orgasm that was already starting to hit.

“j-jake—” you gasped, broken and breathless, but he didn’t stop.

“that’s it,” he whispered against you, wet mouth hot and sinful. “cum on my tongue, baby. show me how much you missed me.”

and you did—your body tensed and trembled as the orgasm ripped through you, your moans filling the kitchen, your thighs squeezing around his head. he groaned into you, drinking every drop, only pulling back when you were twitching and weak, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

but he didn’t give you a moment to recover. he stood, licking his lips like a man starved, and turned you around with firm hands, bending you over the counter before you could speak. his cock was hard against your ass, straining through his pants, and when he finally freed it, the weight of it rested hot and heavy between your cheeks.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this,” he hissed, lining himself up without warning. “how many nights i thought about bending you over like this, fucking you until you couldn’t think straight.”

you whined at the stretch when he pushed inside—no teasing, no patience, just the thick slide of his cock sinking into your already dripping cunt. the pain was brief, eclipsed by the overwhelming fullness, the way he groaned like he was losing his mind inside you.

“tight fucking pussy,” he muttered, gripping your hips and thrusting in deeper, sharper. “so good. fuck—i’m not pulling out.”

you whimpered, back arching, pushing into every stroke. “d-don’t. i don’t want you to.”

that broke something in him. his hands grabbed your waist harder, slamming into you now with each thrust, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls. he was grunting behind you, dirty praise falling from his lips with every snap of his hips.

“you want me to fill you up, huh? want your stepdaddy’s cum inside you?” he groaned. “fuck, i’m gonna give it to you. you deserve it. all of it.”

you were crying now, overwhelmed with the pace, the filth of his words, the way he was fucking you like he owned you. you didn’t care that it was wrong. you didn’t care about anything except how deep he was, how hot his body felt against yours, how much you wanted to be ruined by him.

“say it,” he growled, pulling your hair to lift your face. “tell me whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you choked out, lips trembling, eyes rolling back as your second orgasm built fast, relentless. “it’s yours, jake—fuck—it’s always been yours.”

and with a loud groan, he slammed in to the hilt and spilled inside you, thick, hot, and endless, painting your insides with everything he’d been holding back. the feeling of it sent you spiraling again, another wave crashing over you, leaving you both breathless, sweaty, and trembling against the counter.

he didn’t pull out right away. he stayed buried inside you, his hand smoothing down your back, mouth pressed to your shoulder as you both caught your breath. the silence returned, but now it was different—sated, sticky, full of everything you couldn’t say out loud.

“we’re fucked, aren’t we?” you whispered, half-laughing, half-crying.

he chuckled against your skin, still inside you. “yeah,” he said. “but you were worth every second of it.”

you didn’t sleep that night—not really. after the first time on the kitchen counter, jake had pulled you into his arms like he couldn’t get enough of you, kissing you slow and filthy before carrying you to the living room couch and fucking you there too, bent over the backrest while his fingers dug into your hips. then the stairs—he stopped halfway to kiss you again, to press you against the railing and take you standing up, slow and deep, like he wanted to feel every inch of you clenching around him.

he didn’t stop until you were crying��raw and overstimulated, his cum dripping from between your thighs, lips bruised from how hard he kissed you when you called him “daddy.” you said it the first time barely above a whisper, unsure if it would cross a line, but the way his breath hitched, the way he looked at you like you were his undoing, told you everything you needed to know.

“say it again,” he had groaned, thrusting harder, his hand gripping your throat as he fucked you on his bed—your mother’s bed. “say it while i’m deep inside this sweet little pussy.”

and you had, over and over, until your voice was hoarse and your body collapsed under the weight of everything you’d held in for so long. you lost count of how many times he came inside you, how many times he kissed your tears away, how many times he praised you for being his good girl, his sweet baby, his filthy little secret.

by morning, you were sore, bruised, and still trembling from the ghost of his touch. you showered in silence, pretending like your body didn’t still ache for him, like you hadn’t screamed his name against a wall just hours ago. when your mom finally returned, cheerful and none the wiser, you met jake’s gaze across the kitchen with heat still burning in your cheeks.

from that day on, everything changed—but nothing did.

he never touched you in front of her. never said a word that might give you away. but the looks were enough. the glances that lingered, the faint smirk he wore when you bit your lip across the room. the way he’d let his fingers brush your waist when he walked behind you, or how his hand would rest a second too long on your shoulder when he passed by. it became a routine—a dangerous, delicious secret that only the two of you shared.

on the nights your mom worked late or left town again, he’d knock softly on your door like he was asking permission, and you’d always let him in. sometimes he’d take his time, laying you down gently, whispering how much he missed being inside you. other nights he’d flip you over and fuck you face-down into the mattress, hand tangled in your hair as you begged for more, crying into the sheets as he told you what a perfect little slut you were for him.

you were submissive in ways you hadn’t even known you could be—so eager to please, so needy when he praised you. you melted every time he called you baby, whimpered every time he held your face and said you were his. and calling him daddy—it wasn’t just part of the game. it was instinct. it felt right. natural. like it had always belonged to him.

but of course, that didn’t go unnoticed.

one evening, your mom smiled casually as she stirred a pot on the stove, glancing over her shoulder when she heard you call out for jake from across the hall.

“you’ve really taken a liking to him,” she laughed. “never thought i’d hear you call anyone daddy again. thought you were too old for that kind of thing.”

you froze, your heart thudding so hard you thought it might explode. jake was behind her, and you felt his eyes on you instantly, hot and sharp like a warning—but his face didn’t change. he was good at this. calm. unreadable. he just sipped from his glass of wine and smiled like the comment didn’t mean anything.

“she’s just affectionate,” he said smoothly, like it was the most innocent thing in the world. “i don’t mind.”

your mom hummed, turning back to the stove with a shrug. “still,” she muttered, half to herself, “doesn’t really suit her anymore. that’s a little girl’s nickname, don’t you think?”

you almost laughed. if only she knew how many times you’d sobbed it into his neck, how many times he’d made you say it while you came all over his cock, how many times he whispered back, “good girl. daddy’s so proud of you.”

but she didn’t know. she’d never know.

the rain had started sometime past midnight, loud against the windows, steady and relentless. the thunder rolled deep, shaking the walls of the house with each distant rumble, and it was that sound—more than anything else—that stirred you from your light sleep. you blinked up at the ceiling, your room dimly lit by the occasional flash of lightning, heart fluttering with something that wasn’t quite fear… more like anticipation.

you bit your lip, glancing toward the hallway.

you shouldn’t.

but you wanted to.

moments before bed, jake had visited you in your room like he sometimes did—just to check in, to say goodnight. he’d kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then, like always, your lips. it was soft at first, but you’d reached up and pulled him closer, whispering “more,” against his mouth. he pulled back, breath shaky, eyes flicking toward the door as if he expected someone to walk in.

“baby,” he had murmured, brushing your hair back. “your mom’s waiting for me in bed.”

you’d pouted, lips still tingling from his kiss, and tilted your head as you asked, “do you love me more than her?”

he’d hesitated—just for a second—but then he smiled, small and fond, like he was embarrassed by how quickly the truth came out.

“yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “i love you more.”

then he left, walking down the hall to the master bedroom where your mother waited—dressed in a short satin nightgown, her skin dewy from moisturizer and sleepiness. you knew the routine. she was always tired. she always took her pills, the kind that knocked her out cold. jake had told you once, in passing, that nothing ever woke her up when she took them.

so when you heard the storm rolling outside, something bold stirred in your chest. the house was silent except for the rain, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs, and your own heartbeat in your ears. you slipped out of bed, your cotton shorts riding up your thighs, the hem of your camisole brushing your navel. no bra, no panties. you tiptoed barefoot through the hallway, every creak in the floorboard echoing like a gunshot, but you didn’t stop. your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the doorknob to their room, slowly turning it and pushing the door open just wide enough to slip inside.

the room was dark, heavy with the scent of lavender and cologne. lightning lit the walls for a split second, revealing the silhouette of your mother fast asleep, turned away from the center of the bed, blanket drawn up loosely around her hips. jake was on the other side, shirtless, lying flat on his back with one arm resting above his head, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. the space beside him was wide—just enough for you, if you were careful.

you held your breath as you padded closer and crawled in beside him, inching your body down into the mattress as slowly as possible. you curled on your side, your back pressed lightly to his hip, trying not to smile as you settled in. the heat of his body seeped into yours. you could feel him—barely—against the curve of your ass, and the moment you shifted just slightly, you felt the swell of his cock, half-hard, thick and heavy against you even in sleep.

you arched your back a little more, grinding slowly, gently, testing.

a soft inhale escaped him.

then a hand touched your waist.

“baby,” he whispered groggily, voice husky from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

you turned your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder, eyes wide, pouty. “the storm woke me up,” you murmured, still rolling your hips back against him, “and i got scared.”

his breath hitched when your ass pressed more firmly to his length, now fully hard and twitching against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. “fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, one hand sliding down to grip your hip tightly. “you’re gonna drive me insane.”

you reached down without answering and pulled at the waistband of his pants, lifting the fabric just enough to free his cock, already thick and leaking at the tip. you heard the sharp breath he took when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly. he pushed his hips forward into your hand, biting down a groan.

then, still without a word, he hooked a finger into the waistband of your pink shorts and dragged them down over your ass. the air was cool against your bare skin, and you felt his hand pause when he realized you weren’t wearing anything underneath.

“naughty little thing,” he whispered, dragging two fingers along your slit, feeling how wet you were. “you planned this.”

you didn’t deny it. you just moaned quietly when he rubbed circles against your clit, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his other hand reaching to squeeze your breast through your thin top.

he didn’t waste time. he positioned himself behind you, pulling your leg back over his thigh, and eased his cock into you slowly, the tip splitting you open as you tried to keep your moans muffled. he hissed through his teeth as he bottomed out, his fingers digging into your hips.

“so fucking tight,” he whispered, moving in slow, deep strokes. “you feel too good, baby.”

you rocked back into him, eyes fluttering shut, the sheets rustling beneath you as your bodies moved together. his hand came up to your mouth, covering your lips as he fucked you from behind, spooned up against you, every thrust making your ass slap against his hips.

“quiet,” he breathed, “she’s right there.”

your eyes opened in the dark, and you saw her—still asleep, facing away, barely moving. the thrill of it made your pussy clamp down tighter, made jake curse softly and fuck you harder.

he turned you over slowly, gently, until you were on your back and he was above you, lifting your shirt to expose your chest. he leaned down to suck your nipple into his mouth, his cock never leaving you, just grinding deeper as he kissed down your stomach, whispering filthy things about how good you felt, how beautiful you looked stretched out for him in their bed.

“i love you,” he muttered into your skin, voice cracked and breathless. “you’re mine.”

you wrapped your legs around him, pulled him in closer, and whispered, “fuck me, daddy. please. make me yours.”

that broke him. his hips snapped harder, deeper, hands grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head as he pounded into you in the missionary position, the bed creaking ever so slightly. he fucked you like he owned you, kissing you hard, letting you moan into his mouth when you came all over him again.

afterward, he didn’t stop—he flipped you onto your knees and took you from behind, gripping your hair, his balls slapping your soaked pussy with each brutal thrust. you were delirious, dripping, sobbing into the pillows while your mom snored on just feet away. it wasn’t enough for him—he pulled out and turned you over again, sitting back on his knees and tapping his cock against your lips.

“suck it, baby,” he whispered, “you can do it.”

you obeyed, eyes glassy, tongue out, taking him into your mouth until your jaw ached and your throat was raw. he watched you the whole time, stroking your cheek, whispering that you were his good girl, his sweet baby, his favorite thing in the world.

you climbed on top of him after that, straddling his hips, riding him slowly, hands on his chest, tits bouncing with each movement. his hands slid up your thighs, gripping your ass, his cock deep inside you as you rocked back and forth, whispering his name over and over like a prayer.

you lost track of the thunder outside, of the minutes slipping past, of everything except the way jake’s cock kept hitting that perfect spot inside you—like he knew your body better than anyone ever could.

his hands gripped your thighs tight, eyes locked on your face as he fucked you harder now, his body pressing yours deeper into the bed. the headboard tapped lightly against the wall, not loud enough to wake her, but enough to make your heart race with the risk.

you opened your mouth to moan, but his palm flew to your lips, muffling the cry that broke out when he bottomed out again, his cock so deep you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“shhh, baby,” he whispered, sweat dripping down his neck, chest heaving, “you wanna wake her up?”

you shook your head, pupils blown wide, legs trembling.

“then be good,” he murmured, lowering himself until his forehead pressed to yours, his cock still slamming into you slow and thick and hard. “be a good girl and take it.”

you nodded, tears in your eyes from how much you needed it. needed him.

“you feel how this pussy sucks me in?” he breathed, lifting one of your legs higher, fucking you deeper. “so fucking tight. so warm. it’s perfect, baby. this is mine.”

your voice cracked under his palm as you whimpered, grinding up into him. and then you whispered it—low, dangerous, full of wicked curiosity.

“does it feel better than hers?”

he paused.

then he looked you dead in the eyes, smirked, and answered without hesitation.

“yours is better,” he growled, grabbing your jaw, pulling your face close, “your pussy’s the only one i think about. the only one i wanna cum in. you hear me?”

you moaned again, too loud, and his hand came back over your mouth, his thrusts speeding up as you clenched around him from the filthy confession.

then he pulled out suddenly, panting, and sat back against the headboard, his cock glistening, twitching. “ride me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “come sit on daddy’s cock.”

you didn’t need to be told twice. you climbed over him, straddling his lap slowly, lowering yourself onto his length with a desperate gasp. the stretch made your back arch, his hands coming up to hold your waist as you started to move—slow at first, rolling your hips in circles, grinding your clit against him with every pass.

he leaned in and sucked your nipple into his mouth, then kissed down to your chest, whispering, “that’s it, baby. let daddy see how much you love this dick.”

you bounced harder, faster, the mattress shifting beneath you, and jake grabbed your ass, slapping it once as you rode him.

“look at you,” he moaned, “bouncing like a desperate little slut while your mommy sleeps next to us. if only she knew how many times i’ve filled this pussy.”

you clenched again at that, and your body shook as another orgasm crashed through you, your cunt milking his cock with messy wet sounds as he held you down and let you grind through the aftershocks.

but you still weren’t done.

he pulled out, spun you around, pushed your chest into the mattress and lifted your hips high—doggy. his favorite. he slammed back into you without warning, and you screamed into the pillow, his fingers digging into your hips, his cock slamming into you over and over until you were crying.

“say it,” he groaned behind you, “say you’re daddy’s girl.”

“i’m your girl,” you sobbed into the sheets, barely able to breathe. “i’m your good girl, daddy.”

“that’s fucking right.”

his balls slapped your clit, your pussy gushed around him, and he was grunting, fucking you with long, brutal strokes as his pace grew erratic.

“gonna cum again,” he warned, grabbing your hair, arching your back. “gonna fill you up. again.”

“please,” you begged, “please, daddy, cum in me. fill me up.”

he slammed into you one last time, as deep as he could go, and his whole body tensed as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his cock twitching as he emptied himself into your already ruined pussy. you could feel it dripping out around his cock before he even pulled out, and when he finally did, it made a wet sound—your cum and his, mixed and leaking down your thighs.

he collapsed beside you, panting, pulling you into his arms, your bodies completely naked, sticky, tangled in sweat and sin and everything you weren’t supposed to be.

you curled into his chest, heart still pounding, and whispered, barely audible—

“i love you, daddy.”

he kissed your temple, still inside the bed where his wife slept a foot away, and whispered it back without hesitation.

“i love you too, baby. more than anything.”

#enha #enhypen #enhypen hard thoughts #jake enhypen #desire unleash #engene #enhypen jake smut #enhypen smut #enhypen jake #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen scenarios #jake sim #sim jaeyun #sim jake #jake smut #jake enhypen smut #jake daddy #jake stepdad

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ghostedgwen · 3 months ago

Text

hear me howling | r.lupin

note : i got inspired and it turned into a 9.6k words fic, this is gonna be looooong, also my measly attempt at making some marauders-timeline eme eme as if the dates made sense lol THANK YOU FOR 800 FOLLOWERS ILY ALL enjoy pls

warnings : second-year to seventh-year timeline, remus is a brooding werewolf, mentions of injuries and lots of angst on remus being a werewolf, lots and lots of pining, verrrryyyy slow-burn with one-sided pining, background marauders still get their cameo and progress, reader is a dork about magical creatures and proud, remus is just all emo until he wasn't

Obsessed with magical creatures and late-night snacks, you accidentally discover Remus Lupin's furry problem, so you begin leaving him gifts and treats to ease your guilt. Only, he knows it's you and it's a seemingly endless waltz around the truth for your entirety at Hogwarts.

Don't let me in with no intention to keep me, jesus christ don't be kind to me. Honey, don't feed me, I will come back.

Second-year : February 16th, 1973.

You didn’t mean to find out that Remus Lupin is a werewolf.

It started with a craving. Not for drama or secrets or forbidden knowledge - just treacle tart. Maybe a slice of toast, golden and buttered to the edges. A mug of cocoa warm enough to coax the sleep back into your bones and make the cold of the stone floor worth it.

Hogwarts after dark was a world all its own - quieter, softer, suspended in a kind of dream-state where everything felt a little more secret and a little more sacred. The castle changed when the sun set, became something gentler. The stones, warm from the day’s footsteps, seemed to exhale as night fell, sighing with the weight of centuries.

The torchlight along the corridors flickered sleepily, casting long, slow shadows that moved like drifting thoughts - definitely scary but it never got to you, a true Gryffindor at heart.

The halls you’d memorised by second year became half-lit, all curves and corners that felt more familiar than your own dormitory. At night, Hogwarts wasn’t just home - it was yours. Your secret, your sanctuary.

You moved quietly, the balls of your feet brushing over cool stone. Not because you were guilty - you weren’t breaking any rules that mattered (sneaking out doesn't count, you're only guilty if you get caught) - but because there was something sacred about the stillness.

You’d just slipped behind the tapestry shortcut near the Grand Staircase, feet bare for speed and stealth, when you heard them.

Footsteps.

Not the confused shuffle of someone lost. Not the reckless pounding of a student running from a Prefect they saw down the corridor fast approaching. These steps were measured. Purposeful. Two sets, moving together, rhythmically, like they’d done this before.

You froze, every muscle held tight in an instant, and pressed yourself against the wall. Fingers curled into the folds of the tapestry, you leaned slightly forward and peered through the gap in the fabric, breath shallow.

There, illuminated by the soft blue glow of a hovering lantern charm, walked Remus Lupin and Madam Pomfrey.

You blink at the sight - once, then again - trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Because it isn’t strange to see a student with a teacher. But this? This didn’t feel disciplinary. It didn’t feel like a student caught out of bed, dragged back to their dorm with a lecture trailing behind them. It felt. . . familiar. Practiced.

Pomfrey’s hand was firm on Lupin's arm. Not yanking or pulling, but steadying. Guiding. Protective in a way that spoke of history, of routine. She wasn’t scolding him - she was supporting him.

And Lupin -

Lupin looked ill.

You couldn't tell much as they are a good distance away and the castle is much too dark, but even you could tell that much from where you were hiding,

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. Just kept walking beside her in silence.

You didn’t follow. Even though your curiosity had woken up with a start, sitting upright and alert in your chest. Even though your mind immediately began stitching theories together like some frenzied seamstress. You weren’t nosey.

And it wasn’t your business.

So you let the moment pass.

Once their footsteps faded and the shadows settled back into stillness, you stepped out. Carefully. One foot, then the other, like the floor might still hold their presence.

You glanced down the corridor, half-expecting to see them again, but it was empty now - only the torches and the faint warmth of their passing remained.

You didn’t think about it again until you were in the kitchens, the portrait swinging closed behind you with a soft huff of displaced air.

The elves greeted you like they always did - not with surprise, but with familiarity. Like you were just another part of their nightly routine. One of them pressed a plate into your hands without asking, another handed you a steaming mug, and a third patted your arm before bustling away to stack dishes.

You sat on one of the benches, cross-legged and quiet, the warmth of the tart melting through your fingers, the cocoa steaming in slow curls. The room hummed with gentle magic, old and kind, like a lullaby with no words. You sipped, and chewed, and listened to the stillness.

And even though you weren’t thinking about it - not consciously, not really - a part of you kept replaying the image. The two of them walking together in that dim corridor, her hand on his arm. His silence. His eyes.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That maybe he had the flu. That maybe she was just being kind.

You told yourself not to wonder.

But you did.

The next morning, Remus came to breakfast late.

Not just a few minutes behind everyone else. No - late enough that the owls were already gone, the porridge was cold, and most of the chatter had dwindled to tired murmurs.

He looked worse than he did last night, didn't Madam Pomfrey assist him?

There was a hollowness to his face, like something essential had been scooped out in the night and hadn’t come back yet. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t just shadows - they were bruises, dark and deep, like sleep had tried to find him and failed.

You watched as he reached for the pumpkin juice, his movements slow, careful. He winced when his fingers closed around the pitcher. Both of his hands were wrapped in fresh white bandages - not the kind Madam Pomfrey handed out for blisters or scrapes, but the thick kind, the serious kind. The kind you wore when something had torn open and they didn’t want anyone to see.

His posture was wrong, too. He sat stiffly, spine too straight, like his whole body was a single long ache.

Sirius Black was being loud.

He was telling a story about something ridiculous - Peeves, maybe, or James turning a Slytherin’s robes inside out mid-duel - but he was telling it too fast. Too loud. Like he was trying to fill the space so no one would look too closely.

James, beside him, eagerly clinging to Sirius' words.

And Peter - Peter kept glancing at Remus like he was watching a sandcastle about to collapse. Small, subtle flicks of his eyes, the kind you might miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You watched them from your end of the table, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, cereal going soggy while you took them all in.

Weird.

That’s what your brain settled on, in the absence of any better explanation. Just. . .weird.

You decided then, at the age of 13 that boys were weird.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything to anyone. You just swallowed it down, along with your lukewarm breakfast, and filed it away into that mental cabinet you only opened on quiet nights.

And then it happened again.

The next month.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Always the same rhythm. Always on the full moon. Always late to breakfast, with new bandages and new silences and new shadows under his eyes -

Always with Madam Pomfrey.

And the injuries - they never matched the stories.

He’d claim he fell down the stairs, or tripped over a bookcase, or had a nasty encounter with a particularly aggressive Puffapod. But they didn’t match. Not really. The scratches were too deep. The bruises too well-placed. The pain too real for something so mundane.

So you did something instinctive.

You started keeping track of the moon.

Just to see. Just to make sure.

And when the pattern held - when the full moon rolled around again and Remus limped into the Great Hall with a split lip and a bandage on his collarbone - something inside you shifted. Quietly, but permanently. Like a book falling off a shelf and opening to a page you hadn’t meant to read.

You had to know.

You waited for the next full moon like it was a secret coded into the stars. Like the answer to everything was tucked between the spaces of its rising.

Second-year : June 8th, 1973

You snuck out long after curfew, later than even your usual kitchen adventures. The castle was silent in the way that made your ears ring. You moved like a shadow, slipping through corridors with your breath tucked tight in your chest.

You followed them - just far enough behind not to be seen, but close enough to feel the pull of where they were going.

Through hidden doors you hadn’t known about. Behind suits of armor with eyes that flickered in the dark.

They left the castle.

You didn’t follow further - not then. You stood at the edge, just past the last torchlight, and watched them walk into the trees. Madam Pomfrey still had her hand on his arm. Remus still didn’t say a word.

But you remembered the direction.

The next morning, just before the sun crested the hills, you crept out again.

The castle was still sleeping, tucked in its dreams. The grass outside was wet with dew, the sky pale pink and lavender, a canvas not yet painted. The air was thin with morning -

The Shrieking Shack is where you ended up in when you followed their path through the whomping willow. It looked empty, broken, all boarded windows and peeling paint.

You’d grown up with stories about it - how it was cursed, how ghosts screamed through its halls on stormy nights, how even the bravest dared not enter.

You climbed anyway, your breath shallow and your palms sweating. Each step up the hill felt heavier than the last.

The wooden porch creaked beneath your weight. You didn’t go inside fully - didn’t have to. There was a break in the slats, a crack just wide enough to see.

And through it, you saw him.

Remus Lupin.

Lying on the floor, curled in on himself like a question. His body was all angles and shadows, chest rising in small, uneven breaths. Sweat beaded his skin, and there was blood - not dried, not old. Fresh. Soaking through the rips in his shirt, streaking down his back.

The wood beneath him was scarred, clawed deep, as if something monstrous had raged and thrashed and left the wreckage of itself behind.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t cry.

You just stood there, hands clenched at your sides, staring through the slats while your heart beat like thunder in your throat.

Not afraid. Not really.

Just. . . changed.

You knew now.

And you wouldn’t tell a soul.

The first time, you left a biscuit.

It was stupid, maybe. Too sentimental - yes.

You left a ginger biscuit on the windowsill of the Shrieking Shack. Wrapped in a napkin. No note.

He never mentioned it. You didn't check.

The second time, it was tea.

Strong, spicy black tea in a little tin you nicked from the kitchens. A scribbled note under the lid: For the mornings after.

You tucked it behind a warped slat in the wooden fence and walked away before sunrise. Your heart thudded the whole time.

After that, it became a pattern.

A chocolate frog.

A worn paperback copy of Magical Creatures That Might Not Kill You, pages annotated in your tiny, looping scrawl.

A knit scarf in Gryffindor red - faded, a little too short, the wool pilled but warm. It smelled like chocolates and apple pie.

A tiny pot of bruise balm, brewed in secret and labeled only with a hand-drawn moon.

You never stayed to watch him find them. Never left a name. But you started sleeping easier on full moons, knowing you havedone something - even if it was just a biscuit or a scarf.

It was a ritual now. A kindness you couldn’t explain. A secret kept not out of fear, but something deeper. Quieter. Something like care.

Remus Lupin was not thinking about breakfast.

He was thinking about how his ribs still ached when he twisted. How his left shoulder clicked when he lifted his fork. How he hadn’t told anyone about the things that kept showing up at the Shack - soft, sweet, thoughtful things that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t know how to name.

He kept the scarf in his trunk. Wore it when the wind bit too sharp. It still smelled like something warm and alive.

That scent was on his hands now - faint - when he lifted his mug of pumpkin juice.

And then it hit him again. Strong.

Not in memory. Not in theory.

In the air.

He went still.

And then she walked past.

Not toward him. Not looking. Just brushing by the Gryffindor table with her bookbag slung across her chest and her hair still damp from her morning shower.

Her.

That was her scent.

He blinked too slowly, jaw slack, brain fuzzy with the sudden rush of realization.

James nudged him in the ribs. “You planning to breathe again anytime soon, or. . .?”

“What?” Remus mumbled, eyes still half-tracking her down the table.

“Oh my God,” Sirius muttered, leaning across the table with a shit-eating grin. “He’s gawking. Our Remus Lupin has joined the land of the living. Quick, someone write this down.”

“Who is she?” James asked, glancing over.

Peter - helpful, as always - perked up. “That’s ____ ____. Mum knows her family - they’re old Gryffindor and Ravenclaw stock. Her older brother was Head Boy last year. Works at the Ministry now.”

“Seen her in the library with Evans at times,” Sirius said, squinting. “Didn’t she get detention for arguing with Professor Binns about why unicorns aren’t boring?”

“She loves magical creatures,” Peter added. “Like, properly loves them. Obsessed with that Scamander bloke.”

Remus blinked slowly. “Newt Scamander?”

“Yeah, him. Think she’s got, like, a poster in her dorm or something - heard McKinnon tease her about it.”

James whistled low. “Wow. So, Remus - that your type then? Bookish - much like you, and oddly into carnivorous beasts?”

Sirius grinned. “Makes sense. Remmy here is a bit of a carnivorous beast himself.”

Remus flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears - nevermind how Sirius is yet again teasing him about his furry problem, he's been doing it since they found out last week.

He didn’t say a word. Not about the scarf. Not about the tea. Not about the quiet, careful gifts that smelled like her.

But he looked down the table at her one last time - and this time, she looked back.

Just for a second.

And he thought: She knows.

And worse: She’s kind.

And worst of all: He might come back anyway.

Second-year : June 11th, 1973

The lightin the boys’ dormitory had dimmed low, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls and warming the edges of the red and gold tapestries. Outside, the wind howled against the castle, rattling the windowpanes and whispering through the gaps like it wanted in. Inside, the mood was loose-limbed and half-lazy - that specific kind of comfort that came after dinner but before sleep, when everything felt suspended in amber.

Remus was stretched across his bed, back propped against the headboard, legs tangled in the duvet. A book sat forgotten on his lap, pages soft with wear. He hadn’t turned it in twenty minutes.

Sirius lay upside down on James’s bed, his head hanging off the edge, one hand tossing a Snitch into the air and catching it again with practiced ease. He was bored - which was dangerous. Sirius bored meant Sirius thinking, and Sirius thinking meant trouble.

James, ever restless, was perched on the edge of his desk, swinging his legs and poking aimlessly at the seams of a half-peeled Chocolate Frog wrapper. His hair looked like it had just lost a fight with gravity - worse than usual, which was saying something.

Peter was on the floor, cross-legged, unwrapping a packet of Every Flavour Beans like he was defusing a bomb - since when was this boy without treats?

It was peaceful in the way boys’ dorms are when the world feels far away - low laughter, familiar smells, the constant undercurrent of magic humming in the stone.

And then, Sirius opened his mouth.

“Gonna tell your little moonlight admirer how you feel,” he drawled from the foot of James’ bed, “or just keep inhaling her scarf like it’s your lifeline?”

James cackled immediately, delighted. “Bet she knits you socks next. Or a mitten. Should’ve seen the way you practically wagged your tail when she would pass.”

Peter, never one to be left out, piped up with wide eyes and even wider enthusiasm. “She’s got a whole book on werewolf habitats, y’know. I saw her reading it yesterday in the library. Highlighting bits, just wanted to say hi then she started feeding me facts about it. Not exactly my idea for a snack.”

Remus tried to laugh. He really did. His mouth twitched, the sound caught somewhere behind his teeth - but when it finally escaped, it wasn’t laughter. Not really. Too quiet. Too strained. It hit the floor between them like something delicate that had cracked on landing.

He rubbed a hand down his face, slow and bone-tired, then let it fall into his lap. His voice came out quiet, nearly swallowed by the room. “What if I’m just another creature to her?”

The effect was immediate. The teasing halted.

James stopped swinging his legs. Sirius sat up properly. Peter froze, a half-eaten bean forgotten between his fingers - probably for the better, the flavour was cobwebs.

Remus didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the blanket, where his fingers twisted the fabric into nervous knots.

“Like. . . like a case study,” he said, the words slow, deliberate. “Another fascinating, tragic monster to write about. One she can observe from a distance and feel good about.”

The silence after that was different - thick and uncomfortable. It wasn’t the usual easy quiet that fell when they all drifted into their own thoughts. This one had edges.

Sirius shifted. The creak of the bed springs echoed louder than it should have in the hush.

“She idolizes Newt Scamander,” Remus continued, voice thin but steady. “Reads about magical creatures like they’re novels. What if I’m just one of those fantastic beasts? A good story for someone like her.”

His voice cracked - not loud, but raw. Frayed at the edges. “I don’t want to be a thing she pities.”

James was the first to speak. But this time, his voice had dropped from its usual larkish rhythm - softer now, almost hesitant. “That’s not exactly bad, is it?”

Remus blinked. Just once. Like the thought had knocked something loose.

“She knew,” James said, gently now. “And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t run. She sees you - all of it - and she still brings you tea.”

Sirius, uncharacteristically subdued, let the silence stretch for a second before adding, “If I fancied a creature,” he said, “I’d give it a leash. Not a bloody knitted scarf.”

That earned him a look from James, but the meaning lingered underneath the sarcasm - unpolished but true.

Remus finally looked up, eyes flicking toward Sirius.

Sirius shrugged one shoulder. “That was a gift, mate. Not a 'Care for Magical Creatures' project.”

The words settled in the space between them like warmth. Heavy, but not burdensome.

Remus didn’t say anything. Just nodded once. Slow. Then, like it was second nature, he reached beneath his pillow and pulled out the scarf. His fingers curled around it - not in desperation, but something steadier. Quieter.

He held it close.

Like maybe, just maybe, it could keep the moon away.

Third-year : November 17, 1973

“You’re watching her again,” James whispered one day during Charms, his voice pitched low enough to avoid detection, but not low enough to hide the teasing fondness in it.

Remus didn’t even bother pretending to look away. He was watching you from across the room, where you sat cross-legged in your chair, completely absorbed in whatever you were sketching in the margins of your notes. Your tongue poked out in concentration, a tiny, unconscious thing, and he wondered if you even knew you did that.

“I’m not watching her,” Remus mumbled, even as his eyes remained fixed on you.

Sirius leaned in, smirking. “Mate, if you stared any harder, you’d see through her robe.”

“She’s just - she’s interesting,” Remus said, voice barely above a whisper. He was trying not to turn red, trying not to feel the way his pulse picked up when you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “She reads Beasts & Beings for fun.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Still funny when she told Kettleburn that his dragon theory was outdated. She quoted Newt Scamander at him. In detail.”

“She did,” Remus admitted before he could stop himself. The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes softened as he watched you scribble something else on the edge of your parchment.

That night, he found a tiny pouch smuggled into his bookbag - he definitely did not put that there. Inside was a single lemon drop, his favorite. There was no note. Just a ribbon tying the pouch shut. Green, not his House color.

He stared at it for a long moment, heart twisting, then quietly tucked it into the back of his drawer, not intending at all to eat it.

Third-year : January 14, 1974

You and Remus got paired in Potions.

It hadn’t been planned. Slughorn, flustered after Wilkes nearly caused a cauldron explosion, had shuffled everyone around. You’d ended up beside Remus, settling into his table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” you said, bright and easy. “We make a good team, yeah?”

Remus could only nod mutely, trying to focus on the flobberworms he was supposed to be slicing. His hands weren’t steady. He nearly took off a fingertip.

“You alright?” you asked, leaning in a little closer to check his work.

He could smell your hair. It was warm and comforting, like chocolate and apple pie, like something from a dream he hadn’t let himself have.

“Fine,” he croaked, forcing himself to look at the cutting board instead of you. His ears were burning.

After class, he sat on his bed for half an hour trying to write a thank-you note for the lemon drop - just something simple, something kind. But nothing felt right. Every line sounded stupid or too much or not enough.

In the end, he burned it.

Fourth-year : September 31, 1974

By then, everyone knew you were odd.

Not in a cruel way - at least, not most of the time. You didn’t go on many Hogsmeade trips, claiming you were “busy” with things no one else seemed to understand. You doodled magical creatures in your textbooks, filled the corners of your parchment with sketches of things no one else cared to imagine. Once, someone caught you reading a book about Chimaera taming and called you weird to your face.

You just laughed.

Remus loved that laugh. It was soft and sheepish, like you knew you were strange and had already made peace with it - like you have decided that's who you were and, what's so bad about it?

Sirius came storming back into their dorm one night, arms crossed and indignant.

“Marlene just said she’s lame for skipping Hogsmeade again,” he declared. “Knitting. Can you believe it?”

Remus blinked. “She’s what?”

“Knitting. Like a bloody gramma. Didn’t even say no - just mumbled something about wool gauge and disappeared.”

Remus neglected to comment on it - although he is interested, anything about you was a sure way to get his attention. Just the mention of you makes him perk up.

The next morning, after a particularly rough full moon, Remus found a scarf folded neatly right near the passage in the Shrieking Shack. Green and gold. Loosely stitched with little stars embroidered at the ends. It was soft - softer than anything he owned.

He clutched it to his chest for ten whole minutes, eyes closed, breathing in your scent, before hiding it under his jumper just in time for Madam Pomfrey to pick him up.

Fifth-year : March , 1975

The Animagus transformations worked.

It was an absolutely insane idea - one only the Marauders of all people could think of - and it worked! They ran with him now. Laughed and barked and butted heads beneath the moonlight. It wasn’t just suffering anymore. He wasn’t alone.

But you didn’t know.

You still left things for him - little kindnesses you never claimed. A pair of self-warming socks. A clipping from The Daily Prophet with an article about centaur diplomacy, your notes scribbled in the margins. A new tea after every full moon.

You thought he was still alone every time. Still cold and trembling in the Shrieking Shack.

He couldn't confront you about it and open the exploding can of worms, so he also couldn't let you know that he had friends - brothers - to be with him every full moon.

His very own, mismatched pack -

Fifth-year : February 16, 1976

Sirius dropped onto Remus’s bed one night, his ribs still sore from the transformation -

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, flopping backward. “I get it.”

Remus looked up, eyes tired. “Get what?”

“The scent thing,” Sirius said. “You said she smells good. You’re right. She smells like - something sweet and like, pastries. Like she’d be soft to the touch.”

Something flickered behind Remus’s eyes. Sharp. Territorial.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he said, voice low.

Sirius blinked. “Whoa. Relax -”

“I mean it.”

James poked his head through the curtain, eyebrows raised. Peter followed.

Sirius sat up slowly, then grinned. “Ohhh. We’ve reached the territorial stage.”

Peter snorted. “Our Moony’s in love.”

“Shut up,” Remus muttered, but his face was already turning red.

“You could tell her,” James offered. Not teasing. Just kind.

Remus stared at the scar across his palm. The latest one. Pale and healing.

“I don’t want her to see the monster.”

James sat beside him, patting his knee. “She already has, Mate,” he said softly, “and she still leaves you biscuits.

Sixth-year : December 16, 1976

It’s nearly Christmas break. The snow is falling heavy, blanketing the castle in white. The moon is coming. He can feel it in his bones.

You passed him in the corridor today, cheeks pink with cold, scarf askew.

“Remus!” you called, smiling wide. You held up a parcel wrapped in paper. “I made extra peppermint bark. Want some?”

He nodded, throat too tight to speak. You pressed it into his hand like it was nothing - like you didn’t even realize what it meant to him.

Later, in the quiet of the dorm, he pulls out the scarf - the green and gold one - from under his pillow. It still smells like you - after all this time, he had managed to preserve it - he's always been the best at charms among Marauders. Still feels soft from your hands.

He presses his face into it as snow begins to fall outside, the world hushed and gentle for once, and wonders - not for the first time - if maybe, just maybe, this ache inside him might quiet someday.

Remus gets up abruptly - “I'm off to go patrol.”

You don’t look up from your knitting. The yarn pulls tight between your fingers, snagging slightly as though it’s resisting your movements - like it’s aware your mind isn’t really here, not in this warm, humming common room, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere a few feet away.

Somewhere just across the rug where a certain someone used to lounge with a book half-hidden behind the arm of a chair, scarf always knotted around his throat no matter if it was snowing or sunlit outside.

“It’s not a crush,” you mutter, voice low and stubborn.

Marlene laughs, not cruelly but with that familiar ease of someone who’s seen all your tells. “It’s a tragedy,” she says, brushing a bit of fluff from her sleeve. “The boy looks at you like he’s starving and won’t let himself eat.”

Your fingers slip - just for a second - but it’s enough to drop a stitch. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

Marlene doesn’t push. Just reaches over and tugs gently at the yarn, not enough to undo anything but enough to make a point. “Come on. Go steal something sweet. Butterbeer tart’s still on the menu if you’re lucky.”

You don’t reply. Don’t even nod. But ten minutes later, your knitting tucked away and scarf bundled into your bag, you’re gone.

The corridors are quiet, hushed in that late-night way where even your footsteps seem cautious, like they’re afraid to be caught out of bed. You’ve walked this route more times than you can count - past the tapestry with the unicorns and the secret shortcut, past the suits of armor that hum little tunes when they think no one’s paying attention.

You’re one portrait away from the kitchens.

But you never make it.

Not this time.

Because the second you turn the corner, just as the warm smell of baked bread begins to tease your senses, a voice cuts through the soft torchlight.

“Caught you.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Heart stutters, breath catches—and of course it’s him. Of course it’s Remus bloody Lupin, arms crossed in that quietly superior way of his, prefect badge gleaming like some smug little moon pinned to his chest.

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again as if you can reset the moment.

“I’m sleepwalking,” you say, trying to summon a convincing tone but failing miserably.

One eyebrow rises, unimpressed.

“This is a dream,” you try again, lifting your chin like that’ll help sell it,“you’re a dream.”

Still no smirk - but now there’s a grin, and it’s worse, somehow. Wide and real and golden with amusement, warm in a way that knocks the breath out of you. “Right. And the hallway is a marshmallow field?”

“No,” you say primly, adjusting your bag. “It’s a treacle tart field. Get your dream logic straight.”

That makes him laugh. Really laugh - not the usual quiet chuckle he gives when he’s grading papers or half-listening to Sirius’ antics, but something bigger. Breathless and surprised. It bubbles out of him and wraps around you like sunlight.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchens. “Let’s go see if the dream pantry’s still stocked.”

Inside, the house-elves beam the moment you enter. They flit around like you’re a favorite relative come home for a visit, pressing warm pastries and mugs of cocoa into your hands, asking after your classes like they haven’t seen you in months.

You accept a tart with a smile you don’t quite realize is on your face, drop into your usual seat near the hearth, and glance up - only to find Remus still watching you. Not in a way that feels heavy or intrusive, but like he’s seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.

“Do you come here often?” he asks, accepting a steaming mug from a house-elf with a polite nod.

You take a sip, let the heat settle in your chest, and shrug. “Only when the moon’s not full.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. His eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, said too much.

But then he smiles again - softer this time. Quieter. A little sad.

“Right.”

And you both leave it at that, he misses his chance and you don't give him another one.

It earns a huff of laughter, soft and full of something you can’t quite name. You don’t say anything else after that - not for a long time. You just pass bites back and forth between you, let the cocoa warm your fingers, and sink into the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

He walks you back when the clock nears curfew.

The halls are darker now, hushed with sleep, shadows curled in every corner. Everything feels like it’s been dipped in ink—quiet and secret and slow.

“I should write you up,” he says, casual as anything, hands in his pockets.

“You should try to catch me awake next time,” you toss back, bumping your shoulder lightly into his.

He laughs again - richer this time. Like he’s not pretending to be anything. And it’s the kind of sound that lodges itself in your chest, something you’ll hold onto in the days ahead.

When you reach the portrait hole, you pause. Neither of you says goodnight - not yet.

You just look at him.

And he looks back - like he’s memorizing your face in this exact light, like he’s afraid it might be different tomorrow.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment.

“For what?”

He hesitates, like the answer might tip something between you. Then: “For. . .” he trails off, letting the words simmer in his mouth, for not running, he let it die down. “tonight, it was fun. I'm glad I didn't turn you in - for now.”

Later that night, he doesn’t reach for the scarf.

Doesn’t wrap it around his throat like armor.

Doesn’t need to.

Because your scent clings to the jumper he wore - honeyed and soft, threaded through with cinnamon and something warmer he can’t name. Something alive.

He buries his face in the fabric, lets the night fold around him.

And for the first time in a long while, he sleeps like he wasn't being crushed under the weight of the moon.

Sixth-year : January 6, 1977

You don’t mean to listen in on the Marauders.

You were just on your way back from the kitchens - late again, as always - and your steps slowed outside the hospital wing out of something you didn’t want to name. It’s the morning after a full moon. And even if no one else says it out loud, your body seems to know. The air feels different. Heavier. Like it’s holding its breath.

You hear the tail-end of voices.

Remus, angry. Fraying at the edges in that quiet, splintered way he always tries to hide.

“I told you to leave me.”

James, patient - always the one trying to stitch everything back together. “We just wanted - ”

“You don’t get it,” Remus snaps, bitter like blood in the mouth. “You can’t.”

“We do, mate,” Sirius cuts in, uncharacteristically soft - careful, like he knows the cracks. “That’s why we’re here.”

Remus exhales, and it sounds like it hurts him to do so. “Then stop pretending you can fix it, I almost killed Wormtail last night!”

A pause. The kind that stretches and settles in the hollow of your throat.

Then footsteps.

You start to back away, heart hammering, limbs sluggish with indecision - but James steps into the corridor and spots you before you can vanish, caught like a secret you didn’t mean to keep.

He doesn’t startle. Just stops. Looks at you like he expected this. Like he knew exactly where you’d be.

“He’s not himself right now,” James says, voice even but not unkind. “But you calm him down. More than any of us.”

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again - because your hands suddenly feel too empty. Too full. Like they’re holding something invisible and precious and terrifying all at once. You nod.

“Go,” James says, softer now, “he needs you.”

The hospital wing smells like potion fumes and something burnt. Something scorched at the edges, like a fire only just put out.

You step in quietly.

He’s curled on his side, back to you. Bandages at his ribs, neck, arms - he looks like someone who’s lost a war he never volunteered for. Someone still bleeding from it.

You pause at the foot of the bed, uncertain.

“Remus?” you say softly, like saying his name too loud might break something.

No response.

You glance around. Madam Pomfrey’s not here. The salves are still out on the side table, lids half-off, like someone left in a rush. Like they couldn’t stand to stay.

“I can help,” you offer, voice gentle, fingers already reaching. And when he still says nothing - no yes, no go away - you take that as a maybe.

This is it, the silent confirmation that you knew what you knew - not much else to say about it. But this one move was the last hit to break the dam.

You kneel beside the bed, the stone floor cold against your knees. Your fingers find the jar of ointment. Your hands don’t shake - but only because they’ve done this before. Only never like this. Never with so much quiet wrapped around you both.

You dab the salve to the edge of a wound along his ribs. He flinches. A breath hitches.

“Don’t,” he says, voice wrecked and raw around the edges.

You hesitate, jar in one hand, salve catching the light. “You need it.”

“Don’t feed it,” he whispers, like a prayer, a plea disguised as a warning, “you keep poking the wolf. Without meaning to.”

You go still.

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares at the ceiling like it’s safer than your face.

“Most days I feel more like it than me,” he says. “The wolf wakes up earlier. Stays longer. It’s harder to pull away.”

A pause, jagged.

“And then there’s you.”

You don’t move. You’re afraid if you do, he’ll stop.

“You,” he says again, like it costs him something. “With your scarves. And your tea. And your smile. You keep being kind. And I can’t take kindness. I latch onto it. I have latched onto it.”

Another pause. One that sinks into the space between your ribs.

“Don’t feed it. It’ll come back.”

Like a starving stray that has known kindness for the first time ever.

You set down the jar. Slowly, deliberately.

Then you reach for his hand - the one resting awkwardly near his side, too still to be comfortable. You take it gently, hold it like it’s already breaking.

He stiffens.

You don’t let go. You squeeze. Just enough to be felt.

And then, finally, you force him to meet your eyes. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

And he looks at you like you’ve set something in him on fire - or maybe put it out. You’re not sure which would be worse.

You squeeze his hand again.

“I’m still here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But when he finally falls asleep, it’s without the scarf.

And your scent lingers. Treacle and something warm. Something alive. Something his wolf doesn’t want to chase away.

Sixth-year : January 10, 1977

The Great Hall is alive with golden light and louder voices, laughter ricocheting off enchanted ceilings and floating candles. Someone at the Hufflepuff table is singing a ridiculous version of the school song - loud, off-key, and entirely too enthusiastic for this early in the morning.

You’re sitting between Marlene and Mary, halfway through your toast and entirely caught in the middle of an argument about Quidditch that’s escalating in volume and absurdity.

“You couldn’t even smack a Bludger if it has been yelling at you to be hit,” Marlene snipes across the table at Sirius, who grins - all teeth and mischief - and leans over to smear jam onto the sleeve of her robe like it’s a personal victory.

“Oh please, I don't even need to look to hit,” Sirius says, smug. “I'd hit that.”

“You smack like a toddler with noodle arms.”

Peter snorts into his pumpkin juice, nearly spilling it. Mary leans into his shoulder, her hand curled around her cup, and whispers something that makes Peter turn a particularly impressive shade of red.

You glance across the table to where Remus is sitting, posture relaxed but eyes too still. He’s reading. Or pretending to read. His eyes flick up the second you laugh - then dart back to the page like he hadn’t been watching you for the past fifteen minutes. Like he didn’t already know the shape of your voice when it’s soft with amusement.

James doesn’t notice a thing. He’s too focused on Lily Evans, who is seated two tables away, expertly ignoring him with the kind of grace that only makes James Potter want her more.

You nudge Marlene’s knee under the table. “Do you think Potter has ever blinked around her?”

“No,” she replies, taking a casual sip of tea. “I think he’s saving them all up for a dramatic flurry when she finally says yes.”

You nearly spit your drink laughing.

Later that week - same messy group, same noisy chaos, but the setting’s shifted. The common room is a sprawl of limbs and parchment and unfinished essays. Firelight flickers gold across tired faces.

James is doodling something on his supposed Transfiguration essay (you assume it’s Lily-related - possibly tragic, definitely dramatic), Sirius is lounging upside-down on the couch and attempting to convince Marlene to let him smack a Bludger to her to test how long a bruise would last. . . for science.

“The people must know, there is a thirst for knowledge” he insists, waving an imaginary wand like it’s a microphone.

“All you have in you is thirst, you wanker,” Marlene says without looking up.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs crossed beside Remus.

He’s reading about werewolf legislation reforms - you recognize the spine immediately. You gave him that book last Christmas, carefully wrapped with no tag, as if anonymity might soften the meaning behind the gift.

You’re flipping through Fantastic Beasts for what has to be the hundredth time, hunting for a creature you haven’t already committed to memory. The pages are worn and curling at the corners. You like it better that way.

“You ever consider writing Scamander a letter?” Remus murmurs, his voice quiet, his eyes still on the page. “I think he’d actually love to hear from someone who’s read his book so many times the corners are falling apart.”

You shrug, but there’s a smile in it. “What if I sound like a fan? Or worse - like I want to marry his Niffler or something?”

Remus glances at you then, mouth twitching. “You’d probably take better care of it than most people.”

And for a second, just a second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft. Something oddly mournful, like he’s mourning something that never had the chance to begin.

You look away first.

Sixth-year : February 19, 1977

Saturday morning: the boys’ dormitory, loud and warm and cluttered with socks and open books.

You’re not there, of course.

But your name echoes anyway.

“Did you hear?” Marlene’s voice bounces into the boys’ dorm via the open stairwell. “She had been invited to a date at Hogsmeade today!”

Peter blinks, mid-yawn. “Wait. Who said yes to what?”

“____,” Marlene announces, practically beaming. “Said yes to a Hogsmeade date with that cute Puff. You know the one who messed up the Bubble-Head Charm and nearly drowned himself.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Bet Moony is thrilled.”

James nudges Remus with his foot. “You gonna let her slip away like that, mate?”

“She’s not mine to begin with,” Remus says. He doesn’t look up from his book.

But the boys notice. They notice the way his hand tightens on the spine, how his thumb presses hard against the edge. How he hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

Then a second date. Then a third.

Each time, you return laughing. Bright-eyed, breathless, the sleeves of your jumper dusted with cold air and crumbs from Honeydukes. You say he’s funny. You say he always forgets the way to Madam Puddifoot’s and insists on turning right at least three times. You say he tripped on his own shoelaces and tried to pretend it was a dance move.

You never say romantic. Never say interested.

You keep saying friend.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because every time you tell the story, Remus hears it in the space between your words.

He hears it because he’s always listening for you. Even when he wishes he wouldn’t.

The fourth date happens on a crisp Sunday morning in late-April. The kind of morning where the sun pretends it’s warm but the wind says otherwise.

You meet him outside the gates, scarf tucked around your neck, mittens on your hands. You’re unaware that Marlene is watching from the entrance like a hawk.

By dinner, she’s had enough.

“Four dates is basically a proposal,” she declares at the table, voice cutting through conversation like a blade.

Sirius chokes on his pumpkin juice.

The boys freeze.

James lowers his fork slowly. “Is that. . . is that a real rule?”

“It is now,” Marlene says, matter-of-fact.

Peter side-eyes Remus. “Well. Better start planning the wedding.”

Remus says nothing.

Just folds the scarf you gave him - the one he never wears in public, but always carries anyway - and tucks it back into his pocket. The same way he always does when his hands are shaking.

Seventh-year : September 24, 1977

Sixth year ended in a blur of exams and the golden haze of summer seeping into every hallway. Marlene starts a game where she dramatically announces “End of an Era” every time someone does anything - eating a last toastie, turning in their final essay, waving goodbye to a professor.

She nearly burst into tears when you all board the train home. She insists she isn’t crying, just “suffering from seasonal sentimentality,” but even Sirius hugs her twice - some appeasement -

But seventh year comes faster than you expect.

James gets Head Boy. Lily Evans, Head Girl.

And you? You find your name stitched in gold thread into a seventh-year Prefect badge - and beside it, written as if it was always meant to be, is Remus J. Lupin as your male counterpart.

James beams when he sees the list. “Match made in Prefect heaven,” he says, far too pleased with himself.

Remus narrows his eyes. “You did this.”

“Me?” James clutches his chest, mock-offended. “I would never meddle in school administrative affairs. Except when I do.”

Remus sighs, but there's a flush blooming at his collar, subtle but unmistakable.

That Friday, you’re on your first patrol of the year - the corridors are torch-lit and unusually quiet, with that soft, heavy hush that only Hogwarts seems to have at night. Every step echoes like a secret, every laugh feels louder than it should.

You’re making dumb jokes about Peeves trying to charm the Ravenclaw bronze eagle knocker into falling in love with him when Remus suddenly asks it.

“So,” he says, voice casual but noticeably strained, “how’s your boyfriend?”

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again, slower this time, processing the implication.

“My what?”

He glances over at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “That boy - the one from last year. Weren’t you seeing him? You went on 4 dates - ”

You laugh, quick and surprised, shaking your head. “You mean Truman from Charms? That wasn’t - oh, no. I didn’t even realize those were dates ‘til Marlene started threatening to sketch out my wedding dress.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just keeps walking - like he was starting to rewrite everything in his head.

You glance sideways and grin. “I’m single, Remus. Wildly, tragically single. You could even ask me out, if you wanted.”

Remus nearly trips over his own feet. You were too bold, but then again - you wore red robes.

“What?” he says, voice pitched higher than usual, startled and almost horrified. “You - you’d want - ?”

“Remus,” you say, barely holding back a laugh as you nudge your shoulder into his, “how about it? Next Hogsmead weekend? Or do I need to formally petition the Department of Magical Creatures to approve a date with you?”

He’s still pink in the ears. It spreads slowly, like the blush is rising against his will.

“You’re very high maintenance,” you tease, turning down a corridor as your footsteps fall in sync. “I’ve been flirting for years and you just kept blinking at me like I was a particularly confusing Runes puzzle - you had to make me ask you.”

“I thought you were just. . .kind.”

“I am,” you say, soft but sure. “But not that kind.”

He grins then, wide and stunned, like he’s been holding his breath for a year. “Alright then. It’s a date.”

It appears he's still a Gryffindor after all.

Later that night ; the boys’ dormitory -

Remus walks in dazed, dreamy-eyed, still looking like he hasn’t fully returned to earth.

James glances up from his exploding snap game, eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve just seen Merlin himself.”

Sirius sniffs the air dramatically. “Do I smell. . .triumph? Or fear?”

Peter leans across his bedpost. “He’s smiling. He never smiles like that unless it's something involving ____.”

Remus blinks once, still dazed. “She asked me out.”

The room erupts.

James throws his deck into the air, cards scattering like confetti. “Finally!”

Sirius howls like an actual wolf. “The wolf has RISEN!”

Peter nearly falls off his bed laughing. “Do you need help picking out an outfit? I can lend you my cologne. It’s French.”

Remus groans, flopping back onto his bed with the dramatic flair of someone halfway between overwhelmed and elated. “I hate all of you.”

Sirius pelts him with a sock. “You love us, you fucking sap.”

You should be glad you didn't get to watch the chaos, or you'll recall your 13 year old self and confirm that yes, boys still are very weird.

Seventh-year : October 15, 1977

You tug your scarf tighter around your neck, the ends whipping in the wind, cheeks already pink from the chill. But the warmth curling in your stomach has nothing to do with the weather. It builds quietly, steadily, like something planted long ago finally beginning to bloom.

Remus is already waiting outside the Three Broomsticks, hair wind-tousled and eyes soft. He’s smiling at you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real, like this moment is something borrowed from a dream he’s too afraid to wake up from -

Perhaps this has played out in his dreams.

“You came,” he says, voice soft with disbelief.

You blink at him, then you snort. “I asked you.”

“I know,” he replies, glancing away like he’s embarrassed by his own hopefulness. “Still feels like a dream.”

Honeydukes -

He offers you his arm like a gentleman out of time, and you loop yours through it without hesitation. It fits - effortlessly, like this has always been waiting in some quiet corner of the universe.

Inside Honeydukes, the air is thick with sugar and nostalgia. You ramble about the magical properties of Fizzing Whizzbees, the way their carbonation interacts with wizarding blood to produce temporary levitation. Then you’re onto exploding bonbons, and how they mimic Puffapod seed reactions when dropped at the right angle.

Remus listens like your words are music. His smile is quiet but wide, the kind that settles deep into the bones. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches you like your joy is something sacred. When you finally pause, mid-sentence and mid-laugh, he holds out your favorite sweet without saying a word.

“For the creature expert,” he says, and it sounds like something more than just a joke.

Through Town -

You walk slowly, deliberately, letting the afternoon stretch itself out. The sky is a soft watercolor of clouds, and your footsteps leave gentle prints in a thin veil of snow.

You pause at the post office and point at the rows of owls. “Great Greys mate for life,” you say, all faux-seriousness and scientific pride.

Remus makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Lofty standards,” he mutters. “Terrible pressure, really.”

You laugh, loud and sudden, and he turns to look at you like he’s trying to memorize the sound - like he could bottle it and keep it in his pocket for later.

Madam Puddifoot’s -

“I swear I didn’t know it would be this. . . pink,” you whisper as you both slide into the lace-covered booth, eyes wide at the heart-shaped sugar bowls and twinkling fairy lights.

“I did,” Remus says, and there’s something suspiciously smug in the way he hides a grin behind his teacup.

You shoot him a betrayed look. “You listened to James bloody Potter?”

“To be fair,” Remus replies, sipping from the floral rim, “he is in a long-term campaign for Evans’ heart. Something must’ve worked.”

You both giggle, quietly conspiratorial. The table feels impossibly small, the air around you steeped in rose-scented steam and unspoken things. He reaches for the sugar at the same time you do, and your fingers brush.

Neither of you move for a second too long.

Shrieking Shack Hill -

As the sun begins to dip below the trees, the two of you find yourselves at the top of the hill, under the old tree that’s watched over this strange little shack for decades.

“I used to think that place was haunted,” you murmur, voice quiet with memory.

Remus hums beside you, low and thoughtful. “It is.”

You glance at him, surprised by the certainty in his tone. But he’s watching the horizon, face unreadable, wind threading through his hair.

Then he turns. His eyes meet yours, and they soften, all the armour gone.

“Thank you,” he says, the words carrying more weight than you expect. “For all the scarves. And the tea. And the creature facts. And. . .for not running.”

Your heart stutters. You blink, then breathe in slowly, steadying yourself against the gravity of the moment. “I wasn’t planning to. Not then. Not now.” Not ever.

Silence settles over you both, thick with promise. Not awkward - just full. Like the world is holding its breath.

Then you smile. “Did you know bowtruckles won’t let anyone near their trees unless they like them?”

Remus chuckles, warm and real. “Are you comparing yourself to a bowtruckle?”

You shake your head, nudging his shoulder with yours. “No, I’m comparing you to one. Grumpy. Guarded. Weirdly charming - green and cute.”

He throws his head back and laughs, loud and unguarded. For a moment, you think you’ve never seen him look quite so alive.

Seventh-year : October 15, 1977 - in the evening

The Gryffindor common room was golden with firelight, every velvet surface draped with seventh-years in varying states of homework neglect. Someone had spelled the windows open just enough to let in the crisp night air, and it smelled like leaves, candle smoke, and the faintest hint of caramel. The kind of night that made even essays about goblin rebellions feel a little romantic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up as Remus sat beside you, quiet and warm, his fingers occasionally brushing yours on the cushion between you. You weren’t holding hands, not exactly -

“Alright, someone spill it,” Marlene declared, sitting on the armrest of the sofa with her legs dangling over the side, Mary sat properly on it next to her. “Potter has been suspiciously quiet for the past two hours and Evans is pink in the cheeks.”

Lily groaned. “Oh, Merlin’s sake - ”

“She said yes!” James blurted before she could protest. He was practically vibrating where he sat, one leg over the other armrest of his chair, looking like someone had hit him with a cheering charm. “We’re going to the next Hogsmeade weekend. Together. As a couple - I'll propose then.”

The room exploded. Sirius let out a fake sob and clutched his chest. Peter whooped. Mary clapped like it was the Quidditch Cup final.

You could only stifle your laughter behind your hand.

“About bloody time,” you muttered, nudging Remus with your elbow. He smirked.

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t stop smiling. “Propose on the second date and we are breaking up before a monthsarry.”

“Third date then,” James said, positively beaming.

Mary twirled a strand of Lily’s hair around her finger lazily. “Love is in the air,” she declared. “Must be something in the tap water this year.”

Peter looked up from where he was cross-legged on the rug. “Or the food. Might be time to test the pumpkin juice.”

“Please do,” said Marlene. “Because if I had to watch another moment of unspoken yearning between you idiots, I was going to take matters into my own hands.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I had the love potions ready,” she deadpanned. “Evans and Potter over there, obvious as sin. And you two - ” she pointed between you and Remus, “were worse.”

Your cheeks flushed. Remus let out a soft laugh, dropping his head to you, face hidden into your hair - you blush harder.

“Unlike bloody Evans who was stubborn as fuck,” said Mary. “You two were just bloody idiots plain and simple.”

“Harsh,” Peter quipped, half-heartedly.

“Oh shut up,” Remus mumbled, but there was no real bite in it. His hand brushed yours again, firmer this time. You let it happen.

Then, because Peter had never known when to stop: “So Marlene, you and Sirius have been getting close, huh? All that Quidditch banter. . . odds on a third Gryffindor couple forming?”

There was a beat. Everyone turned.

Marlene blinked once. ��Peter, I’m gay.”

Sirius made an offended sound - obviously holding back his laughter while a glint is seen in his eyes - like he always knew. “What? And here I thought we had something special!”

“You have brain damage,” she replied cheerfully, folding her arm to rest it on Mary's head.

The room dissolved into laughter again. Even Lily cracked a grin as she leaned into James. Mary chatises Marlene for messing with her hair.

And amidst the chaos - the comfort of old jokes, the glow of firelight, the echo of seven years of shared history - Remus leaned just slightly into you. His hand found yours, finally, properly this time. No accidental brushes. No scarf between you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The common room hummed with joy, and for once, no one was pretending not to notice.

end. masterlist

#remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin #andrew garfield #andrew garfield as remus lupin #young remus lupin #young remus #marauders x reader #hp marauders #marauders #marauders era

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jinwoosbabyboo · 3 months ago

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Life in the N109Zone w/ Self-Aware!Sylus

You ended up inside of the Love and Deepspace game in a rather painful way because of Sylus. Now that you're here what now? Also did he turn that damn stove off? A/N: MC is still in her main story feelings right now so she’s not emotionally involved with Sylus at this point in time. Thank you to @forbidden-sunlight we all say in unison because they're the reason this made it onto Tumblr. Sunny I appreciate you so much :) Also go check out their work (especially if you like yandere 😚) they're an amazing writer

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After receiving the most mind numbing kiss from a man who shouldn’t actually exist you found yourself sitting at the breakfast nook nestled off to the side of his massive kitchen. Your stomach had growled so loudly you thought it was going to eat you alive in one bite. Your eyes skated over every detail of your surroundings. The pictures in the game didn’t do this place justice how did his house manage to be even more breathtaking in person?

A full spread of food made for a king was displayed in front of you. You were much too hungry to think of being ‘lady-like’ in this moment. You snatched your plate and began filling your plate up with everything you could get your hands on. Once you were satisfied with the amount of food on your plate you sat back, stuffing a piece of French Toast in your mouth. “Hungry sweetie?”

You locked onto those gem like eyes of his and nearly choked on your food. “Yes … a little” Your words were slightly muffled as you talked around a mouthful. You sipped a bit of water and cleared your throat, suddenly feeling shy under his stare. You shifted your gaze looking around once again “So my first….. question…..” your voice trailed off when your eyes landed back on the stove for what felt like the hundredth time. “My food!”

“That’s not a question Princess” Sylus smirked, resting his head in his hand as he continued to take you in.

“No I was cooking when you took me!” You frantically slammed your hands on the table “My stove is still on!” Damn it. There’s no way your entire house didn’t catch on fire. “My place is going to be burnt to a crisp” You were currently losing your mind going over the numerous amount of documents you’d have to replace along with finding somewhere to stay while you looked for a new place. Sylus laughed loudly his shoulders bouncing in amusement. “How the hell is this funny to you? Not all of us are disgustingly rich you know”

Sylus inhaled deeply trying to stifle his laugh “Technically you’re as you say disgustingly rich by proxy now” By now you were on your feet pacing back and forth. Sylus didn’t move an inch as he casually watched you stomp back and forth. Seeing him so calm and even amused at the fact that your house has more than likely burned down didn’t surprise you. He’s rich and he's not the one who just lost everything.

“You know this is your fault” You glared at him, crossing your arms in frustration. If looks could kill Sylus would be a smug corpse right now.

“It would be” He shrugged

“There’s no would be it is your fault since you snatched me out of my house in the middle of the night you bandit”

Sylus’ rich laugh filled the space yet again — his laugh alone sounds like it could buy you a new house. “I turned your stove off sweetie” That fire in your eyes was extinguished expeditiously after hearing those words. Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Sylus smile widened seeing you in such a speechless state. “Unfortunately in my haste I had to toss your food but on the bright side you won’t be going home to moldy food”

“Won’t they be concerned why I dropped everything and disappeared?”

“Perhaps but I'm sure you’ll come up with something” He shrugged.

You drew back in confusion “Me? Why do I have to do it?”

“I mean you could tell them how you were taken to another world via energy manipulation and spent the day with a fictional game character” He quirked a brow seemingly challenging you while simultaneously knowing he held the cards in this situation. A high functioning sociopath at its finest ladies and gentleman. You knew damn well you couldn’t go back home and tell people what's actually happening.

You rolled your eyes with a heavy sigh “I’ll think of something” You slid back into your seat much calmer now knowing your home was safe and sound. “Alright now that I've eaten I can think straight” You could see Sylus ears tint to pink as an innocent smile spread on your lips. Underneath all the bravado and confidence you make him nervous.

“Go on.”

Since Sylus had already explained how he brought you here and how you can get home there really was only one question you needed an answer to. Your palms are clammy and you can feel your heart starting to pound in your chest.

You’re nervous.

Sylus just watches you silently letting you get your thoughts together — the epitome of patience right now. A few deep breaths to steady yourself helped “How can I guarantee you won’t leave me?” Finally the roles had switched and Sylus was the one wide-eyed and at a loss for words. His eyes darted around under furrowed brows trying to find an answer. The idea of staying here and living such a carefree life with Sylus was just that — an idea. The seconds ticked by slowly, sucking all the air out of the room. He tapped his chin lightly which did nothing for the pit forming in your stomach.

He focused back on you after what felt like hours and spoke in a leveled tone “I speak through my actions Princess let me prove myself” His large palm covered your hand that was fidgeting with the utensils on the table. You couldn’t help the feeling that blossomed in your chest from the simple gesture. “Also since becoming as you say ‘self aware’ I've seen every timeline of her love interests” Sylus’ eyes flashed with disappointment for a second, but it dissipated as quick as it came. “She has options” You expected his tone to be sad, but it remained leveled. “In our past she showed me that I can be loved unconditionally and selflessly” You were about to tell him why thats even more of a reason to stay with her but he continued “I want to make my own choices instead of being told who my lover is” He squeezed your hand before bringing it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, “I want you”

You could tell by the way his eyes softened that he meant what he said, but there was still no guarantee. “That’s not enough Sylus” Your answer has Sylus’ brows shooting up to his hairline. You could practically feel your heart sinking as he quickly gathered himself and set that stoic expression back in place. “I can’t stay here and I know you’re going to end up leaving me for her she literally has the other half of your soul”

“Why don’t we raise the stakes then?” Sylus leaned back in his seat with a mischievous look on his face. You narrowed your eyes at him in suspicion.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Give me two weeks” He stared deep into your eyes with a smirk “I’ll sever the bond and get the other half of my soul back” The soft scrape of a bowl caught your attention. Your eyes flicked down to see Sylus sliding a small bowl of pomegranate seeds towards you. “How's that sound?”

“That sounds risky” You plucked a single seed from the bowl a gently rolled it between your fingertips.

“Is that a no?” Sylus challenged.

“I didn’t say that i’m just saying….” You tossed the seed in your mouth, crushing it between your teeth, letting the tart flavor burst on your tongue “If you die I'll kill you” You shot daggers at Sylus and all he did was laugh. You rolled your eyes already knowing that he was laughing because he thinks you look like an angry kitten or a temperamental hamster. He flicked your nose and you quickly tried to retaliate only for him to snatch your wrist mid-air. You fought his grasp, but to no avail he smiled as he pressed his cheek to the palm of your hand — nuzzling into it with a low hum.

“I promise I won’t die”

You were way too happy right now and even though your logical self in the back of your mind was screaming at you to leave and delete the app — you muted that voice and let your heart run rampant. Nothing about any of this made sense so you’d let yourself have this.

Just once.

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#love and deepspace #lads #sylus love and deepspace #sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus salads #self aware love and deepspace salads #self aware au #sylus x reader #l&ds sylus #lnds #nikaaaaimagine

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toastedjeans · 10 months ago

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A little thing about Tower Omens Pepperman i thought was interesting is that, unlike in canon, Pepperman started out not liking art. As an angel, he didn't understand why humans made paintings or sculptures, or any other art for that matter. He thought it's a useless waste of time.

When he went to Earth for the first time (of course in his human form), somebody stumbled across him and asked either if he's a model, or if he would like to model for them. He wasn't sure what that meant but he went along cause it did intrigue him. And when he realized the implication of being a model (aka people saying he's beautiful or attractive), it of course fuels his ego.

I like to think at first there were photo sessions and he just loved being the center of attention. But then someone wanted to paint him. And at first he's confused cause he's used to having pictures taken, and now he has to pose for a way longer time. But it's honestly fine, he loves showing himself off. When he sees the end result of the painting tho, he gains way more appreciation for art in general. As long as it depicts himself, that is.

#toast talk #pizza tower au #tower omens #pepperman #i like trying to fit stuff together for this au #cause angels indulging in human things is.. not forbidden but kinda frowned upon #that's the reason why he starts out thinking art is useless #but yeah he starts to enjoy himself more and more later on

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abandoned-quiche · 19 days ago

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i think the last prophecy has to be more than just "one of the heroes dies." we know that jevil knew the prophecy too, and seemingly so does seam -

and i feel like it would make the most sense for THIS be the forbidden knowledge that made jevil realize he can do anything, made seam become a nihilist, made spamton obsessed with escaping fate. occam's razor and all that - it's just simplest for this to be it, rather than for there to be TWO forbidden knowledges they all happen to know.

and "susie will die" just... doesn't fit that. like, i don't see why any of them would be so devastated to learn that one lightner dies that they go insane/give up on life.

the prophecy ends with "ONLY THEN, WILL THE WORLDS BE SAVED." which implies that this story does end with the worlds being saved...

bur seam says "One day soon... You too, will begin to realize the futility of your actions. Ha ha ha... At that time, feel free to come back here. I'll make you tea... And we can toast... to the end of the world!"

and ralsei's abridged version of the prophecy DOES say that the world will be saved AFTER a terrible calamity occurs, and "The EARTH [draws] her final breath," which implies the earth being destroyed.

now, there isn't just a light world and a dark world - there's multiple dark worlds. so, "THE WORLDS" being saved doesn't necessarily preclude any particular world from being destroyed.

it could be that the light world will be destroyed, leaving only the dark worlds saved.

it could be that all worlds except for the light world and castle town will be destroyed, hence why ralsei wants you to recruit everyone - for castle town to act as a sort of "ark" for darkners to survive.

i dunno!

#deltamusings #deltarune spoilers

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ilovemarvel97 · 2 months ago

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Craving What We Shouldn’t

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: Senior year. What could happen? School troubles? Suspended? Or becoming step-sisters with the girl you are in love with?

Word Count: 3,617

Warnings: High school AU, Angst, forbidden romance, step-siblings, reader has a penis, mutual pining, secret relationship, emotionally charged.

A/N: I just wondered how step-siblings would be if they fall in love before becoming siblings. Please do not interact if you don't like the topic.

Main Masterlist

---

The last place Y/N wanted to be on the first day of senior year was standing in front of a brand new front door with a suitcase and a forced smile. Her mom had been glowing with happiness ever since she married Oleg Maximoff over the summer. A second chance at love, she called it.

For Y/N, it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

Because on the other side of that door was Wanda Maximoff. The girl who stole her heart during junior year. The girl who kissed her once at a party before summer and never talked about it again. The girl who used to sneak glances at her across the library table, who blushed when their hands brushed.

Now they shared a house. A bathroom. A last name.

And none of it changed how Y/N felt.

“Come on,” her mom said with a light laugh, nudging her shoulder. “You’ll love it. Wanda’s been asking when you'd arrive.”

That made Y/N’s stomach tighten.

She stepped into the house. The air smelled like rosemary and floor polish. A few family photos had already gone up on the walls—her mom with Oleg, Wanda with Pietro, one of all of them awkwardly posed at the wedding.

Then—“Hey.”

Y/N froze. Her head turned slowly toward the stairs.

Wanda stood halfway down, her red hair pulled into a lazy ponytail, a soft sweater hanging off her shoulder. Barefoot. No makeup. Just her. And she was looking at Y/N like nothing had changed.

Like everything had changed.

“Hi,” Y/N said, her voice caught somewhere between casual and breathless.

They stared at each other. Too long for step-sisters. Too long for ex-almost-somethings. Just long enough for the air to thicken.

Wanda broke the moment with a quick smile. “Your room’s next to mine.”

“Of course it is,” Y/N muttered under her breath.

That night, lying in bed with the walls too thin and Wanda’s music playing faintly through them, Y/N stared at the ceiling.

She’d spent months trying to forget her.

Now she was going to see her every morning. Every night. Every hallway at school.

She couldn’t want her anymore.

She already did.

---

Y/N didn’t even make it through her first morning coffee before things got awkward.

She stepped into the kitchen still half-asleep, only to find Wanda already there in her cheer uniform—leaning against the counter, sipping orange juice, acting like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t once kissed Y/N in the hallway after finals. Like she hadn’t ghosted her all summer. Like they hadn’t suddenly become family.

“Want toast?” Wanda asked without looking up.

Y/N grabbed the mug waiting for her on the table. “I’ll live.”

Wanda glanced at her then. Briefly. But long enough.

There it was again. That electric pull. That heat just beneath the surface.

Y/N took a long sip of coffee to distract herself. She didn’t look at Wanda again.

---

At school, nothing had changed—and everything had.

Wanda slipped into her role like a second skin: queen bee of the cheer squad, top of her AP classes, adored by teachers and untouchable by everyone else. She walked the hall like she owned it. Beside her were Monica and Pepper, as always. Pietro waved from across the lockers, grinning at both of them.

Y/N moved differently. Not a loser, not a nerd—just a little outside the lines. She wore her usual cargo pants and hoodie, skateboard slung through the strap of her bag, earbuds in, always just out of reach.

Except now people were talking.

“Didn’t you hear?” someone whispered by the lockers. “Maximoff’s got a new stepsister.”

“She’s kind of hot, right?”

“Wait—is that the girl who punched Steve Rogers sophomore year?”

“No way. I thought she was expelled for that.”

Y/N smirked. She wasn’t. She just hated how Steve talked to Bruce that day.

But the whispers didn’t stop when she passed Wanda in the hallway.

If anything, they got worse.

“Do you think they knew each other before the wedding?”

Wanda’s eyes flickered to her. Brief. Loaded. But she didn’t say anything. She just laughed along with her friends, like nothing was wrong.

Y/N looked away.

---

Lunch was the worst part.

She’d barely sat down at her usual table—Nat, Carol, and Clint already mid-convo about the upcoming school trip—when a tray slammed down across from her.

Wanda.

“What are you doing?” Y/N asked, half-whispered, half-panicked.

“Eating,” Wanda said coolly. “We live together now, remember?”

Nat raised an eyebrow. Carol looked like she smelled drama. Clint was just frozen mid-chew.

Wanda took a bite of her apple and looked right at Y/N when she said it:

“Besides… family should sit together.”

Y/N choked on her drink.

Nat reached over and thumped her back with a smirk. “You alright there?”

Y/N nodded, eyes burning.

Wanda smiled sweetly. Too sweetly. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Y/N hated her for that.

And wanted her anyway.

---

Y/N found her in the hallway after seventh period.

Wanda had just slipped out of AP Lit, a stack of books in her arms and her signature bored-but-beautiful expression on. The hallway was nearly empty—just the occasional echo of locker doors slamming and chatter from other classrooms.

Y/N caught up fast. Too fast.

“Hey,” she said, grabbing Wanda’s arm gently. “We need to talk.”

Wanda didn’t flinch. “We’re talking.”

“Not here,” Y/N hissed. “Come on.”

Wanda rolled her eyes but followed, heels clicking as Y/N led her around the corner to the empty back stairwell. The one nobody used anymore except for cutting class or making out. Fitting.

Y/N dropped her bag and crossed her arms. “What the hell was that at lunch?”

Wanda leaned against the railing like she wasn’t cornered. Like this was a game. “Lunch?”

Y/N stepped closer. “Don’t play dumb. Sitting with me. Calling me family in front of *everyone*.”

Wanda shrugged. “That’s what we are now, aren’t we? You and me. One big happy—”

“Don’t,” Y/N cut in, voice low and sharp. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

Wanda looked at her then. The sarcasm slipped for a second. Just a second.

“What do you want me to say, Y/N?” she asked, quieter now. “That I regret it? That I wish we’d never…?”

Y/N swallowed. “I want you to be honest. For once.”

Wanda stepped forward, suddenly too close. Her voice dropped.

“Fine. You want honesty?” Her eyes searched Y/N’s. “I think about that kiss every night.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I think about what would’ve happened if my dad hadn’t proposed to your mom. If we weren’t stuck under the same roof, pretending nothing ever happened.”

Wanda’s fingers brushed her wrist. “But we are. And now I have to sit at breakfast with you across from me, wearing that stupid hoodie, acting like you don’t feel it too.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “I do feel it.”

Silence. Their eyes locked.

“Then why are you mad at me?” Wanda asked, softer now.

Y/N looked away. “Because you ghosted me after that kiss. And now you sit with me at lunch like nothing’s wrong. Like *you* get to decide when it matters.”

Wanda blinked. Guilt flickered.

“I was scared,” she admitted.

Y/N turned back to her. “So am I.”

A long pause.

“I shouldn’t want you,” Y/N whispered.

“I know,” Wanda said, barely audible. “But I do.”

And for a moment, the world tilted.

But neither moved. Neither kissed.

Because wanting each other was easy.

Living with it—that was the hard part.

---

Dinner was quiet.

Too quiet.

Oleg was rambling about his new teaching position, and Y/N’s mom nodded politely at every word, stealing glances toward the teens at opposite ends of the table.

Wanda picked at her mashed potatoes like they offended her. Y/N kept her eyes on her plate and said nothing at all.

They hadn’t spoken since the stairwell.

Not at school. Not on the walk home. Not even when Wanda brushed past her at the front door, close enough for her perfume to linger.

“I’m glad you girls are getting along,” Oleg said with a smile, breaking the silence. “High school’s tough enough without family drama, right?”

Wanda’s fork froze mid-air.

Y/N gave a small, hollow laugh and shoved another bite in her mouth.

---

Later, Y/N stood in the upstairs hallway, toothbrush dangling from her mouth, staring at Wanda’s bedroom door.

It was cracked open.

She should’ve kept walking. Should’ve gone into her room, shut the door, put headphones in, and pretended everything was normal.

Instead, she knocked.

Softly.

“Yeah?” came Wanda’s voice from inside.

Y/N stepped in.

Wanda was curled up on her bed in an oversized sweater, hair wet from a recent shower, legs tucked under a blanket. She wasn’t reading. She wasn’t watching anything. Just… sitting there. Waiting.

Y/N stayed near the door.

“You okay?” she asked.

Wanda looked at her with those deep, unreadable eyes. “You’re asking me that now?”

Y/N sighed. “I didn’t mean to come at you so hard earlier.”

“No, you were right,” Wanda said, her voice quieter now. “I shut you out. I didn’t know what to do with what happened between us.”

“And now?” Y/N asked.

Wanda hesitated. “Now I want to pretend we’re just two girls in the same school again. Before the wedding. Before all this.”

Y/N gave a small, tired smile. “We can’t go back.”

“I know.”

A silence stretched between them. The hallway light behind Y/N cast her shadow across Wanda’s carpet.

“I think about it too,” Y/N said finally. “That kiss.”

Wanda looked at her like she was holding her breath.

“I never stopped wanting you,” Y/N confessed. “Even when it got complicated. Even when it got impossible.”

They stared at each other. That familiar pull crackled in the air between them.

But neither moved.

Because outside that room was a hallway. And down the hallway were their parents. And in that house, they weren’t just Y/N and Wanda anymore.

They were stepsisters.

“Goodnight,” Y/N whispered.

Wanda’s voice was barely a whisper. “Goodnight.”

And as the door clicked shut, both of them lay awake, two doors apart, craving something they couldn’t have.

Not anymore.

---

The days that followed were unbearable.

They barely spoke. Barely made eye contact. But the tension followed them like a shadow—thick in the air during breakfast, suffocating during car rides, lingering in the spaces where their shoulders nearly touched but never quite did.

At school, they played their roles. Wanda smiled in the hallways and laughed with her friends. Y/N kept her head down, skated to class, joked with Nat and Carol like she wasn’t constantly glancing toward red hair in the crowd.

But the truth followed them home every day.

In the quiet. In the in-between.

And eventually, it had to break.

---

It was late.

The house was dark. Everyone else asleep. Wanda padded into the kitchen in an old t-shirt, hoping for water. She didn’t expect to find Y/N already there, back turned, staring out the window with a glass in her hand.

Wanda froze.

Y/N didn’t turn around. Just said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” Wanda said, voice barely a breath. “You?”

Y/N shook her head. Silence stretched again. Familiar. Heavy.

Then—

“This is killing me,” Wanda whispered. “Pretending like we’re not… something.”

Y/N turned then. Slowly. Her eyes tired. Sad. And so full of everything Wanda felt too.

“It’s killing me too,” she said. “But what are we supposed to do, Wanda? Risk tearing our parents apart because we can’t stay away from each other?”

Wanda looked down.

“I don’t want to hurt them,” she said.

“Neither do I.”

“I want to choose you,” Wanda said quietly. “But if I do, it won’t just be us who gets hurt.”

Y/N stepped closer. “So what? We ignore it? We bury this and pretend we don’t want each other?”

“We already are,” Wanda said with a bitter smile. “And it’s tearing me apart.”

Y/N reached out without thinking. Her fingers brushed Wanda’s, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto.

And for a moment, Wanda let her.

They stood there, trembling, their hands barely touching, eyes locked in silent agony.

“I wish we met in another life,” Wanda whispered. “Where you weren’t my stepsister. Where we didn’t have to pretend.”

“I know,” Y/N said, voice cracking. “But this is the life we got.”

Wanda nodded, tears clinging to her lashes.

Then, slowly, she pulled her hand away.

“We have to stop,” she said, though it broke her to say it. “We have to try.”

Y/N blinked fast, nodding. “Yeah. We do.”

But neither moved. Not yet.

Because even when they tried to be strong, tried to do the right thing, the ache was still there. Unrelenting.

---

One Week Later

By the end of the first week, everything looked perfect from the outside.

Y/N and Wanda passed each other in the halls with polite nods. They shared the bathroom like normal siblings. They even managed to help set the table together without saying a word too sharp or too soft.

To their parents, it looked like the girls were settling in just fine.

But every moment felt like walking a tightrope.

Every brush of fingers when reaching for the same spoon. Every second of accidental eye contact. Every laugh they weren’t supposed to share, every memory they weren’t supposed to have.

It was unbearable.

Y/N stopped eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Wanda started walking to school with Monica instead of waiting for Y/N on the porch.

They both told themselves it was better this way.

They were lying.

---

One Night

It was late.

Everyone was asleep. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that rang in your ears.

Y/N was wide awake, staring at her ceiling, heart pounding like it always did lately—tight and restless. She couldn’t stop thinking about Wanda’s bare legs under oversized sweaters, the way she bit her lip when she was concentrating, or how she laughed—*really* laughed—when she let herself forget the rules.

And then there was the memory she couldn’t outrun: that kiss. Hot. Breathless. Full of promise.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow.

The hallway creaked.

Her bedroom door cracked open.

Y/N bolted upright.

Wanda stood there in the dark, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes shining in the dim light.

“I can’t sleep,” she whispered.

Y/N’s voice was hoarse. “Then don’t be here.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

Wanda stepped inside and closed the door softly behind her.

She didn’t climb onto the bed. She didn’t touch her. She just sat on the floor against the wall, wrapping her arms around her knees, like she was trying to ground herself.

“I thought I could do this,” Wanda whispered. “Pretend. Keep you at a distance. But I see you every day, and it’s like I’m starving.”

Y/N swallowed thickly. “You think I don’t feel that too?”

“I don’t know what to do,” Wanda said. “They’re so happy. Our parents. I don’t want to ruin that. I can’t.”

Y/N pushed her fingers through her hair. “So what are we supposed to do? Torture ourselves?”

Wanda looked up at her. “We have to try.”

And for a while, they just sat there. Quiet. Wanting.

Eventually, Wanda stood and left.

Y/N didn’t sleep at all.

---

The Next Day

At school, they avoided each other like it was a sport. But their friends noticed.

Pepper leaned into Wanda’s side at lunch. “You okay? You’ve been off all week.”

“I’m fine,” Wanda said too quickly, stabbing at her salad.

Across the room, Carol gave Y/N a sideways look. “You know if you keep bottling stuff up, you’re gonna explode, right?”

Y/N didn’t respond. She just tossed a grape into her mouth and stared at nothing.

Because Wanda was sitting with Monica. Laughing. But not really.

And Y/N hated that she could tell.

---

Two Weeks Later

It happened on a Sunday.

The house was quiet. Oleg and Y/N’s mom were out at some local art exhibit. Pietro was at a friend’s. The storm outside had knocked out the power.

Wanda lit candles in the living room, wrapped herself in a blanket, and put on an old record player Oleg had dug out of the attic.

Y/N wandered in after hearing the music, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“I didn’t think you liked Fleetwood Mac,” she said.

Wanda shrugged. “Didn’t think you paid attention.”

“I pay attention to everything when it comes to you,” Y/N said before she could stop herself.

Wanda froze.

The thunder cracked in the distance. The song shifted to Landslide.

Neither of them moved.

“I miss you,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N stepped forward, every breath shaky. “I never stopped missing you.”

Wanda looked up, her eyes wet. “We can’t.”

“I know.”

Their fingers touched. Just barely.

Wanda shook her head, trying to breathe. “You make it so hard to be good.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “Then maybe we stop pretending to be.”

For one breathless second, it was all too close.

Wanda leaned in—so close their noses brushed.

But she stopped.

She stepped back.

“We can’t,” she said, voice trembling.

Y/N nodded, her heart breaking again. “I know.”

But neither walked away.

And that was the scariest part.

---

They were picture-perfect again.

Wanda helped her mom cook. Y/N helped Oleg in the garage. They all sat down for dinner like a Hallmark ad.

At school, Y/N and Wanda didn’t walk together, didn’t eat together, didn’t exist in each other’s orbits if they could help it.

But Y/N was always watching.

That’s how she saw it happen.

Some tall junior with too much gel in his hair cornered Wanda by the vending machine. He was smiling like he was confident and clueless. Wanda laughed politely, brushing her hair behind her ear. Classic deflection.

Y/N clenched her fists.

It meant nothing. She knew that. Wanda wasn’t into him. Wanda never even looked at anyone else.

But that didn’t matter when the jealousy hit like poison in her veins.

When the guy leaned in a little too close, Y/N saw red.

---

That Night

Wanda barely had time to set her bag down before she realized something was off.

Y/N didn’t greet her.

Didn’t glance up from the couch.

Didn’t even flinch when their mom said, “Girls, want to pick a movie for tonight?”

“I’m tired,” Y/N said. “Not in the mood.”

That wasn’t like her.

Wanda frowned but said nothing.

Later, she knocked on Y/N’s bedroom door.

No answer.

She opened it anyway.

“You’re ignoring me,” she said flatly.

Y/N sat at her desk, scribbling something into her sketchpad like it was life or death.

“Go away, Wanda.”

Wanda stepped inside anyway. “What the hell did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” Y/N snapped, still not looking at her.

Wanda’s jaw tightened. “Then why are you acting like I don’t exist? You’re not even pretending anymore.”

“I can’t pretend anymore!”

That made Wanda freeze.

Y/N stood up abruptly. Her eyes were wild—pained.

“I’m in love with you, Wanda,” she said, voice cracking. “I’ve been trying not to be. I’ve been trying to be good, for our parents, for you. But I can’t watch you let some random guy flirt with you. I can’t watch you and pretend it doesn’t kill me.”

Wanda blinked. “Y/N—”

“You laughed at something he said.”

“It was small talk! I didn’t even like him—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Y/N said, softer now. “Because I’m the only one who can’t have you.”

Wanda’s eyes were filling with tears. “You think this is easy for me? You think I’m not dying inside every time I have to act like you’re just my step-sister?”

Silence stretched between them like a live wire.

“I want you too,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N looked at her like she didn’t believe it.

“I never stopped,” Wanda said. “I’m just… scared. We’re not supposed to feel this.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “But we do.”

And that was the truth.

The silence between them was heavy. Breathing was hard.

Wanda’s words hung in the air like something sacred and dangerous all at once.

“I want you too.”

Y/N stepped closer before she could stop herself, eyes searching Wanda’s face for any hesitation. There was fear there, yes—but it was tangled with longing. Raw and open.

Wanda didn’t move.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t blink.

Y/N’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Then kiss me.”

And just like that, Wanda did.

She surged forward, hands fisting into Y/N’s shirt, pulling her down, up, into her—like she didn’t know where she began and where Y/N ended. Y/N’s arms went around her instantly, holding her like she’d been waiting for this exact moment her whole life.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss.

It was desperate. Messy. Hungry.

A crash of emotion too long suppressed.

Wanda whimpered against her mouth, and that broke something inside Y/N. She backed Wanda into the wall, their bodies pressed tight, lips moving fast, like they were making up for all the times they pretended they didn’t want this.

Didn’t need this.

But they did.

God, they did.

Wanda gasped when Y/N’s hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing just under her eye like she was fragile and precious. “I don’t care if it’s wrong,” Y/N said between kisses. “I just want you.”

Wanda nodded, breathless. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

They kissed again, slower this time. Softer. Like a promise.

They stayed like that until they heard footsteps outside in the hallway.

Wanda stiffened.

Y/N pulled back, resting her forehead against hers.

Back to reality.

Back to hiding.

But now, they couldn’t go back to what they were before.

Something had shifted.

And it was too big to ignore.

---

Does anyone want to see part 2 😁

#wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen x female reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda x y/n #g!p reader

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godricgryffinsnore · 2 months ago

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Like Hell You’re Flirting with Her ♡ : A Sirius Black Fan Fiction.

pairing : Sirius Black x fem!reader

summary : A hilarious, heart-melting moment unfolds in the Great Hall as Sirius Black’s feelings come to a head—complete with mischief, fluffy confessions, and a whole lot of teasing from his fellow Marauders.

warnings : Mild Jealousy/Possessiveness (Sirius gets very territorial—but it’s all fluffy and loving), Excessive Fluff (seriously tooth-rotting levels of affection), Public Displays of Affection (clingy Sirius alert!), Strong Language (light cursing, e.g., “like hell” and “damn”), Heavy Teasing/Banter (from James, Remus, and Peter—Sirius gets roasted, lovingly), Minor Embarrassment/Secondhand Embarrassment (poor Hufflepuff boy), Unhealthy Levels of Handsome Sirius Black Energy. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @kodaswrld and @cafekitsune

The Great Hall was bursting with golden light, chatter bouncing off the enchanted ceiling. Laughter spilled from the Gryffindor table like honey—sweet, endless, sticky. You were sitting between Remus and a charming Hufflepuff boy, one leg tucked under the other, laughing softly at something that boy—James thought his name was Owen?—had said.

Sirius Black was not okay.

He was sulking. No, worse than sulking. He was brooding with a vengeance, stabbing at a poor piece of toast with such venom it crumbled under the pressure.

“She’s laughing,” he muttered darkly. “She never laughs at my jokes like that.”

James, chewing on a mouthful of eggs, barely glanced up. “Maybe because your jokes aren’t funny, Pads.”

Peter snorted into his pumpkin juice.

Remus, very serenely, turned a page in his book. “You’ve told her the one about the goblin and the cactus twelve times. And you always forget the punchline.”

“I don’t forget the punchline,” Sirius hissed. “I build suspense.”

“Oh, is that what you’re building?” James said sweetly. “Because it looks a lot like irrational jealousy.”

Sirius dragged a hand through his already wild hair. “She’s mine.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “You do realize you’ve never actually told her that, right? You just... follow her around like a very pretty, very loud dog.”

“Yeah,” Peter added, “A possessive one. Like a kneazle with abandonment issues.”

Sirius didn’t even blink. “I am not possessive.”

James pointed toward the Hufflepuff boy—now holding your wrist to admire your bracelet.

Sirius stood up so fast his bench screeched backward. “Like hell you’re flirting with her.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Remus muttered, half-laughing as he shut his book.

The Great Hall fell into a hush as Sirius strode—yes, strode, as if his boots were fueled by fury and forbidden poetry—toward you.

You blinked up, halfway through a giggle. “Sirius?”

He stopped just in front of you, jaw clenched, storm in his eyes, the kind of storm that made you want to open your arms and drown in it. He looked you up and down, looked at the poor Hufflepuff’s hand still lightly holding yours, then very deliberately slid his arm around your waist.

He turned to the other boy with a dazzling, razor-edged smile.

“She’s taken,” Sirius said smoothly. “Thanks for admiring what’s mine.”

The Hufflepuff blinked. “Oh. I didn’t—”

“Mine,” Sirius said again, to be clear, tugging you a little closer until you were practically in his lap.

You felt your cheeks bloom with heat, but your heart was already hammering a giddy rhythm. “Sirius—”

“You’re mine,” he repeated, softer this time, to you and not the world, voice like silk dipped in honey. “You always have been.”

You should’ve teased him. You meant to tease him. But the way his eyes bore into yours, all firelight and unspoken poetry, it cracked your ribs open a little.

“I know,” you whispered. “So are you.”

The table behind you erupted.

James was howling. “He said it! He actually said it!”

Remus looked delighted. “Took you long enough, Padfoot.”

Peter started miming dramatic kisses behind Sirius’s back.

Sirius didn’t care.

He tucked his face into your neck, arms wrapped tightly around you like he’d waited a thousand lifetimes for this, like your laugh was a song only he had the lyrics to.

“Mine,” he murmured again, and this time, it wasn’t a warning or a claim—it was a promise, etched in starlight, whispered into your skin like a vow.

── .✦

Later that night...

“Sirius?” you asked, curled in the Gryffindor common room, his head on your lap as he traced idle patterns into your knee.

“Mhm?”

“You know I only laughed at that guy’s joke because he had broccoli in his teeth, right?”

Sirius blinked. “You what?”

You laughed. “He had no idea.”

He stared at you, then collapsed into your lap with a groan. “I ruined his life for no reason.”

“Jealousy looks cute on you.”

“You look cute on me,” he muttered into your jumper, and you could feel the pout.

James passed by, grinning. “Oi, don’t forget to snog your property goodnight, Pads!”

Sirius flipped him off without lifting his head, but you kissed his hair anyway.

#della 𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼 #sirius black x fem!reader #sirius black fic #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #sirius black fanfiction #marauders #the marauders #marauders era #mauraders #sirius black x oc #sirius black fanfic #sirius black #sirius orion black

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stylesispunk · 4 months ago

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Blind faith | part iv

priest!Joel miller x nigth club dancer! Reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: the one where the cardinal comes to visit priest joel due to the whispers around town but he ended up breaking the vows he swore to keep once.

wc: 13,8k

warnings: age gap (joel is in his late 40s and reader late 20s), forbidden relationship, sexism, mysogenya, angst, fluff, SMUT (yes, they're doing it but kinda sloppy though). I remind you all once again, english is not my first language and i'm not the best at writing smut, i'm actually awful. The chapter is kinda rushed at the end.

a/n: hello loves! okay, this is the chapter I was the most excited about. Where the lines are crossed. I know that some people may have thought this story would be about smut and all but i really wanted it to be something beyond that. I know I said you would found some more answers in this chapter, but you will find them in the other or maybe no haha. Okay, I really hope you like it AND PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK it's discouraging when you don't receive it. Reblogs and comments are appreciated. 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Sun blazed your skin first thing in the morning. You could feel it. Eyes barely opening, stirring, and bones aching despite all the sleep. You didn’t register it at first, the warmth irradiating through the windows, the softness of the pillow your cheek rested on, neither the scent of pine and wood enveloping you. You stirred once again, the smell hit you once again as you opened your eyes and took a look of your surroundings. Four walls that seemed foreign,

You stretched, the sheets pooling around your waist as you sat up slowly, taking in the unfamiliar yet comforting space. Joel’s bedroom. The realization sent a flutter through your chest, a warmth that rivaled the sunlight spilling through the curtains.

You glanced down, realizing you were dressed in an old, soft T-shirt, his. A pair of comfortable shorts that definitely weren’t yours. The scent of him clung to the fabric, faint but unmistakable.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you stood up, your muscles still sore in a way that reminded you of last day at the beach with him. You smiled at the now memory you would hold into.

But now, he was gone. Your heart dipped slightly as you padded barefoot out of the bedroom, looking for him. The house was quiet, save for the distant sounds people outside. Your eyes scanned the space until they landed on the kitchen table.

A plate with two pieces of toast, a glass of orange juice, and a small folded note.

You bit your lip, warmth spreading through your chest as you stepped closer, picking up the piece of paper with careful fingers.

Had to step out earlier. Eat something, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon.

Sweetheart.

You exhaled a soft laugh, shaking your head as you pressed the note to your chest for a moment, allowing yourself to feel everything, the giddiness, the comfort, the way Joel, even in his absence, made you feel so seen.

Settling into the chair, you picked up a piece of toast, taking a small bite as you let your eyes linger on the note once more, the warmth in your chest refusing to fade.

Oh, perhaps you were falling in love.

You sighed, setting the note down carefully on the table before finishing your breakfast. The moment felt delicate, something to be tucked away in the quiet corners of your heart.

Once you were done, you made your way back to the bedroom, changing out of Joel’s clothes and slipping into your own. As much as you wanted to stay wrapped in the comfort of his scent, you knew you couldn’t linger here forever.

You ran your fingers through your hair, smoothing out any signs of sleep, and took one last look around the room before stepping toward the door. Just as your fingers brushed the handle, the sound of it unlocking from the outside made you freeze.

Joel stepped inside, his broad frame filling the doorway, the golden morning light casting a glow around him. His eyes immediately found yours, and his lips curved into the softest smile—one that made your stomach flip.

“Leaving already?” he asked, amusement lacing his tone as he took in your dressed form.

You swallowed, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. “I didn’t want to overstay.”

Joel’s smile didn’t falter, but there was something unreadable in his expression as he took a slow step closer. “You could never overstay, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it—so easy, so certain—made something bloom inside you, something that had been waiting for the right moment to break free.

“I didn’t know if you’d want me to,” you admitted, voice quieter now.

Joel’s gaze softened.

“Did we-uhm- How I ended up sleeping on your bed?” You asked, a bit shy of his reaction.

“Well, you fell asleep on my couch and I thought I would take you to my bed to sleep more comfortable.” He replied, while moving around the house as if was looking for something.

“Did you sleep with me?” you asked, almost hopefully at the idea of it.

“No. I took the couch” he said, not even looking at you.

“Oh.” You cough, “Great, thank. I-I I think I should go. Carmen must worry about me.” You said, already walking towards the door.

“Wait!” You turned into your heels to have a glimpse of him. He stood firmly, stopping what he was doing.

“You should be careful when you go out. We don’t want people-

“To think you are with the whore’s town. I get it.” You said, disappointed.

Joel’s expression shifted instantly—his brows knitting together, his mouth parting slightly as if the words had physically struck him.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

You scoffed, hugging your arms over your chest, the sting of the moment settling deep. “Isn’t it?”

Joel took a step forward, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but was holding himself back. “No, it isn’t.”

You swallowed, looking away. You hated that your throat was tightening, that your chest ached at the mere thought of what people would say—of what they already did.

“Then what did you mean?” you challenged, meeting his gaze again.

Joel exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face before finally stepping closer. “I meant that people talk. And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stared at him, searching for something in his eyes, something to tell you this wasn’t just guilt talking.

“So, it’s not because you’re ashamed of being seen with me?” Your voice was quieter now, but no less certain.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into fists before he slowly, deliberately, unclenched them. “Never.”

The word sat between you, heavy with meaning.

“Okay.” You spoke.

Before you could open the door, before you could even turn, Joel grabbed your hand pulling you into an embrace, inhaling deeply as if he was trying to memorize your scent, to hold onto something before it slipped away. His arms wrapped around you, strong and secure, pressing you against his chest.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by the suddenness of it, but then you melted into him. Your hands found their way to his back, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as you let your head rest against his shoulder.

Joel exhaled shakily; his breath warm against your temple. “I’m not ashamed of you,” he murmured, his voice rough, like the words were scraping their way out of him. “I could never,” he paused for a mere second, “You had been the best thing in my life for so long. The best person I’ve ever met.”

Your throat bubbled a little. There were words you want to take away from it, words you need to say out loud, but you were still so afraid of them. To face them, to make Joel regret to even met you in the first place, so you just kept them under your tongue. Secured, so you could still enjoy from the feeling Joel’s touch caused on you.

You swallowed hard, fingers fisting his shirt a little tighter. “You don’t have to say things just to make me feel better.”

Joel pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, serious. “Do you think I am lying to you?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t believe him, but because you wanted to. Too much.

He sighed, shaking his head before lifting a hand to cradle your cheek. His thumb brushed against your skin, gentle in a way that made your chest ache. “I ain’t ever lied to you, sweetheart.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “And I never will.”

You felt your lips curve into a small, almost shy smile, the weight of his words settling deep in your chest. Your fingers loosened their grip on his shirt, smoothing over the fabric instead. For a moment, you let yourself sink into the warmth of his touch, the way his thumb lingered against your cheek like he wasn’t ready to let go either.

But then, reality crept back in, reminding you of everything waiting outside this little moment, the things neither of you had the courage to say just yet. You exhaled softly, eyes flickering down before meeting his again.

“I have to go now, though.”

Joel’s expression didn’t change, but you felt the way his body tensed slightly, his hand reluctant as it dropped from your face. He gave you a slow nod, his jaw tightening like he was biting back the words he really wanted to say.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice lower now.

You took a step back, putting space between you even though you didn’t want to. Your fingers itched to reach for him again, but you clenched them into fists instead. You turned, hand on the door, when his voice stopped you one last time.

“You’ll come back?”

Your heart squeezed. You shouldn’t. You knew that. But still, you found yourself whispering

“If you want me to.”

The walk back to the house felt longer than usual that you didn’t even notice that some people had noticed you had left the priest’s house wearing the same clothes as the day before. You didn’t notice how whispers begun. Perhaps you acted foolish and naïve or maybe it was the weight of Joel’s words lingering in your chest, or the way your skin still burned where his hands had been. Either way, by the time you reached the house, you had taken a deep breath, steeling yourself before stepping inside.

The smell of fresh coffee and eggs filled the air. Carmen and Billy sat at the small wooden table, their plates half-full, cups of coffee steaming beside them. The moment you stepped through the door, their heads snapped toward you in unison.

“Where the hell were you?” Billy blurted out, fork pausing halfway to his mouth.

Carmen’s eyes narrowed, scanning you up and down. You weren’t disheveled, but something about you must have given you away—maybe the glow on your skin, the way you hesitated for just a second too long before answering.

“I—” You cleared your throat, shifting on your feet. “I just—”

Carmen’s lips parted slightly, her eyes widening like realization had just struck her. “Oh my God.”

Billy looked between the two of you, frowning. “What?”

Carmen’s gaze locked onto yours, a slow smirk creeping onto her face. “You were with him, weren’t you?”

Billy blinked. “With who—? Oh.” His brows shot up, and suddenly, you were being stared at like a mystery waiting to be unraveled.

Your face heated instantly. “It’s not—it’s not what you think.”

Carmen crossed her arms, amused. “Really? Because I think you spent the night at priest’s house.”

Billy choked on his coffee. “Jesus Christ.”

Carmen chuckled “That’s a good expression.”

You groaned, rubbing your hands over your face. “Nothing happened.”

Carmen raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Then why do you look like you just spent the night tangled up with him?”

Your heart skipped at the way she phrased it, at the thought of being tangled up with Joel—because the truth was, part of you had wanted that.

Billy groaned. “Carmen, don’t put images in my head, please. He is hot.”

You exhaled, trying to compose yourself. “I just fell asleep there, okay? That’s it.”

Carmen gave you a knowing look, but she didn’t push. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, smirking. “If you say so.”

Billy muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as he stabbed his eggs a little too aggressively.

You sighed, walking toward the counter to pour yourself a cup of coffee, ignoring the way Carmen was still watching you like she knew something you didn’t.

But the truth was, you knew exactly what she was thinking.

And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.

You were falling in love with Joel.

Billy let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head before pointing his fork at you. “Okay, look—I’ll admit it. He’s a hot priest. A really hot one.” He jabbed the fork in the air for emphasis. “But, darling… he’s a priest at the end of the day.”

You froze mid-sip of your coffee, your fingers tightening around the cup. Carmen shot Billy a warning look, but he kept going.

“He’s not just some guy you can mess around with,” Billy continued, his voice softer now. “You know what this means for him. For you.”

Your throat tightened. You did know. You had been trying not to think about it, trying to pretend you could just enjoy this feeling—enjoy him—without reality creeping in.

“I’m not messing around,” you said quietly.

Billy exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know you’re not. That’s what worries me.”

Carmen reached over, squeezing your hand gently. “Billy’s right, Estrellita. We’re just looking out for you.”

You forced a small smile, but your chest felt heavy. Because no matter how much you wanted to ignore it, they were right.

You were falling in love with a man you could never have.

The bass pulsed beneath your feet, the heat of the lights casting a golden glow over your skin as you moved, slow and deliberate. The music guided you, every roll of your hips, every arch of your back calculated to entrance, to captivate. You had done this a thousand times before—this performance, this dance. But tonight, it felt different.

Because tonight, your eyes kept drifting to the entrance.

You scanned the dimly lit club, searching through the smoke and the sea of faces, hoping—expecting—to see him standing there. Arms crossed, jaw tight, watching you with that barely restrained tension he always carried when he was near you.

But Joel wasn’t there.

Your stomach twisted, disappointment curling in your chest even as you forced yourself to keep moving, to keep dancing. You knew you shouldn’t have expected him. He was a priest, after all. Whatever had happened between you—whatever was happening—wasn’t supposed to. Maybe he had come to his senses. Maybe he had decided to stay away.

Carmen, standing just off the stage, caught your eye as you spun around the pole, her smirk knowing. When your set ended, she was already waiting near the stairs, arms crossed.

“You keep looking for him,” she teased as you slipped past her.

You didn’t bother denying it. Instead, you sighed, grabbing a towel to dab at the sweat on your skin. “He’s not coming.”

Carmen tilted her head. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

You weren’t so sure. Because as much as you told yourself it was better this way, that hollow feeling in your chest refused to fade.

Another day, another night.

And oh, you were already love and it scared you.

Your steps faltered the moment you noticed the crowd outside the church. The murmurs, the whispers—it all crashed into you at once.

Women stood in small clusters, their heads tilted toward one another, their eyes flickering to you before quickly turning away, pretending they hadn’t just been talking about you. Some didn’t even bother to hide it, their lips curled in disgust, their judgment palpable in the air.

You didn’t have to hear their words to know what they were saying.

She was seen leaving his house yesterday morning.

What kind of woman does that?

With a priest, of all people!

And then there were the men, their voices lower but no less cruel.

"She’d give herself to a priest before one of us?"

"Guess she thinks she’s too good for the rest of us."

Your stomach churned. The heat of embarrassment burned your skin, but underneath it was something colder. Anger. These men—these people—had no right to talk about you as if you were some shameful secrets, some object for them to claim.

And then you saw Joel, dressed in black, his collar stark white against the fabric. A reminder of what he was. A reminder of why this was all happening.

But he wasn’t alone.

Beside him stood another man, older, dressed in the same priestly garments. There was an air of authority about him, the way he carried himself, the way others seemed to step aside as he moved.

The Cardinal.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Joel was speaking with him, his expression unreadable, but then, as if he could sense you, his eyes lifted. Met yours. Something flickered in his gaze. Worry. Regret. Guilt. And yet, he didn’t look away.

Your eyes met, and he swallowed as if nervous about your presence. The cardinal followed Joel's gaze to you, and you could sense the suspicion a man with that power held in the church. How, just by looking at you, he could tell you were the problem he'd come here to talk to Joel about. That you were the temptation lurking in the Father's face.

The Cardinal’s gaze was sharp, assessing, stripping you bare in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with judgment. You didn’t shrink under it, even as your heart pounded against your ribs.

He knew.

Even if there had been nothing to confess, even if no one had spoken outright, he knew what the town had already decided: that you were the problem. That you had tainted their priest.

Joel’s jaw clenched. His hands, which had been relaxed at his sides just a moment ago, curled into fists. He looked torn, his body tense as if he were fighting the urge to move toward you—to reach for you.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

The moment stretched, suffocating and endless, until the Cardinal finally turned his attention back to Joel, his expression unreadable but his posture heavy with authority. He said something—too low for you to hear—but Joel’s reaction told you enough. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes briefly closing as if steadying himself before nodding once.

You didn’t know what had just been decided, but you knew it wasn’t good.

A wave of nausea rolled through you. You weren’t naive enough to think this wouldn’t have consequences. You’d just been hoping—selfishly, foolishly—that they wouldn’t come so soon.

That maybe Joel would have had more time. That you would have had more time.

Joel turned away first, back to the Cardinal, his expression carefully schooled into something unreadable. And with that single movement, it was as if a wall had been put between you.

As if he had made a choice. And it wasn’t you.

You barely made it to the bench before your knees gave out beneath you. Sitting down, you folded in on yourself, hands clenched together in your lap, fingers twisting at the fabric of your skirt. The nausea churned in your stomach, rising in your throat, but you swallowed it down, refusing to let it win.

But God, seeing Joel from afar—seeing him look right through you—felt like someone had reached into your chest and ripped something vital from you. It was a different kind of pain, a sharp, splintering ache that settled deep in your ribs, making it hard to breathe.

You barely noticed the woman sitting beside you until she let out a soft sigh.

"Poor thing."

You stiffened immediately, shoulders tensing as you turned your head, ready to snap at whoever had dared to sit so close, to offer their pity like a gift you had no intention of accepting.

But the woman beside you wasn’t sneering. She wasn’t whispering cruel words behind a fake smile. She was just looking at you. Softly. Kindly.

Mrs. Langdon.

You recognized her from the market, from the church gatherings. She was older, with graying hair pinned into a neat bun and warm, wise eyes that held something you weren’t used to seeing from anyone in this town.

Not judgment. Not malice. Just understanding.

Still, you bristled, wrapping your arms around yourself. “If you’re here to tell me I should –”

“Oh, hush.” She waved a hand, dismissing your words like they were nothing more than an annoying fly. “You think I don’t know what small towns are like? People always looking for someone to talk about, someone to cast stones at. You just happen to be their favorite target right now.”

You frowned, glancing at her warily. “And you don’t agree with them?”

Mrs. Langdon let out a dry chuckle. “I would rather die than agree with these people. They haven’t seen the world outside this place, that’s what they are like this.”

You blinked at Mrs. Langdon, her words striking you like a sharp gust of wind. You’d always assumed that the people in this town—the ones gossiping behind their hands, the ones judging every move you made—were simply following some unspoken code of right and wrong, of tradition. It had never occurred to you that someone might look at them and see what they were: trapped.

“See the world outside?” you repeated, still a little skeptical, as your eyes darted back to Joel. He hadn’t looked at you again since that brief glance earlier, and now, with the Cardinal standing beside him, it felt as if the distance between you had grown tenfold.

“Yes,” Mrs. Langdon continued, her voice soft but firm. “You’d be surprised how small their world is, how tightly they hold onto their little rules, because it’s all they know. But people like you,” she turned her gaze to you then, her eyes softening with a tenderness that made your heart ache, “people like you are the ones who see beyond. You’re the ones with the courage to live.”

You swallowed, trying to hold back the sudden rush of emotion that threatened to break through. She didn’t know the half of it—how terrified you were, how unsure you felt. You had no idea what it meant to be with Joel, to stand by him in a world that was determined to tear him down.

“And do you think I’m doing the right thing?” you asked quietly, unable to stop the words from leaving your lips.

Mrs. Langdon studied you for a moment before she answered, her voice thoughtful. “I think you’re doing what your heart tells you to do. And that’s all anyone can ever do, in the end.”

You looked at her, her words settling over you like a soft blanket. “Thank you.” You smiled, “You are the first person who had been kind to me here.”

Mrs. Langdon’s smile deepened, her eyes kind and warm. "Well, I'm glad to be the first, but I won't be the last," she said, her tone both gentle and reassuring. "There are people here who might not say it, but they understand more than you'd think. You just have to find the ones who can see beyond the surface."

You nodded, the weight on your chest lifting just a little. It felt like a small crack in the wall that had been built around you since arriving in this town, a small sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, there was room for you here too.

"You know," she continued, her voice dropping a little lower, "I’ve seen the way you look at father Joel.”

You froze, her words catching you off guard. Mrs. Langdon studied you carefully, her gaze soft but knowing.

Those aren't just any eyes, sweetheart. Those are eyes of love."

You felt your heart tighten, but it wasn’t from shame. It was something deeper, a recognition of truth you hadn’t wanted to fully admit to yourself.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you whispered, not meeting her gaze.

Mrs. Langdon didn’t push, but her expression softened with understanding. "You don’t have to say it out loud. I can see it. And Joel, well, he sees it too. He has the same eyes for you. He knows all your secrets, everything you're afraid of, everything you're hiding. That man has a heart, just like you."

You swallowed hard, trying to keep the wave of emotions from taking over. But the thought of Joel knowing you so completely, knowing all your fears and all the love you tried to bury, made something inside you break somehow.

"He deserves more than this," Mrs. Langdon continued, her voice quieter now, filled with a gentle sadness. "He deserves a life where you don’t have to hide, a life where he can live freely. But the church, it’s... it’s not that kind of place.”

You fidgeted with your fingers trying to process her words. It was the truth, wasn’t it? Joel was bound by something, by vows, by his position, by the very fabric of who he was. And as much as you wanted to fight it, as much as you wanted to believe you could carve out a space for yourself in his life, there was no escaping it.

"I want him to be happy," you murmured, your voice raw. "I want him to have everything he deserves."

"Then don’t let the priesthood take it from him," Mrs. Langdon said firmly, her tone softening as she placed a hand on your shoulder. "Don’t let him carry that burden alone if it means losing what he could have with you. If you love him, let him have the life he deserves. Let him choose."

Tears threatened to spill, but you held them back, blinking hard to keep them at bay. Her words were like a knife, cutting through the walls you’d built, exposing the truth you had been trying to ignore.

“I don’t know if I can be the one to take that choice from him,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Mrs. Langdon.

"Sometimes," she said quietly, "love isn't about what we want. It’s about what the other person needs to be free. Let him find his freedom, and in turn, let yourself find yours."

You met her eyes then, and for the first time since you’d gotten to this town, you felt a sense of clarity. It wasn’t going to be easy. There would be pain. But maybe, just maybe, love was more than staying in one place. Maybe it was about letting go when the time came.

"Thank you," you whispered, wiping the tears that you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

Mrs. Langdon's smile remained warm, a touch of kindness in her eyes as she spoke. "You should come have tea with me this afternoon. It's just my husband and I, nothing fancy, but it would be nice to have some company. Father Joel comes over for dinner every Thursday, so we aren't lonely," she said with a gentle chuckle, her voice carrying no trace of judgment, only genuine invitation.

You found yourself surprised by the offer, the warmth of it sinking deep into your chest. "I would love to," you responded, your voice a bit lighter than before, the weight of the conversation easing just a little.

Mrs. Langdon nodded, the corners of her eyes crinkling in a smile. "My house is the blue one, close to that club you work at. You can't miss it," she added, her tone still kind and welcoming. Not judgment, just kindness.

You smiled at her, feeling something like hope flicker in your chest. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the beginning of something you hadn’t expected—something that might help you get through the turmoil of everything you were feeling.

"Thank you," you said quietly, a genuine smile pulling at the corners of your lips. "I’ll see you this afternoon."

With that, Mrs. Langdon gave you a nod and stood, her presence as comforting as it had been when she first sat beside you. As you watched her walk away, you realized that even in a town that had felt so cold, there were still people like her who could offer warmth. And for once, it made you feel like you weren’t so alone.

The afternoon passed in a haze of quiet reflection. You found yourself walking towards Mrs. Langdon’s blue house, the small but charming building tucked just behind the club where you worked. The sun was starting to dip, casting soft shadows across the street. As you approached her home, a sense of calm you hadn’t known you needed settled over you.

Mrs. Langdon greeted you at the door, her warm smile a welcome you couldn’t help but return. “Come in, dear,” she said kindly, ushering you into the cozy space.

The smell of fresh tea lingered in the air, and there was an immediate feeling of peace in her home. You stepped inside, taking in the simple but inviting interior. Her husband was sitting in a chair by the window, reading a book. He offered you a quiet, polite smile.

"Come, sit with us," Mrs. Langdon said, pulling up an extra chair beside her. As you sat down, she poured you a cup of tea, her movements deliberate, soothing.

You were starting to feel at ease when the door opened, and you heard a familiar voice.

"Evening, Mrs. Langdon."

You froze for a moment, heart leaping into your throat as you turned to see none other than Joel stepping inside, a small bag of groceries in hand.

His gaze caught yours almost immediately, and for a split second, the world around you seemed to stop. You felt his presence as though it were a physical thing, pulling you in like gravity.

Joel paused in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his eyes locking with yours. He had clearly not expected to see you here.

Mrs. Langdon smiled brightly, oblivious to the tension in the air. “Father Joel, perfect timing! I was just about to serve tea. Come, join us.”

Joel looked between you and her, his eyes narrowing just slightly as if caught between two worlds. He set the bag down carefully on the counter and nodded, stepping further into the room.

"Good evening," he said quietly, his voice low. He hesitated for just a moment before sitting down, across from you, at the small table.

The silence between you two was palpable, charged with everything that had been left unsaid. Mrs. Langdon filled the silence with easy conversation, talking about the weather, the garden, her husband's new book—anything to keep things light. But you could feel the heaviness between you and Joel, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you like a storm cloud.

You glanced at him once, your heart fluttering despite the tension. His face was a mask of calm, but you could see the flicker of something else behind his eyes—something too familiar, too intense to ignore.

And just like that, you were back in the world you’d tried to escape. Joel. The priest.

Not Joel the mand you loved.

Joel’s voice was steady but laced with tension as he continued to explain to Mrs. Langdon and her husband about the Cardinal’s visit. “So basically, he came here today to check on some matters, to discuss... some things. I’m sure you both understand the pressure, and I had to reassure him that nothing inappropriate was happening. But I’m not sure he believed me,” he added, his voice growing more frustrated.

Mrs. Langdon nodded sympathetically, her eyes flicking to you, but she said nothing, allowing Joel to speak. Her husband, who had been quietly listening, gave a small nod as well, but his expression remained neutral.

“I bet those ladies were bothering him with stuff. Always snitching.” She said because she knew perfectly well the reason why the cardinal had come was because of them.

Joel’s words kept going, but you were hardly listening anymore. The room felt suddenly small; the air too thick with unspoken tension. You could feel the weight of the conversation hanging around you, pressing down on your chest. It felt suffocating, like there was no air left for you to breathe.

The mention of the Cardinal, of everything that was happening, made your stomach churn, but it wasn’t just the situation that hurt. It was the realization that Joel was caught in something much larger than the two of you—something that neither of you had any control over. His gaze kept flicking toward you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it.

Your breath hitched, and you pushed your chair back slightly, rising from the table. “Excuse me,” you murmured, barely louder than a whisper, “Mrs. Langdon, may I use your bathroom?”

Joel paused mid-sentence, clearly caught off guard by your request. He looked at you, his eyes searching your face as if trying to understand what was happening, but you avoided his gaze, feeling a wave of shame and confusion wash over you.

Mrs. Langdon, smiled warmly. "Of course, dear. Joel, could you show her where the bathroom is?" she asked, her tone light and unbothered, as if she hadn’t noticed the tension that had settled in the air.

Joel nodded slowly, standing up from his chair. “Sure,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, his gaze lingering on you for a second too long before he turned toward the hallway.

You stood up as well, trying to gather the fragments of your composure. You forced a smile in Mrs. Langdon’s direction, but it felt weak.

The walk down the hallway felt painfully long. Every step you took seemed suffocating and small, the weight of everything pressing down on you more with each passing second.

When you reached the bathroom, Joel hesitated for a moment, his hand on the door. He seemed torn, unsure of whether to say something or just let you go inside. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re avoiding me” he said, the words catching in his throat.

You paused, your heart pounding in your chest. His words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and you couldn’t help but feel the truth in them, even if you didn’t want to admit it. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out at first. You could feel the heat of your skin, the tension in your shoulders, all the emotions swirling inside you in a chaotic mess.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you finally whispered, your voice barely audible, a lie you weren’t even sure you believed yourself.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t say anything for a moment, his eyes searching your face, waiting for you to look at him. But you couldn’t. You couldn’t face him right now, not with everything hanging in the air, not with the way things were unraveling. The guilt, the confusion, everything crashing together.

And then, before you could step further into the bathroom, Joel did something you didn’t expect. He stepped in after you, closing the door behind him with a soft click, and suddenly, the small space felt even smaller. The air thickened, and you could feel the weight of his presence just inches away from you.

He didn’t speak immediately, but the look in his eyes was enough. The way he watched you, not with anger, but with understanding. And maybe a bit of frustration, as if he couldn’t figure out what was keeping you from him, what was stopping you from just being closer to him.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, your hands shaking slightly. “You shouldn’t be here, Joel,” you said, your voice trembling now, though you tried to keep it firm.

“I know,” he replied, his voice low, almost as if he was sharing a secret. “But I am.” His eyes softened for a moment, as if he was seeing right through you, to the parts of you that were breaking but too afraid to show it. “You can’t keep pushing me away.”

You stayed still, hoping, praying, he would just walk away and make all of this easier for the both of you.

“I know what you are thinking,” his voice was quiet, but there was something raw in it. Something pleading as if he was on his knees waiting for you to take him.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to stay strong.

“Please talk to me” he murmured, and the way his voice cracked shattered you.

You exhaled shakily closing and opening your eyes as he still stood there.

You swallowed hard, gripping the doorframe for support. “You know what is the right thing to do. We can’t see each other anymore.”

Joel’s jaw clenched, and he took a step closer. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

You shook your head, voice trembling. “I don’t want you to lose everything you had built because of me, Joel.”

His expression softened, and he lifted a hand as if to touch you but stopped himself. “You’re not something I should have to lose too.”

The words sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over you, and you turned away, trying to steady yourself. “You made a promise—to God, to yourself. And I—” Your breath hitched. “I know love you too much to be the reason you break it.”

Silence. Heavy, aching silence. Your eyes widened the moment you realized the words that had slipped out from your lips.

When you finally turned back, you found Joel staring at you, stunned. His lips parted slightly, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“What?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Tears welled in your eyes. “I love you, Joel.” You gasped for air, “I am in love with you.”

The words hung between you, fragile yet powerful. His hands clenched at his sides fidgeting his clothes as if he were physically holding himself back. You could see it in his eyes—the war raging inside him.

Finally, he exhaled a shaky breath. “Say it again.” He stepped impossibly closer, “Say those six words again.”

You hesitated, your heart pounding. “Joel—”

“Please,” he cut in, his voice rough. “Just one more time.”

Your lip trembled, and this time, you let the words pour out, raw and unfiltered. “I am in love with you.”

His breath hitched, and before you could react, he closed the space built between you, his hands framing your face, destroying the walls you had been trying to build between the both of you. His lips crash onto yours in a kiss so desperate, so full of longing and yearning, it stole the breath from your lungs.

He wasn’t careful or hesitant, he was just simply pouring all the feelings he had kept under all the keys, on your lips. Everything you had denied yourselves. And in that moment, nothing else mattered because what was happening was an act of love, a pure feeling. There was nothing wrong with it.

Joel’s kiss was all-consuming, desperate, like a man grasping at something slipping through his fingers. His hands trembled where they held your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that had escaped down your cheeks.

You clung to him, your fingers curling in his hair, as if anchoring yourself to this moment, to him. You could feel the weight of it, the war he was fighting within himself, the battle between faith and love, between what he had vowed and what his heart was screaming for.

But right now, he wasn’t Father Joel. He was just Joel.

Yours.

Your Joel.

The man you were in love with.

A man devoted to you.

He pulled away, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath shaky and uneven. His hands slid down to your shoulders, then your arms, as if memorizing the feel of you.

“You shouldn’t have said that,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, holding back his smile.

Your heart ached at the conflict in his eyes. “But it’s the truth.”

Joel let out a ragged breath, his grip tightening as if he was afraid to let go. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, baby.”

Your fingers brushed over his jaw, feeling the tension there. “Loving you is so easy, Joel.” you whispered, biting your lips in a small effort to suppress the smile.

He kissed you again. Slower this time, deeper. It was full of longing; of everything he had tried to bury but couldn’t anymore. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, as if looking for an answer he hadn’t yet found in himself.

“I’m in love with you, too. God, you’re so—”

“So what?” you asked.

“Perfect. Made for me.” He replied.

“No, I’m not.” you said, knowing the secrets you still held back, caged inside the pain of your heart.

“To my eyes, you’re.” He said, caressing your face with his thumbs.

You looked so beautiful to him, under his stare that he was afraid that from now on he would love you forever. Like he was ready to be devasted by you and concept of love all over again just to be able to taste your lips and to caress your face with his palms that on your cheeks seemed innocent.

You swallowed hard, feeling this situation pressing down on your chest. Your hands, still trembling found their way to his wrists, holding onto him like he was the only one who could keep you steady in a world that suddenly felt falling into pieces.

Your voice was barely above a whisper when you finally asked, “What comes now?”

Joel's breath hitched, his grip on you tightening like he was afraid you would regret this and shatter his heart in the process. His eyes seemed darker, searching yours as if trying to find the answer himself. He exhaled shakily, his forehead still resting against yours. “I have no idea.”

The honesty in his words made your heart ache. This wasn’t simple. This wasn’t easy. Love never was—especially not yours. But the way he looked at you, the way he held you, like you were something sacred, made you want to believe that somehow, you could figure it out together.

His fingers traced slow, gentle circles on your arms, like he was memorizing the shape of you, the texture of your skin, the feel of you, in case this was the last time he would ever get to hold you like this. "I should say we stop now, that we walk away before it’s too late." His voice was rough, strained. "But I don’t think I can. I don’t want to."

Your heart pounded, “Joel…”

He shook his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping his lips. "I spent so long fighting this—fighting you, since the first night I saw sleeping on the bench because I thought it was the right thing to do. But tell me, baby... If this is so wrong, why does it feel like the only thing that’s ever-made sense to me in so long?"

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because he was right. Because the truth was, no matter how much you had tried to convince yourself otherwise, being in his arms felt like the only place you were ever meant to be.

"What do we do?" you whispered, your fingers tightening around his wrists. "How do we do this?"

Joel exhaled, leaning in, his nose brushing against yours. “I’d say…one step at time.”

You closed your eyes at the tenderness in his voice. "And if we fall?"

His lips barely ghosted over yours before he whispered, "Then we fall together."

And a small chuckle escaped from your lips.

The days passed in a torturous slow blur for the both of you. The pressure of your secret affair pressed down on you, each stolen glance between you and Joel carrying a longing that never faded, only deepened and strangled your hearts. The Cardinal was still in town, his presence looming over everything like a shadow, forcing Joel to keep his distance, to maintain the image of who he was supposed to be.

But even in the smallest moments, you could feel him.

You’d catch his eyes from across the street, hungry and kind flickering over you like he wanted to memorize every detail before looking away. You’d see the way his hands clenched at his sides when you walked past him after service, as if he was holding himself back from reaching for you. And sometimes, late at night, you swore you could still feel the ghost of his touch, his lips, the way he whispered your name like a prayer in that small, stolen moment in the bathroom.

And then, one afternoon, fate offered you mercy. You were passing by the church, the sky grey with a warning of a heavy rain, when you saw him. Alone.

Joel stood at the church steps, his broad frame leaning against the doorway, his expression tense, lost in thought. But the second his eyes landed on you, something in him changed. His shoulders straightened, his jaw clenched, and for the first time in days, you saw it, that deep, burning desperation.

He walked inside the church, you followed him and before you could even react or take a breath, his hands were on your face, rough and warm, pulling you in before his lips crashed onto yours.

The kiss was feverish, urgent. A moment of recklessness after days of restraint. You clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his cassock, needing to hold onto him just as desperately as he held onto you. The world around you blurred, melted into nothing, because nothing mattered but the feeling of his mouth on yours, the heat of him searing into your skin.

But then footsteps interrupted the moment.

Joel pulled away instantly, his breath ragged, his hands dropping from your face as if burned. You barely had a second to process before a voice, rough and commanding ranging behind him.

“Father Miller.”

You turned sharply to see him. The Cardinal.

His piercing gaze flicked between you and Joel, unreadable but heavy with something cold. Suspicion, maybe.

He wasn’t naïve.

Joel, didn’t hesitate changing his posture, “Your Eminence,” he greeted smoothly, stepping back just enough to put distance between you. His voice was steady, composed, but you could still hear the slight strain in it.

The Cardinal’s sharp eyes settled on you. “And who is lady here?”

Joel straightened; his expression carefully neutral. “This is—” He hesitated for only a fraction of a second before continuing, “She’s new in town. I’ve been offering some guidance.”

The way he said it, as if you were nothing more than another wandering soul seeking his help, sent a sharp pang through you. You understood why he said it. Knew that he had to. But it still stung.

The Cardinal’s eyes swept over you, assessing, unimpressed. “Is that so?” His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Well, let us hope you are a good influence, rather than a distraction for the father, here.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over you like ice. Joel’s hands clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.

The Cardinal barely spared you another glance before turning back to Joel. “I need to speak with you. Now.”

Joel hesitated, his eyes flickering to you for the briefest second before nodding. “Of course.”

And just like that, the moment was gone. You stood there, heart still racing, watching as Joel followed the Cardinal back into the church. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

You still were a forbidden fruit to him.

You sat by the mirror in the dressing room, running a fingertip over the rim of your glass, lost in thought. Your reflection stared back at you, lips slightly parted, skin still warm from the memory of Joel’s touch. You could still feel the ghost of his lips against yours, the way he had held you so tightly, like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he let go.

You wanted him. All of him. You wanted his arms around you all the time because he felt like home, a place you missed.

“Earth to troublemaker.”

A familiar voice snapped you from your thoughts, and you turned to see Billy leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. His sharp eyes flicked over you, picking up on every little detail—the way you were sitting too still, the way your mind was somewhere else.

“You look like a woman with a big secret to share,” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Before you could answer, Carmen appeared behind him, slipping into the room with a bottle in her hand. “She doesn’t just look like one,” she teased, raising a brow. “She is one.”

You huffed, shaking your head as they both settled in beside you. Carmen poured herself a drink before nudging your knee with hers. “So, are you gonna tell us, or are we gonna have to guess?”

You hesitated for a moment, rolling your lip between your teeth. But you knew there was no point in keeping it from them. Not from them.

They were your friends and your family here.

Finally, you exhaled, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I kissed him.” You confessed, “Well, he did.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Billy grinned, shaking his head. “I knew it.”

Carmen, on the other hand, simply gave you a knowing look, sipping her drink. “About damn time.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No lecture?”

“Oh, I’ll get to that,” she said, smirking. “But first, tell me everything.”

Billy leaned in, grinning. “Yeah, don’t leave out any of the good parts.”

And so, you told them. About the way Joel had kissed you like he was starving for it. The way he wanted to fall if it means you would be discovered, but at the same time you felt guilty about the consequences of this illicit affair between the both of you.

Carmen swirled the drink in her glass, watching you carefully. “So, he wants to fall,” she mused. “But you’re afraid of what happens when he does.”

You exhaled, pressing your fingertips to your temple. “It’s not just that. I—” You hesitated, feeling the weight of your own thoughts. “It’s selfish, isn’t it? I want him. God, I want him. But I know what this could mean for him. For both of us.”

Billy scoffed. “Sweetheart, do you really think he doesn’t already know that?”

You looked up at him.

“He’s a grown man,” he continued. “Older than you, he knows damn well what he is getting into.”

Carmen nodded in agreement. “Billy’s right. If Joel kissed you—if he’s looking at you the way you say he does, then he’s already made his choice. The question is—” she leaned in slightly, her gaze searching yours— “have you?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Had you?

Your heart had already chosen. But your mind, the part of you that still clung to reason, still feared what this could cost.

Billy clicked his tongue. “See? You’re overthinking.”

“You should be thinking,” Carmen corrected him, before looking back at you. She squeezed your hand, her voice softer now. “You love him.”

The words settled in the air between you all.

And though you didn’t say it out loud, the answer was there, in the way your heart pounded at the thought of him.

Yes, you loved him.

But you didn’t want to hurt him.

Carmen exchanged a glance with Billy before turning back to you. “Hey, hey,” she murmured, reaching out to gently pry your hands from your head. “Take a breath, sweetheart.”

Billy let out a sigh, pushing himself up from his seat. “Alright. You’re not dancing tonight.” He didn’t say it as a question, just a fact.

You shook your head, your chest tight. “I just—I can’t.”

Carmen gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “That’s fine. You don’t have to.”

The weight of it all pressed down on you—Joel, the secrecy, the risk, the way your heart ached just thinking about him. And now, after speaking it out loud, after admitting it to them, it felt even heavier.

Billy clapped his hands together. “Alright. I’ll let the rest know. You just sit here and—” He waved a hand at you. “I don’t know. Breathe.”

You let out a weak laugh, despite yourself.

Carmen brushed a piece of hair from your face. “Do you want to go home?”

You thought about it. The idea of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, letting your thoughts swallow you whole.

You sighed, rubbing your temples before finally nodding. “Yeah. I think I just need to be alone for a bit.”

Carmen hesitated, her eyes scanning your face like she was trying to read between the lines. But she didn’t push. Instead, she gave your hand one last squeeze. “Alright. But be careful, okay?”

Billy scoffed. “Like she doesn’t already know that.”

You mustered a small smile before standing up, smoothing down your dress. The club was still buzzing with life around you—music, laughter, cigarette smoke curling in the air—but you felt like you were somewhere else entirely.

You stepped outside, the cool night air hitting your skin as you started down the dimly lit street. The quiet was welcome, a stark contrast to the noise still pulsing inside the club.

But after a few blocks, a strange feeling settled in your chest.

Like you weren’t alone.

Your steps slowed. You glanced over your shoulder, but the street behind you was empty. Just the faint glow of streetlamps and the distant murmur of the city.

Get a grip, you told yourself, shaking your head. You were just tired. Your mind playing tricks on you, tangled up in guilt and longing.

Still, your heart pounded a little harder as you picked up your pace, heading straight for home.

The memories came in waves, brushing against the edges of your mind like a heartbreak song you once loved but hadn’t heard in years.

You remembered the warmth of his hands, the way they fit so easily around yours. The way he used to trace idle patterns against your skin when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he laughed—really laughed—like it was something only you could pull from him.

There were quiet mornings, sunlight spilling through lace curtains, and his voice, thick with sleep, murmuring your name with tenderness. There were stolen glances across crowded rooms, Nights spent whispering about nothing and everything, your bodies tangled, your hearts so close you could swear they beat in time.

And then, something shifted. The warmth cooled. The sweetness turned sharp.

The same hands that once held you so carefully became distant; caught in something you couldn’t quite reach. His laughter turned into a cruel smirk; his words turned heavier. Daggers reaching for you. And then, one day, you looked at him and saw not the man you had come closed to love but the thing standing between you and everything you were meant to be.

Now, the memories came differently. Not like a song, but like an echo. Distant, blurred at the edges. A reminder of something you had once cherished. And something you now wished to forget forever because it took everything you know because of it.

You moved through the quiet of the house, the fabric of your nightgown felt tight against your skin. The night air was cooler than other days, slipping through the open window, but it wasn’t enough to calm the thoughts spinning in your mind.

You had tried to push them away, tried to bury them beneath exhaustion, but sleep refused to come.

And then—a knock at the door. Soft, but insistent.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. Billy. It had to be. Checking in on you, making sure you hadn’t collapsed into some pit of regret. You pulled the door open, already preparing a reassurance.

But the words died on your lips.

It wasn’t Billy.

It was Joel.

His presence filled the doorway, broad shoulders casting shadows against the dim glow of the hallway. His hair was tousled, his lips parted slightly like he had been running, or like he had been thinking too much and drinking too little.

But it was his eyes that held you in place.

Soft brown with a lopsided smile, kind to you.

“Joel—” you started, but you didn’t know what to say.

He stepped forward, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him. His gaze flickered over you, over your bare arms, the delicate slip of your nightgown, the soft rise and fall of your breath.

His voice was low when he spoke. Rough.

“Can I come in?”

"Joel," you repeated, his name barely a breath on your lips.

He swallowed hard, his gaze tracing your face like he was trying to memorize it. Like he had missed you more than he was willing to admit. "I know I shouldn't be here," he murmured, voice rough with something unspoken. "But I had to see you."

Your fingers curled around the edge of the door. He was waiting for you to say yes, for you to tell him to leave, for anything.

But you couldn’t turn him away. Stepping aside, you nodded. "Come in."

Joel exhaled, almost like he had been holding his breath, and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him, enclosing you both inside the four walls hiding a secret.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You just looked at each other, the space between you charged with all the things left unsaid.

Then, slowly, he reached for you.

His hand traced a featherlight path down your arm, fingers brushing against your wrist, like he was grounding himself in your touch. His hands were always so warm, so steady. You had missed them.

“You’re tired,” he murmured, eyes softening as he took in your face.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Joel hummed, his thumb rubbing soothing circles against your skin. "Me neither."

You should have been nervous. This was dangerous. But as he pulled you close, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, all you felt was safe.

"Let me stay," he whispered against your skin. "Just for a little while."

You nodded, the simple gesture carrying so much weight between you both. Joel’s lips remained pressed against your forehead, his warmth seeping into you as if he was anchoring you to this moment, to him. You closed your eyes, letting the world fall away, just for a while.

Then, slowly, as if unsure of his own movements, his lips moved, gently brushing over your cheek. The softest touch, but it sent a shiver through you. His breath was warm on your skin, and you could feel the subtle tremor in his movements, as though he was trying to be careful with you, as if you were something pure and precious, he didn’t want to break.

He kissed your other cheek, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary. The space between you both felt charged, heavy with everything unsaid, but also full of something more—something you both craved but had kept at bay for so long.

Then, his lips found yours. No rush, no urgency. Just a quiet, tender kiss that felt like coming home after a long time apart. His lips moved over yours softly, exploring, as if he had all the time in the world to savor the moment. And you let him. You let him in, even if it was only for a little while.

When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you were both breathless, eyes still closed. The world outside felt distant, and the only thing that mattered was the steady beat of his heart against yours.

"I’ve missed you," Joel whispered, his voice thick with something deeper thana simple desire. It was raw, unguarded. A confession you both needed but were afraid to admit.

You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice. Your chest felt tight, but in a good way, like a promise. The weight of the past, the secrecy, all of it felt momentarily lighter.

"The cardinal left this afternoon” he murmured, as his fingers ghosted over your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear from his fingertips.

Your breath hitched. That meant there was no more need for stolen glances, no more pretending not to see each other. But it also meant the weight of reality would settle in soon.

Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. "So, we don’t have to hide that much anymore," you whispered, though something in your voice made it sound like a question.

Joel exhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening for a moment. "Not as much," he admitted, his thumb brushing idly against your hip. "But it doesn’t mean it gets any easier."

You knew that. You both did.

His eyes searched yours in the dim light, a quiet storm brewing in their depths. "Tell me what you want," he murmured, his voice low, rough, like he was bracing himself for the answer.

You hesitated, not because you didn’t know, but because saying it out loud would make it real.

But when you looked at him—at the man who had kissed you like a prayer, who had whispered your name like it was something sacred—you knew there was only one truth.

"I want you, Joel," you breathed.

Joel didn’t wait. The second the words left your lips; his mouth was on yours.

This kiss was different. It wasn’t just longing, wasn’t just stolen moments in the shadows. It was something deeper, something that carried the weight of every glance, every touch, every unsaid thing between you. It was burning, you felt it on your lips, ablaze when they crushed together.

His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as he kissed you like he never wanted to stop. Like he had been waiting for you his whole life.

You melted into him, your hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as he pressed you closer. His lips moved with a slow, deliberate tenderness, drawing you in, pulling you under. You parted your lips, allowing your tongues to intertwine with such a fervor it made you weak.

When he pulled away, just enough to let you breathe, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice wrecked, thick with emotion.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his jaw, feeling the way it throbbed beneath your touch. “I think I do.”

Joel let out a low, rough chuckle, shaking his head. “Not even close, baby.”

He searched your face, as if giving himself one last chance to step away, to be the better man. But when he saw the way you looked at him—soft, certain, full of something that made his heart ache—he knew he was lost.

His lips crashed into yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you impossibly close, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. He kissed you like a man starved, like he had been waiting for this, for you, for longer than he was willing to admit.

You pressed against him, your fingers curling into his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. The heat between you was undeniable, the space that once existed now erased completely.

His hands roamed over your back, to the curve of your ass, slow but firm, memorizing the shape of you. He pulled away only long enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breaths heavy and uneven. A groan rumbled from his chest, his hands gripping your waist, anchoring you to him.

Joel guided you backward slowly, his hands steady but desperate, like he was afraid to let go even for a second. The world outside, the consequences, the things he’d wrestled with for so long, they all faded, drowned out by the sound of your breath mingling with his, the warmth of your body against him.

He didn’t just kiss you. He poured everything into it, every stolen glance, every unspoken word, every moment of restraint that now felt pointless. His fingers traced your jaw, then down your neck, reverent, like he was memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

When your back met the edge of the couch, you gasped, and Joel took the opportunity to trail kisses down your throat, his lips slow, deliberate, savoring every inch of you. His name left your lips in a whisper, barely there, but he heard it, God, he felt it.

His hands settled at your waist, gripping just enough to make your skin burn under his touch. He pulled back for a moment, just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling as if he was barely keeping himself together.

“We don’t have to,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along your cheek. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

But you didn’t. Instead, you reached for him, fingers slipping into his hair, guiding him back to you.

“Please,” you breathed, lips brushing his, “don’t stop.”

And just like that, he was gone, lost in you, in the way you fit so perfectly against him, in the way you sighed against his lips.

For once in his life, Joel Miller let himself have something good. And that something was you.

Joel’s restraint unraveled with every kiss, every sigh, every way your body pressed into his. His hands roamed, exploring like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he needed to know you this way, to feel you this close.

He lifted you slightly, his strong arms guiding you onto his lap, and you let him, melting into the warmth of him. Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the roughness of his beard, before tangling into his hair. He groaned softly against your lips, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

His hands tightened on your hips, his grip firm but reverent, like he was still holding onto the last shred of control he had left. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his brown eyes searching yours, darkened with something deeper than just desire.

“This isn’t just—” he started, his voice rough, but you silenced him with a soft kiss, your hands cradling his face.

“I know,” you assured him. “Me neither.”

That was all he needed to kiss you again, deeper this time, like he had nothing left to fight, nothing left to prove. Just you and him, in this moment, finally giving in to something that had been pulling you together long before either of you dared to admit it.

You sighed into his mouth, your body arching into him, and he exhaled sharply, gripping your waist as if he was afraid you might disappear. His forehead pressed against yours again, his breath shaky, as if he was teetering on the edge of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

“This—” he started again, but stopped, shaking his head slightly, his thumbs brushing against your skin.

You cupped his face, tilting his chin so he had no choice but to look at you, to see the truth in your eyes. “Joel, it’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m here.”

His eyes softened, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your hips. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he admitted, his voice barely above a murmur.

You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I think you were already ruined,” you teased, but there was nothing playful in the way you looked at him. “I just found you.”

A quiet laugh rumbled in his chest, but it faded quickly as he leaned in again, capturing your lips with a kind of desperation that hadn’t been there before. This was no longer hesitation. This was acceptance.

His hands roamed all over your body, memorizing every curve, every reaction. And when you sighed into him, when you whispered his name with that mouth of yours, he was already gone.

This was the moment neither of you had dared to imagine, the one you had spent so long denying yourselves. But now, there was no turning back.

Joel held you like you were something fragile, something precious, his hands steady even as his breath wavered against your skin. He wasn’t just touching you, he was learning you, worshipping you, mapping every inch with slow.

His lips trailed over your jaw, down your throat, pressing soft, lingering kisses like he wanted to leave something of himself behind imprinted on you. Like he wanted you to remember this, to remember him, long after the night faded.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned, a low, wrecked sound against your skin.

“Jesus,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to look at you, his forehead pressing against yours. “I haven’t done this for so long” He shook his head slightly, swallowing hard. “You make me forget how to be careful.”

You smiled softly, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “Then don’t be.”

Joel let out a breath that sounded like surrender before capturing your lips again, deeper this time, his hands sliding over your body like he couldn’t stand the thought of not touching you.

This was more than need. More than desire. This was home.

Joel's hands traced paths over the thin fabric of your gown. His fingers ghosted over your shoulders, down the length of your arms, following the delicate lines of your body like he was trying to memorize you through touch alone.

His calloused fingertips skimmed the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, the gentle rise and fall of your breath. He wasn't rushing—no, this was something else. Something deeper.

“You feel like a dream,” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing the corner of your jaw, his breath warm and steady. His fingers toyed with the fabric at your hip, his thumb stroking slow, absent-minded circles.

You shivered, not from cold, but from the weight of his attention. The way he was looking at you, like he was trying to commit you to memory, like you were something rare, something he wasn’t sure he deserved but couldn’t help wanting.

Your hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. He sighed against your skin, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path down your throat, his touch following the shape of you.

“You’re perfect” he murmured again, his voice low, rough, like he was giving you a way out even as his hands betrayed him, still exploring, still learning.

You didn’t want him to stop. Instead, you tipped your head back, giving him more, inviting him closer, your fingers slipping into his hair.

He followed the pattern of your neck, placing kisses down to your shoulders, slowly moving to your chest. He paused only to move his eyes upward in a sort of permission, to which you nodded. He pulled back the straps of your nightgown, leaving you bare to his eyes.

He couldn't believe it. Having you like this before him felt like a prize he didn't deserve. One of his hands cupped one of your breasts while he kissed the other, circling it with his tongue. “You’re so damn soft,” he murmured, his nose brushing against your jaw, voice thick with something almost reverent. “I’ve been thinking about you like this longer than I should’ve.”

You shivered, pressing closer, feeling the warmth of his body, the way his breath grew uneven as his fingers kept moving, tracing the places he’d only dared to dream about before.

His lips found your throat again, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your skin. He sighed against you, his grip firm but careful, like he was still afraid you might vanish.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he admitted, voice hoarse as he kissed the edge of your collarbone.

You smiled, hands slipping into his hair, guiding him back up, your lips meeting his in a kiss that made his breath catch.

“Show me,” you whispered.

Joel let out a low groan, his fingers tightening on your hips before sliding beneath the hem of your gown, pushing the fabric up ever so slightly. His hands were warm, calloused, the roughness of his touch making you shiver as he traced slow, reverent circles against your bare skin.

His lips never left you, brushing along your jaw, down the curve of your throat, pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses that sent a slow burn through your veins. He was taking his time, savoring every inch of you like he was afraid this would slip away if he didn’t commit it to memory.

You exhaled shakily as his hands smoothed up the backs of your thighs, slipping beneath the silk of your gown, higher, until he was gripping your waist beneath the fabric. His breath was ragged against your skin, his forehead pressing to your shoulder as he held you close, fingers flexing like he was still trying to ground himself.

“You sure about this?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, but the weight behind his words settled deep in your chest.

You cupped his face, tilting his chin until your eyes met. The way he looked at you—like he was desperate, like he wanted to devour you but was still holding himself back—made your heart ache.

“I’ve never been more sure,” you whispered.

Something in him broke then. Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to shattered as he kissed you again, deeper, hungrier, his hands roaming, pulling you impossibly close.

Your gown slid higher as he guided you back, his fingers tracing slow, teasing paths over your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. The fabric pooled at your hips, forgotten, as Joel’s lips found your collarbone, his hands gripping your thighs, his breath heavy against your skin.

“You’re driving me insane,” he murmured, almost like he was talking to himself, shaking his head as he kissed along your shoulder.

You smiled against his lips, running your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. “Good.”

Joel let out a low chuckle, his hands sliding higher, his touch reverent, unhurried. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered, pressing one last lingering kiss to your lips before trailing lower, letting himself get lost in you.

His lips trailed lower, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore you. His fingers traced the path his mouth had taken, over the delicate fabric of your gown, mapping every curve, every dip, every place that made you shiver beneath him.

Joel’s breath was warm against your skin, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing just beneath the swell of your breasts. His touch was teasing, reverent, like he was still memorizing you, still convincing himself that you were here, that this was real.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him back up to you, and he let out a quiet groan as your lips met again, slow and deep. His hands settled at your waist, gripping you firmly like he needed to anchor himself to you.

The fabric of your gown was soft beneath his fingers, but he was more interested in what lay beneath. His touch dipped lower, palms smoothing over the curve of your hips, tracing gentle circles that sent warmth spreading through you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, searching. His thumb brushed over your cheek, his expression unreadable, like he was warring with something inside himself.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Heat bloomed in your chest at the softness in his voice, at the way his gaze drank you in like you were something precious, something he had no business holding but couldn’t bear to let go.

You smiled, brushing your lips against his in a slow, lingering kiss. “So are you.”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t argue.

As soon as his clothes were removed, there was nothing to keep you apart. You curled your fingers in his hair as he kissed you down your body. You could feel all the emotions, but body ablaze, whimpering under his touch.

You felt his mouth against your upper thigh, tracing kisses as he tangled your hips up for him. You were already dripping as he licked the route up there to your cunt before sucking your clit and pressing his fingers against you.

You whimpered while holding his head between your legs. His cock hardened at the sounds escaping your lips, as the way you clenched around his fingers and he sucked as if he was starved, forcing your legs apart to have more access. His free hand moved up your stomach to your torso, grabbing one of your breasts, rubbing his nose against your clit. Under pleasure and instinct, you buried your heels into his back, dragging him closer until he could taste all of you.

He took his time fucking you slowly with his hands, the same he used to pray. He took his time to taste your wetness on his lips before locking eyes with you. You were flustered, and your eyes shone from pleasure.

“Fuck…” you whimpered, “Right there.”

“You’re so beautiful. I need you to breathe.” He whispered, he begged even, going forward between your legs, plunging into you easily. You moaned, leaning forward to kiss him. His lips were now on your breasts, tracing more kisses until he found your lips again as he found his way to drove himself down into you, cautious as possible.

His lips traced the corner of your mouth, then along your jaw, down the column of your throat, where he lingered, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses to your pulse point.

Joel groaned softly when your hands explored him, dragging over his shoulders, down his stomach. He caught your wrist, bringing your palm to his lips, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss there before guiding your hand back to his chest, where his heart pounded beneath your touch.

His patience frayed when you shifted against him, your body seeking more, pressing into the warmth of his. He tugged you closer, until you were straddling him, the thin fabric of your nightgown the only barrier between you. His hands splayed across your hips, his grip firm, grounding, as he guided you against him, coaxing a gasp from your lips.

"You feel so damn good," he rasped, pressing his forehead against yours.

His mouth was on you again, trailing lower, brushing over the swell of your chest, the sensitive skin of your collarbone.

“Now are we cursing?” You moaned, into his ear before he reclaimed your lips. He leaned down and sucked your nipples, lightly biting your breasts.

Joel groaned against your skin, his grip tightening as he pulled you impossibly closer. His lips traced every inch of you, memorizing the way you responded to him, the way your breath hitched, the way your body pressed into his touch.

“Don’t tease me, baby” he said, pounding into you. Grinding as deep as into you as it could encouraged him with your moans and nails scratching down his back. Those scars would leave the mark of the sin he was committing but didn’t care now.

He slid his hand down to your pussy and rubbed along your clit, making you fuck yourself harder on him by thrusting back against him.

He moved faster, with reverence, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mixing with yours between moans. It was slow, deep, unhurried, as if he wanted to make this moment last, as if he needed to savor every second of having you like this.

Joel whispered your name like a sacred prayer, his hands never stopping their worship of your body. His lips found yours again, swallowing every moan, every sigh, as the rhythm between you built, as the fire burned brighter.

You clung to him, to the feeling of him, to the way he made you feel, like you were something treasured, something sacred.

And when the pleasure crashed over you, and you came, he continued to fuck you, hovering you over the couch, leaving kiss on your neck. Soon after he followed, burying himself deeper, whispering your name with a broken groan. Joel collapsed against you, his breath heavy, his heart racing in sync with yours. He didn’t move, didn’t pull away, just held you close, his arms wrapped around you as if he was afraid to let go.

You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing, grounding, pressing soft kisses to his temple. He sighed against your skin, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder before finally meeting your gaze.

Faith was in this, in the way your lips lingered on his skin, in the way your fingers traced lazy patterns over his back, as if grounding yourself in him. It was in the way you looked at him, softly, with tenderness with love.

Joel swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on your waist, like he was trying to hold onto something fleeting. His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, he looked almost lost, like he didn’t know what to do with the warmth between you, with the tenderness you offered so freely.

"You’re looking at me like that again," he murmured, voice rough, almost hesitant.

"Like what?" you whispered, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

"Like I’m something worth keeping."

Your heart ached at the quiet vulnerability in his words. You cupped his face, guiding him closer, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

Joel sighed into you, melting against you in a way that made your chest tighten. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and steady.

"You are," you whispered. “You’re worth keeping.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just held you tighter, pressing another kiss to your shoulder, then to the curve of your neck, like he was trying to find his own answer in the feeling of you beneath him.

You wanted to stay here, in the present in the warmth of his arms, in the quiet where nothing else mattered but the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath against your skin against yours. But your mind wouldn’t let you. It wandered, slipping from the safety of the present into the tangled mess of your past, to the secrets still buried between you.

Would he still love you after all of it?

The thought made your chest tighten, a shadow creeping in at the edges of this perfect moment. Joel had given you so much of himself, let you see parts of him no one else had, and yet… you still hadn’t told him everything.

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@melsunshine @goodvibesonly421

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mmywanda · 6 months ago

Text

Dandelion — W.M

chapter one of Forbidden Pleasure

—

Pairing: CEO!WandaMaximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you decided to join your family's business, you had no idea the ceo of the rival company would be so.. alluring. men & minors dni!

Warnings: None.. yet ;)

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: My first series! I promise it’s going to get more exciting soon, this was just setting things up.

Beta read by @poulengp <3

—

You'd never been into business. Despite your family being famous for their own very successful company, Nexus. No, you preferred working in that little library, where it was quiet, and the most stressful it got was when someone returned their books too late. Why would you want to be involved in a business full of money hungry people who think of nothing but financial success?

So that was precisely what you told your father when he called you up one Saturday morning, trying to persuade you into following in the footsteps of the majority of your family. And what didn't help your case was the fact you'd be laid off from your job, as there wasn't enough funding in the library to keep all four employees.

"I don't want to be a part of it, dad, I've told you this so many times." You spoke between chews, the crunch of your slightly burnt toast echoing through the call.

"You're twenty two, (Y/N), it's time you step up and join us. You could be valuable to the team."

You rolled your eyes, "And what value would that be?" Both of you knew that you'd passed through college with barely average results, and was lucky to have found a decently paying job that didn't require better grades.

"You're good with people, we need that."

Glancing over at the small stack of bills across you on the kitchen table, you sighed. "I don't want it to change me." What if you turned into an emotionless robot? And had to work behind a desk everyday? And that desk may be on the twenty fourth level of a glass tower building?

"You won't change, I know you."

Doubt swirled around in your mind, eyes scanning the small apartment you lived in. You would have to find a job soon, though it would be difficult given your low qualifications and lack of experience. Here you were, being offered a job that would most likely be well paying.

"Fine. I'll do it."

—

The first matter of business was shopping. Your wardrobe consisted of cardigans, faded jeans, a skirt you refused to ever wear again and a few shirts that looked very outdated compared to the modern city you lived in.

Walking into a clothing store that wasn't your typical go-to was scary. You'd chosen a different one so you could find more professional outfits— because you'd probably be kicked out of the office if you were to walk in wearing your usual attire.

"May I offer you some assistance?" A woman appeared in front of you almost two seconds after you'd stepped through the automatic doors. Her eyes scanned you, as it was obvious this was your first time in that store.

You smiled, shaking your head, "No, it's okay thank you. I'm just browsing." When she left with a nod, you walked to the pants section, looking at the wide selection of styles, material and colours. You didn't even know where to begin. Eventually you decided that darker shades like grey, black or navy would be appropriate. Picking a few out, you folded them over your arm, ready for the dressing room later.

Next was shirts, that just like the pants, had a very large selection, perhaps even more. A sigh left your lips.

Twenty minutes later you'd accumulated clothing items and two pairs of shoes. It was a bit of a struggle to get to the dressing rooms, and once inside a cubicle, you dropped the pile onto the stool. Another sigh left your lips. Is this what business people went through every year? Well, probably every month, based on what you knew of business people. Granted, your only knowledge of business style was from The Office, and it wasn't like that show was renowned for its fashion sense.

Trying on a few outfits, matching different things, you decided on what you would purchase. Making your way to the cashiers, you avoided the gaze of the store assistant.

"That will be three hundred and eleven dollars, fifty cents." The cashier's bright smile almost smoothed over your shock, but not quite. Three hundred and eleven dollars?!

As much as you wanted to apologise and leave to find a store that had cheaper prices, you wouldn't be able to handle the judgemental stare of that woman. So, you got your card out and pressed it against the card reader. When it let out a double beep, indicating it hadn't been approved, you tried again, to which the cashier said, "You have to put your card in. The contactless limit is two hundred."

Your face flushed. If it wasn't obvious that you hadn't spent this much money before, it was now.

That evening, you laid on your couch, staring at the cracks in your ceiling, instant ramen in a bowl, cooling down from its boiling temperature. You thought about what would happen tomorrow, your first day in the office. Well, you knew you wouldn't have a desk job exactly, you'd be more like an assistant to any of the managers or executives— whatever that meant.

Trying to shake your mind of all the worries, you ate your ramen, despite it burning your tongue. At least it was a distraction from the overthinking anyway.

—

You woke up with a start, phone alarm blaring. Your first instinct was to sit up, but an ache in your neck forced you to pause. It seemed you'd fallen asleep on the couch, head having been in an awkward position all night. You thanked the you from yesterday who set the alarm in preparation and had placed the phone beside you.

It didn't take long to put your chosen outfit on, but what did take long was pleasing the perfectionist in you. You stood in front of the mirror for a while, adjusting your hair this way and that, fiddling with the simple silver necklace you were wearing.

"It's no big deal, (Y/N), you're not going to meet anyone important on your first day."

That's what you kept telling yourself during your journey to the office building. It took a train and a four minute walk until you reached your destination. Walking into the lobby, you were struck by how sharp, clean and unnecessarily big it was. Pale marble flooring, bright white walls, even brighter ceiling lights despite it being a sunny day outside. And the very large 'NEXUS' logo on the far wall. Your shoes squeaked against the marble, and you wondered what sort of material the soles were made out of. Perhaps the marble was made to mock people with shoes worth less than a thousand dollars.

"How may I help you?" The receptionist asked as you approached him. You smiled, masking your nerves.

"I'm (Y/N), I'm meant to be starting my job today."

He nodded quickly, suddenly sitting up straighter, you assumed because he believed he would get in trouble if he wasn't the most professional he could be in front of his boss's daughter. You then noticed his name badge that read 'Evan'.

Evan picked up the reception phone, tapping a few numbers before speaking, telling someone that you had arrived. The conversation was short.

"Take the elevator to the ninth floor, first door on the right." He pointed you in the right direction. You gave him your thanks and then found yourself inside the small metal box also known as an elevator. You hated them, though you guessed it would have to become part of your routine now.

Once arriving on the ninth floor, you examined the decor— plain walls with an occasional framed art piece (the kind that looked like a toddler had painted that would sell for millions).

Hearing distant voices coming from various closed doors, you decided dallying wouldn't make the start of shift any easier. You found the first door on the right, knocking lightly until you heard a familiar voice call out— "Come in." So you did.

The office was spacious, a desk in the middle, and seating behind it was your father. He gave you a warm smile, standing up with an outstretched hand. You mentally sighed at his usual strange way of greeting family members. You shook his hand before taking a seat in front of him.

"It's good to see you here, when was the last time you visited?" He prompted, clicking his silver pen against the table.

"A few years ago, the Christmas party."

You remembered it begrudgingly. The night you fell onto a table that happened to be seating several ice filled buckets for the champagne. Let's just say it was an extremely humiliating memory that always made you shiver. The chill of the ice had never quite escaped you.

Your father chuckled, nodding as he recalled the same night. "Ah, yes. How could I forget." You rolled your eyes, refusing to smile until he changed the subject. "Anyway, let's talk business."

He pulled out a new planner journal, handing it to you. Flicking through it, you noticed a lot of dates neatly jotted in. You gave him a questioning look.

"My assistant kindly added important dates and meetings."

Your eyes widened slightly, "I'm going to join meetings?" That was something you hadn't expected.

"As a note taker, for now." His expression showed how keen he was for you to progress in your role and reach a high position in the company on your own. He wasn't going to get you a higher job just because you were his kid.

Scanning the dates written down for the current week, you saw there was a meeting scheduled for today. Anxiety immediately bubbled inside you at the thought of being in such a professional setting with equally professional people, as an inexperienced ex-librarian.

"Don't worry, (Y/N). It's not a huge deal." He hesitated, before correcting himself. "Okay, it is a big deal."

You groaned, leaning back in the chair that you had to admit was very uncomfortable. "What is it about? Stock shares or something?" It was very obvious that you pulled the term out of your very limited knowledge on business that lived in the back of your brain, because your father's eyebrows creased in amusement.

"It's our annual meeting with Maximoff Industries. And let's just say our companies have difficulty clicking."

The name 'Maximoff Industries' was familiar. You knew that they created things in the technology area, and as it so happened, Nexus did too, so it was no wonder they didn't 'click'.

"How do they normally go?" You had to gauge how terrible the experience would be for you. Scenarios ran through your mind, the most rational being; raised tones, interrupted sentences, perhaps even a few cold glares (gasp).

"We have a small partnership in a few products, so the disagreements normally stem from financial shares, and what name is listed first under the annual report. It normally ends in a handshake though." He attempted a smile, but it was clear that he had a very strong distaste for Maximoff Industries. "It doesn't help that their CEO, Wanda Maximoff is a.. difficult person to get along with in terms of business."

"Why?" You asked, wanting to know what to expect in the meeting, even if you were going to be sitting in the corner.

Your father sighed, leaning back in his chair. "She's.." He thought for a long hard moment. "She has this look, like she knows more than you, like she's superior. And she very obviously craves control over every situation without explicitly expressing it. It's infuriating, but hard to explain."

It didn't seem like much to go on; having a certain expression and craving control. Wasn't that a description of half of the earth's population?

Your father checked his watch, "It's going to start in twenty minutes." You internally panicked, because you hadn't expected things to start so soon. He smiled kindly, leaning forward in his chair a bit.

"It's okay, (Y/N), you're not going to be talking." That didn't exactly reassure you, because it meant you would have to maintain a calm act in case anyone looked your way.

"Alright, let's do this." Faking positivity was the first step, right?

—

The meeting room was empty when you and other representatives from Nexus walked in, including your father. They all took their seats, presumably their allocated ones. There was a chair set aside from the very long table, which you guessed was for you. Sliding it backwards a bit, you sat, spending a very awkward minute trying to decide how to position your legs. Should you cross them or not? Before you could come to a decision, you heard people entering the room.

You looked up, counting five very professional looking businesspeople. Thinking that was all, you opened your notebook, until you sensed one last presence. Glancing across the room, a woman entered.

She was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and heels. Hair brunette with lighter streaks, eyes a deep shade of green. But the overriding feature of this woman was her aura. Everyone in the room fell silent, most of the Nexus members seemed to have a polite but forced smile.

"Ms Maximoff, it's good to see you." Your father announced, making a small gesture with his hand to indicate for the woman to sit at the opposite end of the table— although she'd already done so.

"Yes, it's a pleasure, Julian." Wanda Maximoff replied, her tone smooth, with an underlying accent you hadn't heard before. It was very alluring all the same. You noticed she'd addressed your father by his first name.

"How have you been? I heard y—" Your father began, until he was cut off.

"Let's just get to business, shall we?" Wanda's hands rested on top of the table, revealing her many intricate and no doubt expensive silver rings.

"Oh, yes." Julian cleared his throat, gesturing to his coworker, a manager to start the presentation. You tried your best to quickly note down the points the manager was making, including comments from the other company.

But you felt your attention slipping, because from your angle, Wanda Maximoff was just to the left of the presentation screen. You were inexplicably drawn to her, the way she held herself, and not to mention her immense beauty.

You were suddenly startled when the face you were staring at turned, green eyes locking with yours. All oxygen left your lungs, not from panic of being caught staring during a professional meeting, but because Wanda Maximoff was piercing. Though her head tilted back to the presentation. Finally you were able to breathe, fingers gripping the notebook edges.

"So what's the point of decreasing the amount of products manufactured if it's in high demand?" Wanda questioned, leaning back in her seat slightly, directing the question towards your father instead of the manager.

He paused, thinking through his answer before replying. "Retailers are going to be bidding higher prices in order to stock it."

Wanda Maximoff's eyebrows quirked, a slight upturn of her lips now revealing to you what your father had described earlier; The Look. It indeed felt like she was in control, as if she was negotiating a deal with a child.

"Why don't we ask someone else's opinion?" Wanda's eyes snapped to you. Horror rushed through you as everyone followed Wanda's directed stare. All eyes were on you.

You felt your face heat up, having absolutely no idea what to say or do other than look towards your father helplessly. He nodded his head, as if urging me to speak so they could move on quickly.

"Uh—" Words were failing you. Wanda's expression shifted from expectancy to amusement. She was enjoying your embarrassment, it seemed. "I think it could work.. people tend to want to buy things that are exclusive." You didn't have anything to base that opinion on, but you hoped it sounded more certain than it did in your head.

Wanda's stare remained on you for a few agonising seconds before nodding once, accepting your answer. "Let's take ten, my team need to discuss this." Everyone nodded quickly in agreement. The Nexus members waited for the others to leave the room, but they didn't. Your father let out a very quiet but infuriated sigh at Wanda's blank though slightly smug expression . He stood, muttering to everyone to leave with him, including you. You'd never exited a room so quickly.

Once you were a few metres down the corridor, you exhaled, leaning against the wall, the conversation between your company distant to your ears. You were busy calming down from the humiliation. You hadn't felt this way since falling into a table with ice buckets in this very building.

Why had Wanda singled you out? Surely she knew how uncomfortable that would be for someone who was clearly new.

You needed water. Luckily you knew of the staff lounge that had a supply of refreshments.

The 'lounge' was thankfully empty, consisting of several pristine couches and counter with a kettle and an array of coffees and teas. You headed towards the water cooler. Grabbing a small paper cup, you flicked on the switch for the water to start filling the cup slowly. It was when it reached the halfway mark that you were startled by a voice.

"It's an interesting opinion that you have."

You spun around, facing Wanda Maximoff. It was hard to breathe again.

"Do you know a lot about consumer behaviour?" She asked, emerald eyes fixed on yours. The question stunned you for a moment, not entirely understanding. But you'd done enough reading to be able to guess what her words meant.

"Not really, I just notice what people around me seem to buy." Good, you're doing good— you told yourself.

"You don't do the buying?" She asked, head slightly tilted to the side.

You let out a nervous chuckle, shaking your head. "Oh, no. I'm the type to keep something until it's completely incapable of doing its job." For example; your toaster.

Wanda's lips twitched into a smile that almost felt like a smirk. "That's an unfortunate attitude to have when you're working in this industry." You swallowed, throat feeling very dry as you still hadn't had that water yet. Wanda seemed to finally notice the cup in your hand.

"Drink."

The simple word felt like a command, and you found yourself raising your cup without hesitation and taking a gulp of water. It felt like a relief to your dry throat. The woman's smile was now definitely a smirk, though what she was smirking at, you didn't know.

"I haven't seen you around here before. When did you start?" The question was a simple one, but the way Wanda delivered it made it seem a lot more important, like she actually interested.

You were just glad it was an easy one to answer. "Today, actually."

She nodded slowly, "You're Julian's daughter?"

"Yeah, he's wanted me here for a while, and I needed a job." You had to tell yourself to just chill out, because you were starting to overthink your answers, despite there being no need to.

Wanda reached a hand out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, inadvertently directing your attention to her hands. The silver rings shaped her fingers perfectly, the dark red varnish on her nails standing out as they brushed against her hair. You swallowed, forcing yourself to look away.

"Those plants look half dead."

Your eyebrows raised at her very random statement. Since when did plants become a part of the conversation? You went along with it, noticing the few potted plants and vases with flowers that did look very wilted.

"Do you know the name of that one?" Wanda pointed to a specific plant, green leaves and yellow flowers. You knew nothing about plants.

"Tulip?" It was more of a question than an answer. Wanda let out a chuckle at your painfully wrong answer. She shook her head in amusement.

"Dandelion." She stated, suddenly studying you with some type of curiosity and intrigue. "You remind me of a dandelion."

Your expression was quizzical, wondering why a yellow flower could be associated to you in any kind of way. "Why?"

Wanda smiled mysteriously, carefully leaving the question unanswered as she checked her watch. You could tell by the watch strap alone that it was probably worth more than your student debt. "The break is over." And with that, she began walking away, her heels clicking against the floor. You were stunned for a few seconds before snapping out of it. Realising that the cup was still in your hand, you threw it away, walking as quickly as you could back to the meeting room without embarrassing yourself.

Everyone was in the room by the time you'd survived the walk back. You kept your eyes down and sat in your corner (of shame). The conversations started again, and you tried your best, yet again, to make notes. It was a bit easier to concentrate as Wanda hadn't done any talking yet.

It was boring, really, listening to your father and Maximoff Industries' representatives disagree on very simple things like the font for whatever the damn products they wanted to sell.

Finally, Wanda spoke up after listening to the conversation she appeared to have found just as boring as you had. "Let's do it. Less products for higher sales, as ridiculous as it sounds. Though, something would have to be put in place.”

You glanced up from your notebook, pen hovering above the page. Even Wanda’s own coworkers seemed confused.

“I will have regular meetings with a representative from Nexus, just so I can keep up to date with your side of this new decision.”

You could practically see the cogs in your father’s brain whirring, as he probably didn’t know now if this new idea would be a mistake. He cleared his throat. “Okay, I’ll look at my schedu—“

“It will be (Y/N).” Wanda stated clearly. Once again, you found all attention on you. You were just as bewildered as the other surprised faces.

“Me?” You uttered, cheeks flushed at the idea of Wanda Maximoff wanting to meet you again.

A smile twitched on your lips as she studied you from across the room. You felt the presences around you fade away when your eyes locked with green ones. She spoke in a slow but deliberate way, “You will accept, won’t you?”

Without thinking twice, you simply replied, “Yes.”

—

#ceo!wanda maximoff #ceo!wanda #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff fanfic #wanda mcu #elizabeth olsen #lgbtq #wlw fanfic #dom!wanda #sub!reader #wanda x y/n #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda fanfic #wanda x reader

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exqorcism · 7 months ago

Text

❛ 𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐗 . . . nicholas alexander chavez ❜

₊˚⊹౨ৎ 𝐀'𝗦 𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘: based on this and this request. hope you guys enjoy - had so much fun writing this hence why it took so long to post (: also, reading the dialogues in nicholas' voice makes it even hotter... you're welcome 💋

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦. drinking & smoking · cheating · sexual tension · abs riding · oral (m+f!receiving) · multiple orgasms · slight slut shaming · lots of praise · forbidden love? · unprotected piv · creampie · daddy kink · squirting 𝗪𝗖. 6000

Nicholas absolutely hated your guts. The way you carried yourself so confidently, as if you could have anything or anyone at the snap of your fingers. He hated your stupid face, and your pretty, long hair that fell on your back gracefully, shining in the dim lightning, making it impossible to look away. He hated that everyone seemed to love you, mesmerised by your beauty, your goofiness, your smile that light up the whole room.

And most of all, he hated the fact that he didn't hate you at all. He was completely and utterly under your spell, just like everyone else — with him, though, it was different. You have had your eye on him ever since the first day on set, pushing his buttons to the limit, making him question not only his relationship, but also his morals.

The way you'd sway your hips as you walked past him; or the way your hands lingered on his arm or chest for a little too long while filming. You'd send him your typical i'm innocent look, your eyes wide and doe-like, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth, small smirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. Your clothes a little too revealing for his own sake — he often found himself staring, and almost as if you could feel it, you'd look over your shoulder and send him that stupid, wide smile.

And there he was, sitting next to his girlfriend, watching you with those dark eyes — and you pretended not to notice, though he knew better than to believe you didn't.

You were leaning against the bar, a drink in your hand as you talked to Cooper — your laugh filled the room as you hit the man's shoulder playfully before stealing a cigarette from between his fingers. Nicholas' greedy eyes roamed over your form as your head fell back — your neck now on full display, the necklaces resting between your boobs glimmering in the dim lightning. A black oversized blazer rested on your shoulders, covering the most of your little dress — although Nicholas caught a glimpse of your shoulder as you moved, the blazer falling down your arm. You were so effortlessly beautiful, and he was so wrong for feeling the way he felt, especially when he sensed a soft nudge on his arm.

"Hello? Earth to Nicholas?", his girlfriend waved a hand in front of his face, but he didn't bother looking at her. His body and soul ached for you, and he was tired of hiding it. Tired of his relationship — relationship that should have ended long ago.

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm alright", he replied, not once looking away from you, his cautious eyes following you like a shadow. Almost as if you could feel him staring, you met his gaze. Nicholas' breath hitched when he caught that familiar spark in your eye, the corner of your mouth turning upwards. You winked at him, holding your glass up in a quiet toast, before you chugged the whole thing. Nicholas noticed Cooper saying something to you, and you laughed, sending him a last, teasing glare, before focusing back on your friend.

Nicholas was so uncomfortable and irritated. He stole a glance at his girlfriend, who was now typing something on her phone, visibly bored. He almost rolled his eyes: Why is she even there?

He hated himself for feeling that way.

"Babe, Georgia's gonna pick me up. I'm getting tired, but you can stay", he heard his girlfriend's voice; relief run down his spine at her words. He nodded, and she mumbled a quiet goodbye before leaning down to kiss him softly. He felt your unrelenting gaze on the side of his face — his cheeks growing warm as his girlfriend pulled away, slightly confused when he didn't return the sweet gesture.

Nicholas was ashamed — he swore he could feel your smirk as you watched the scene, and he hated himself for giving you the satisfaction of having so much control over him. He didn't even notice when his girlfriend left, and before he could think it through, he was already making his way through the crowd to approach you and Cooper.

Your laugh filled his ears as soon as he got closer; half-burnt cigarette in between your lips as you struggled with the vodka bottle, trying not to spill everything on the floor. Cooper stood beside you, not helping — he just laughed and offered you a few words of encouragement, and you sent him a dirty look, yet the smile on your lips betrayed your amusement.

"Need help in there?", Nicholas mused as soon as he got closer, meeting your eyes with a playful smirk. He somehow felt comfortable in your presence, even though it was a little overwhelming — you just had this ability to make everyone enjoy your company.

You groaned something incoherent, and both men laughed, before Nicholas took the cigarette from between your lips, taking a puff. The corner of your mouth turned up, your eyebrow rising in a quiet thank you.

"I was enjoying seeing her struggle", Cooper rolled his eyes, taking the bottle from your hands, opening it with a little to no effort in an instant. Nicholas chuckled, leaning against the bar, his cautious eyes roaming over your figure. You hopped onto the barstool, crossing your legs as you got comfortable — causing your little dress to hike up your thighs, leaving a little to imagination. You tilted your head, focusing your gaze on Nicholas as you took a sip of vodka, offering it to him immediately after.

"Where's your princess, Chavez?", you teased, twirling a strand of your hair around your pointer finger. You smacked your glossy lips together as you watched his jaw clench, the playful smile playing on your lips only adding to his discomfort.

"Home", he retorted quickly, and before you could question any further, he chugged on the vodka, his face twisting in disgust at the strong taste.

Cooper soon left the both of you, noticing the weird tension between you — he disappeared in the crowd, already beginning to talk to some of his friends.

"So...", you started, circling the rim of your glass with your finger, offering Nicholas a sweet smile. "You look really fucking hot".

The man twitched uncontrollably, his lips smacking together in a thin line; his whole body grew hot, but he couldn't help the little rush of excitement that run down his spine.

You weren't lying, though; a beige, button-up shirt clung to his chiselled chest perfectly — paired with light, baggy jeans and white Air Forces. He looked effortlessly beautiful. A silver cross rested on his sternum proudly, glimmering in the dim lightning, catching your attention.

"Too bad your girlfriend doesn't appreciate that", you mumbled, reaching out to run your hand over his collarbone, taking the pendant in between your fingers, smiling to yourself. Nicholas' muscles twitched under your touch, his jaw clenching, the fire in his eyes getting stronger with each passing second.

"My relationship doesn't concern you", he replied coldly, drumming his fingers against the bar, his eyes narrow and dangerous. You chuckled lowly, leaning down on your forearms, your face now inches away from his.

"It doesn't concern me?", you repeated, your smile not fading as you studied his face carefully; Nicholas didn't meet your gaze immediately, instead taking in the surroundings, trying to keep his guard up — and he was failing miserably. "You think about me. Just admit that. You want it just as bad as I do", you tutted, tilting your head, watching as heat rose up to his cheeks. "You think I don't notice? Bet I'm in your mind when you're fucking her".

Nicholas' breath hitched at your remark. He blinked slowly, meeting your eyes with a hint of hesitation. He was angry, watching as the corners of your mouth quirked up, before you took a sip of your drink — your unbothered expression made his blood boil, and if the looks could kill — it would be over for you.

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up", he growled lowly, getting up from his stool, his jaw clenched tight as he looked down at you. "You know nothing about me. And you are wrong. I could never look at you that way".

You weren't offended by his words — if anything, your smile widened, gaze becoming more intense as you pursed your lips in fake offence.

"Ouch. That was rough", you sighed, straightening your legs and pulling your dress down as you stood up as well. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Nicholas", you grinned, running your fingertips down his arm — the veins popped up on his skin, making you bit your lip in wonder as you imagined the possibilities. He shuddered at the way his name rolled off your tongue, and he clenched his fists — the uncomfortable feeling of the growing bulge in his pants became too much, and he stepped on his right foot, eyes rising up to the ceiling in annoyance.

"Just so you know...", you hummed, stepping on your tiptoes to brush your lips against his ear; Nicholas felt a rush of warmth run down his spine when your hot breath tickled the side of his neck. "I can see how hard you are right now. Practically begging to be inside me", you whispered, biting on his earlobe as you did. "I'm drooling just looking at it. Shit", you lowered your gaze, teasing smile playing on your lips as you traced your pointer finger against his chest, watching as it raised and fell with every breath he took. Nicholas' eyes widened in surprise as he felt you graze the bulge in his pants teasingly — the touch feather-like, barely there. He couldn't take it no more — his hand rose up to grab your wrist tightly, not even looking your way before he started dragging you through the crowd to the big staircase. You knew it was a good idea to hold a party in your house.

By the way Nicholas navigated you through the hallway, urgency in his every step, you immediately knew he wanted it just as bad. He practically dragged you to your room, the music and laughter from the living room now dying down — the only coherent sounds being the clicks of your wedges against the wooden floor.

As soon as you stepped into your room, Nicholas turned the lock, pushing you against the wall next to your bed with force that had your breath hitch.

"You think it's a fucking game, huh?", he chuckled, running his hand through his hair, his expression dark as he approached you. You didn't dare to move; although a small smirk played on your lips, your body responding to his words as you shrugged, pressing your back against the wall tightly. Both of Nicholas' palms rested on the sides of your head, and he leaned down, trapping you in his embrace — his jaw clenching with a barely controlled anger, his head spinning from the weight of his own actions.

"Maybe. But you are the one who's playing along", you teased, playing with the buttons of his shirt, leaning your head back to look at him.

For the first time this evening, he smiled, shaking his head as he pressed his body against yours. The evidence of his arousal pressed against your thigh, and you couldn't help but tut, shaking your head in fake disapproval.

"You're fucked", Nicholas chuckled lowly, running his fingers down your face, playing with a strand of hair that was sprawled on your face. You leaned into his touch — the warmness of his palm against your burning skin made your heart flutter in your chest.

"And I knew you couldn't resist me", you pouted playfully, resting your palms on his chiselled chest. Nicholas rolled his eyes — his cheeks were slightly flushed from the alcohol running in his system, mouth slightly agape as he studied your face. "Took you long enough to make a move on me, though".

"This is wrong", Nicholas whispered, but his hands betrayed him, as they moved down your back, his fingers tracing the curve of your ass slowly, almost carefully. You took a deep breath, leaning into his touch. Your bottom lip got caught between your teeth as you looked up at him, meeting his dark, half-closed eyes. Your lips curved into a small smile as you run your hands down his chest, feeling his muscles clench under your touch. "But it's impossible to resist you".

His lips were now inches from yours, your back practically melting into the wall as his whole body pressed into yours. "You've been teasing me. Makin' it nearly impossible to control myself", Nicholas groaned lowly, and you shuddered at the sound — you felt his hot breath on your cheek as he brushed his lips against the softness of the skin on your jaw. You were speechless, soft whimper leaving your mouth before you could stop yourself. You hated and loved how easily he had you wrapped around his finger; the tables had turned, and there was no coming back. You lost all of your control over him the moment he had you pressed against the wall.

"Not so bold now, aren't we?", he chuckled — the sound vibrating against your skin made yet another pathetic sound leave your mouth. His lips ghosted over your neck, and you bit your lip, hard, making sure no more whimpers escaped you.

"All you do is talk", you breathed out, your voice creaking as Nicholas laughed — although there was no amusement in his tone at all. The sudden swipe of his tongue against your hot skin made your eyes roll back into your head; Nicholas hummed lowly, pressing an open-mouthed kisses on the side of your neck, sucking marks into your skin. And you let him, how could you not? Your long nails dig into his shoulders, breathless hiss escaping your mouth as he pulled you closer, making sure there was no space between you. His lips worked on your skin, marking both your soul and body as his — his hands pressing into your skin in an almost bruising grip.

"Nicholas, please", you pouted and felt him smile against your skin. He didn't stop, though, lips now moving against the column of your throat, his hot breath tickling your sensitive skin.

"You beg so pretty", he mumbled lowly, pulling away just slightly so that he could meet your gaze. His eyes were intense, with a glint of playfulness as he grinned at the sight of your flushed cheeks and lidded eyes. "What do you want, doll?".

You bit back a moan as his hand travelled up your body, tracing incoherent shapes on your skin; his hand just barely grazing over the valley of your breasts, before it travelled up, closing around your throat. His gaze demanding now as he squeezed your neck, watching your every reaction.

Your breath hitched, eyes wide and pleading, the pressure of his hand on your neck making you deliciously lightheaded.

"Y—You. I want you, Nicholas", you managed to let out, your nails digging into his chiselled shoulders as you struggled to breathe. He tutted lowly, wetting his lips before pulling you closer by your neck — the smell of his cologne, along with the warmth of his breath on your lips caused the stain of wetness on your panties become embarrassingly bigger now.

"Just kiss me", you begged, putting your pride aside, your demeanour changing with the desire growing inside you. "Make me yours".

As soon as these words left your mouth, Nicholas was all over you; his lips meeting yours in a bruising kiss, his hand on your neck tightening with the newfound roughness that made your breath hitch. A low sound escaped his throat at the first taste of you as he let his free hand roam down, the pads of his fingers brushing against your spine. There was nothing nice about the way he kissed you; his tongue invading your mouth in an instant, his tongue massaging yours with hunger. Your hands moved to Nicholas' cheeks, pulling him impossibly closer as you struggled to breathe. You tried to press your thighs together — in search of friction that you so desperately needed — but before you could do so, Nicholas' knee landed in between your legs, trapping them in place. You swirled your tongue around his, your brows furrowing when he bounced his leg, causing his thigh to press against your clothed core.

"These little sounds you make", he breathed out, pulling away just slightly to brush his teeth against your lower lip teasingly. "Keep making them".

You whined, your head falling back against the wall, too heavy to keep upright. Nicholas' lips travelled down your jaw, lingering on the side of your neck before brushing against your collarbone; his teeth grazing the straps of your dress, almost as if asking for permission. The shiver that run down your body was enough for Nicholas, though, as he slowly slid the satin material off your shoulders, his fingers soft and delicate on your burning skin.

Your breath hitched as your boobs spilled from your little dress — Nicholas was certainly pleasantly impressed, though, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of your bare chest.

"Oh my", he sang, meeting your gaze, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. "Wanted to see those tits for months now. They're even more perfect that I've imagined".

You smirked as your dress landed on the floor with a quiet thud, leaving you in only your lacy, black thong and knee-high wedges. Nicholas' greedy eyes roamed over your form, his gaze predatory and dangerous as he slowly stepped away from you.

"Perfect", he whispered, wetting his lips with his tongue, and you smiled, a tiniest bit of blush creeping up on your cheeks under his observing eyes. "You're so beautiful, doll".

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, and with the newfound confidence, you approached him, playing with the buttons of his shirt as he leaned down to kiss you again. He was oh so kind when he offered help with undoing his shirt, his certainly skilled fingers moving with expertise that made your breath hitch. You tugged on the beige fabric, slipping it down his broad shoulders until it fell on the floor. You bit your lip at the sight of his chiselled chest, all for you to feel and touch — Nicholas grinned as he watched your dazed expression.

"You know what I love most about you?", you asked, pushing him against your canopy bed — and he let you, shaking his head as he fell back on your satin, black sheets. "That fucking body. You look like a greek god. Absolute perfection", you gawked, crawling towards him on the bed as he rested his head on the big pillow by the headboard. Nicholas' breath hitched as you straddled his stomach, his cock straining against his pants almost painfully now. Your legs rested on both sides of his body as you leaned down, brushing your lips against his neck.

"Shit. I'm all yours tonight, doll", he cooed, his nails digging into your hips with urgency, his neck stretching to grant you access. You rutted your hips against his abs, teasingly and slowly at first, a high-pitched moan leaving your mouth at the friction. Nicholas' muscles clenched under you, the hardness of his stomach against your clothed pussy making your head spin. Nicholas watched with hooded eyes, his hands tightening on your hips — guiding your movements, urging you to move faster against his toned abs.

"Holy fuck— Ride my abs babe, come on", he groaned, playing with the waistband of your panties before his fingers slipped between your legs to pull them to the side. You could only nod, a rush of excitement running down your spine when the cold air of the room hit your now exposed pussy.

"I can feel you soaking me", Nicholas panted, his hands finding place on your ass as you ground yourself down onto his stomach — soft pant left your mouth at the feeling of the hardness of his muscles against your dripping centre. "Let me hear you, baby".

"Oh my God— Nicholas", you whined, leaning down, your boobs right in front of his face. The man groaned as you started grinding faster, your own cascade of smugness faltering the more you felt his muscles clench under you.

"That's right, baby. You're so hot, using me like that. Being a home wrecking bitch turns you on, huh?", he whispered the last part of the sentence, and encouraged by the strangled moan that left your mouth, lifted his head to circle his tongue around your nipple. The softness of your skin was addicting, as he surrendered himself completely to you, sucking the nub into his lips before biting on it playfully, earning yet another low sound from the depths of your throat.

"Nick, oh my goodness—", you managed to let out, your back arching into his touch, the knot in your lower stomach becoming tighter with every passing second.

"Cum all over me, doll, I know you want to", Nicholas cooed, spanking your asscheek with force — the pain, combined with his words had you unravelling on top of him. You cried out, falling forwards and hiding your face in the crook of his neck as your rhythm faltered, your body becoming limp in his tight grasp.

Your pussy pulsed as a layer of wetness covered Nicholas' chiselled stomach, your inner thighs and the waistband of his pants. You struggled to catch your breath as Nicholas talked you through the aftershocks of your orgasm, his big hands grasping your ass, guiding your slow, shallow movements.

"I love you", he thought he heard you whisper, but he wasn't sure — his whole body clenched, and he slowly lifted you off him, laying you down on the sheets, watching as your chest heaved with uneven breaths.

"Need more", you whined, using all your strength to lift your upper body, your shaky hands moving down to tug at his belt, and he swore he could feel his dick growing even harder at the vulnerability in your tone. He quickly got rid of his pants and boxers, and you audibly gasped at the size of him. He was big, definitely above average, slightly curved with a pretty red tip, leaking with pre cum. Nicholas laughed at your wide eyes and parted lips, as he kneeled on the bed, his length bobbing in the air with the movement. You licked your lips, shimmying off your ruined panties before taking a position right in front of him. You sat down on your calves, moving your hands up his chest, biting your lip at the sight of Nicholas in his full glory. His muscles relaxed under your touch, soft gasp leaving his mouth when you teased his nipples with your fingers. He was so responsive, hips thrusting into the air — and you knew what he had wanted immediately.

You began to press soft kisses on his thighs, arching your back, Nicholas responding with an appreciative groan.

"'S so big, fuck", you teased, one of your hands moving down his stomach to wrap around the base of his cock. Nicholas let out a low hum, his hands raking through your hair, as he pulled them, hard, guiding your mouth to close around his tip.

With a wicked grin, and not once moving your eyes from his face, you slowly swirled your tongue around his cock, humming at the salty taste of his pre-cum invading your senses.

"You're such a little slut", Nicholas breathed out, his head falling back as the warmth of your mouth surrounded him. "Fuck, I knew you'd be good at this— I jerked off so many times, just thinkin' about those pretty, little lips wrapped around me".

You whined at his words — they encouraged you to twist your hand at the base of his cock while you struggled to take him deeper. Nicholas' hips started to move in accord with your hand and mouth, and he hissed at the feeling of your throat convulsing around his thick tip.

"Shit, shit, shit", he groaned, tugging at your hair to force your mouth off his twitching cock. "You're so much better than her. Need to fuck you right now", he forced you to kneel on all fours, his palm pressing into your lower back with urgency that had you breathless. Nicholas run his hands down your back, digging his fingers into your ass to spread you wide for him.

"Such a pretty little pussy. Want me to fuck you?", he cooed, biting his lip when you pushed your ass back against him, mumbling profanities into the pillow. Your hair was all over the place, but Nicholas pulled it into a makeshift ponytail, tugging on it, forcing you to use your words.

"Nick, please— Need it so bad, just use me, pleasepleaseplease", you cried out, and Nicholas smiled cruelly, spanking your left asscheek as he let go of your hair. He leaned down to brush his lips against the plush of your ass, biting on the sensitive skin, manoeuvring between spanking and soothing the red imprints of his hand with his hot tongue.

You were breathless as he worked his magic on your sensitive backside. You cried out his name every now and then, pushing back the best you could, but Nicholas wasn't having it — he was taking his sweet time, his mouth dangerously closer and closer to your puffy, leaking pussy.

"Your ass looks so much better when marked by me", he smiled proudly, even though you couldn't see it, admiring his own work. Your back arched even further when you felt his mouth closing around your clit, his tongue circling around the swollen nub with just enough pressure to leave you whimpering.

"Fuck, Nicholas! Oh my God, you're so good at this". Tears were streaming down your face as he spanked your backside yet again, licking a stripe up your clit to tease your little hole. He hummed into your pussy, one of his hands moving down to stroke his leaking cock. He spelled his own name with his tongue, then making out with your swollen slit until you were shaking and whimpering.

"You taste so good. I could spend hours between your legs", Nicholas groaned, to which you responded with a strangled chuckle, your hips moving in circles against his face — as if you couldn't get enough. "Yeah, grind against my face babe, come on. Wanna see you cum again", Nicholas encouraged, and you tugged on your sheets, hips bucking back to meet the restless movements of his tongue. His own groans vibrated against your core, the rhythmic wet sounds of his hips bucking into his hand filling the room like the most beautiful song.

Your whole body shook as the pressure in your lower stomach became almost unbearable — you were so close, and Nicholas sensed it immediately.

"Daddy, 'm gonna cum so hard— please, can I cum? Been so good f'you", you hiccuped, one of your hands reaching back to tug on his brown locks, earning yet another groan from him.

"Oh wow, we're gonna talk about this later. Go on, pretty, soak these fucking sheets f'me", he chuckled darkly and doubled his efforts, letting go of his cock only to massage both of your asscheeks in his big hands. He sucked your little clit into his mouth, and it was all it took for you to unravel under his touch — your creamy, white cum leaking out of your clenching hole as you screamed his name, your knees giving out, but Nicholas' strong hands kept you upright. He flicked his tongue over your sensitive slit, causing aftershocks to run down your spine.

"Divine", he whispered, pressing soft, lingering kisses on both of your asscheeks before getting up from his kneeling position and turning you on your back.

"So, daddy, huh?", Nicholas smirked, watching your fucked-out expression with a hint of amusement and adoration. He slipped in between your legs, leaning down to press his lips against yours teasingly. You let out a breathy laugh, covering your face with your hands, suddenly ashamed of yourself.

"No no no, don't go shy on me now, little one", he smiled, pushing your hands away and taking them in his own. Nicholas' thumbs brushed over your knuckles, his cock now rubbing against your stomach, and you couldn't help but grin up at him.

"I love it. You're gonna call me daddy from now on, yeah? And you're gonna take everything I give you, understand?", there was both softness and demand in his tone as wrapped his hand around the base of his cock, positioning it at your entrance. He gawked up at you one last time, making sure you were okay with what he was doing — at which you spread your legs wide, granting him the access.

"Use your words, doll", he demanded, slowly pushing his tip into you, before pulling back — he enjoyed the way your brows furrowed and lips parted, dry tears staining your face — an unfamiliar feeling bubbled up in his chest at the sight of you.

"Yes, daddy— Just, please", you wiggled your hips, chasing after the feeling of his cock stretching you out just barely; you needed more. "I need to feel you, Ni—".

Your words died in your throat as he pushed himself into you fully, the wetness coating your velvety walls making it easy for him to slip in. You both moaned in unison, your head dipping back into the pillow as he bottomed out. He was so big, stretching you out to an unbelievable level, your pussy fluttering around him in order to get used to the overwhelming feeling.

"Oh fuck", Nicholas moaned lowly, his palms pressing into your thighs to spread you wider — his hips beginning to piston forward, not waiting for you to get used to the stretch. "You're so fucking tight, baby. Wanna have this pussy all to myself", he mused, watching the way your greedy cunt swallowed all of him every time he bottomed out.

"Shit, daddy, oh my God", you cried out, your nails digging into his chest in order to steady yourself. Nicholas hissed, leaning down to brush his lips against your ear teasingly.

"Yeah, baby, just like that. You're taking me so good, feel how deep I'm inside you?", you tried your best to nod, and Nicholas chuckled, soft pants leaving his mouth every time his hips met the inner part of your thighs. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he fucked you hard and deep, not a single thought beside you in his head as he ruined you. "Shit, I love you. Love you so much, baby", he cried out, and you shuddered, a sudden orgasm ripping through you. A transparent liquid gushed out of your used hole as Nicholas slowed down, watching in awe as you soaked your sheets, his navel and balls. He held back his own orgasm, not wanting the moment to end so quickly as he let go of your legs, pulling one of them to the side, making you arch your back and press your ass against him.

"You just squirted for me, baby. You're so good, such a good girl f'me", he cooed, spanking the side of your ass as you bucked your hips into his own. "Think you can do that again for daddy? Hmm?".

You gripped his forearm, nodding frantically, and he was about to start pounding into you, when the two of you heard the buzzing of his phone.

Your eyes snapped open, wide and glossy, and Nicholas leaned down on the bed to grab his phone — his girlfriend's name and picture popping up on the screen. You let out a shaky breath as Nicholas' hips pressed against yours tightly, his gaze sending you a clear message — do not make a sound.

He answered the call, and you were surprised how normal he sounded, as if he didn't have you bent in half, fucking you in your own bed.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Just went somewhere quiet to talk to you", Nicholas looked down at you with authority, his hand squeezing the fat of your ass as he began to move slowly — in and out. In and out.

You bit back a moan, your head falling against the pillow — you heard his girlfriend's muffled voice on the other side of the line. Nicholas' chest glistened with sweat in the dim lightning as he began to fuck into you nice and deep, his free hand moving up your body to close around your throat. You were panting, your ass grinding against his hips as he stilled, allowing you to chase your pleasure.

You met his gaze as he squeezed your neck — dangerous and demanding, your hand clasping his forearm for balance as he met your grinds with deep strokes; the tip of his cock bruising your cervix every time he bottomed out.

"I miss you too, G/N. I'll probably stay overnight, y-yeah", he stuttered as he felt your pussy clench around him, signalling that you needed more. "I'm gonna call you later, okay? Love you too. Goodnight".

Nicholas ended the call hurriedly, throwing it somewhere on the bed carelessly. His hips began to snap into yours with a newfound harshness, the hand on your throat tightening. He used the other one to balance himself as he leaned down, his body flat against yours, causing his cock to reach even deeper into you.

"Fuck, doll, I'm gonna cum so hard", Nicholas groaned, pressing his lips against yours to swallow your moans. You tasted yourself on his tongue as it invaded your mouth, sensual and sweet — a delicious opposite to the roughness of his thrusts. You put your hands on his cheeks, returning the kiss greedily, your pussy fluttering and convulsing around his cock, your hips moving on their own as you chased your high.

"Daddy, please, fuck!", you cried out, your head falling against the pillow as Nicholas sucked on your bottom lip lewdly. His dick twitched inside you, signalling he was just as close as you were — he met your eyes, letting go of your throat only to trace his fingers down your cheek softly.

"Cum with me, fuck— I'm so close. Please, fuck— cum on my cock, darling", he begged — the sound of his voice, how submissive he suddenly sounded, did it for you.

With a loud moan of his name, you squirted on his cock yet again, your body going limp in his warm embrace. Nicholas lasted only for a few seconds, before burying himself fully into you, his cock twitching as he filled you with his hot cum.

"Shit, it's so much", he hissed, dropping his head, his eyes falling closed as his release washed over him. He pulled out after a while, leaving you empty but satisfied — he watched in awe as his cum leaked out of your convulsing hole, staining the soaked sheets under your ass. Nicholas fell on the bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you, keeping you close as the both of you tried to calm down after the earth-shattering orgasms that have just washed over you. You rested your head on his chest, listening to his irregular heartbeat, throwing your leg over his own.

"You wanna... do it again sometime?", you whispered, running your hand down his sweaty chest, savouring the moment of silence. Nicholas smiled, tracing incoherent shapes on the skin of your thigh, his lips ghosting over your damp forehead.

"Fuck, yeah", he chuckled, and you laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest. The air felt heavy with the unspoken tension, the weight of your actions and confessions lingering in the air, but you were too fucked out to care.

"Stay with me?", you mumbled hesitantly, lifting your head from Nicholas' chest to properly look at him. His eyes were full of vulnerability you haven't quite seen there before as he smiled, kissing the tip of your nose before replying: "Always, darlin'".

tags (click here to be added): @darlingnikkisixx @titsout4nicholas @brlwla @blackynsupremacy @mrs-riddlexo @essentialwriter @nicholaschavezslut69 @niteskysx @emluvsuxo @nicholaslut @greengoblinswifey @sin-deciric @onlyangelicc @urlitttlevenicebitch

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