#need to smooth the edges and structure

[judasiskariot]

WIP Wednesday-Thank you for thinking of me @optimisticgrey😉😊

And this time really 😉 I shall proceed and make it in time 😁😄

Does @tavyliasin or my @pinkberrytea💗 have some new sentences upon their sleeves to share? 😊

[tsunaso]

HEAR ME OUT

Aventurine and his partner have been together for a while when they somehow try working through Aventurine’s past trauma by showing him what a true master is like (reader)

Note - heavy bdsm, master/slave, anything else you’d like but I would prefer this being a healthier one so not non/con or forced

Thank you! 💖💖

“LET ME SHOW YOU WHO I AM”

pairing. Sub!Aventurine x Top!male reader

synopsis. In where Aventurine finally submits on his own terms, he learns what it means to be touched without being taken. — 4.3k

warnings. mdni, nsfw, amab reader, master/slave kink, collaring kink, light bondage, fingering, blowjob, handjob, overstimulation, begging, dirty talk, praise kink, degradation kink, subspace, aftercare, safe word use, past trauma, discussions of past abuse, implied SA (not graphic), hurt/comfort

The room was quiet.

Not sterile. Not cold. It smelled faintly of lavender and wax polish—warm light spilling from a shaded lamp. The blinds were drawn. The door was locked.

Aventurine stood in the center of the room like a model in a glass case, posed. Perfect. Still. He had removed his gloves first. Then his rings. Then his coat. Every motion methodical. Almost clinical.

You’d seen him negotiate with CEOs more relaxed than this.

You sat on the edge of the couch, legs slightly parted, arms resting on your knees, watching him like he was something fragile. Not in the way that meant he’d break—but in the way that meant he already had, at some point, and learned to glue himself together into someone flawless.

And he was flawless. That was the problem.

"You're not breathing," you said quietly.

Aventurine blinked. Then inhaled like he forgot that he needed to. A short, clipped breath. He forced a smile. "I'm just… preparing."

"For what?"

He paused. "To give you what you want."

You let that sit. Let him feel it.

Then you stood—slow, controlled—and stepped into his space.

"Look at me."

He did. Carefully. He always looked carefully, like his gaze was a scalpel and he was afraid to cut too deep.

You reached out, brushing your knuckles against his jaw. He didn’t lean into it. He didn’t flinch either. He simply absorbed the touch like it was something he had to endure—an input to be processed, not felt.

“I want you to listen,” you said. “And I want you to listen as Aventurine. Not as someone performing. Not as a client trying to impress me. As you.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “…I’m listening.”

“I’m not asking you to submit because I want to dominate you.”

He stiffened.

“I’m asking you to submit because I want to keep you safe.”

A silence followed. Longer this time.

You let your hand fall from his jaw and gently, deliberately, took his hand in yours. You turned it palm-up—his fingers were smooth, trembling ever so slightly.

You pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist.

“That’s the only reason,” you said. “Everything else—the commands, the structure, the rules… those are tools. Not punishments. Not games. They're ways to show you something you weren’t allowed to believe.”

He stared at you, eyes flickering. “Which is?”

“That being owned can feel like being protected.”

His lips parted—then closed again. He didn’t speak.

But he was still listening.

So you guided him to the couch. You sat down first, then tugged him forward by the hand until he was kneeling between your legs. Not to humble him—to center him.

"Now," you murmured, letting your fingers brush along his throat. “Let’s make something clear before we go further.”

Aventurine swallowed again. You felt it beneath your fingertips.

"You are mine only if you choose to be. And that choice doesn’t disappear just because you're in a collar or calling me Master."

His breath hitched. Slightly.

"You have a safeword. And you will use it."

You felt him tense—but it wasn’t fear. It was confusion.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Do you think I’ll regret it?”

“No,” you said. “I think someone else made you believe you weren’t allowed to.”

He froze.

And there it was.

That flicker. That twitch beneath the surface. You saw it behind his eyes—how he wanted to deflect, wanted to throw on that trademark smirk and laugh you off, pretend none of it reached him.

But it did.

Because the first time you called him "slave," he hadn’t flinched. But he hadn’t melted either. He had looked like someone waiting to be hurt. Obedient, yes—but not present.

You didn’t want that again.

“I don’t want obedience like that,” you whispered.

His lashes flicked up. His eyes were wet—but not crying.

You kissed the space between his brows. “I want your devotion. Your trust. Not your fear.”

He went still.

“…Then I don’t know how to be yours,” he said softly.

You tilted his chin up.

“That’s okay,” you said. “I’ll teach you.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

The collar was black. Supple leather, lined in deep velvet. Not flashy. Not harsh. Nothing sharp or ornamental. It wasn’t a trophy. It was a promise.

You fastened it slowly around Aventurine’s throat, adjusting the buckle until it sat snug against his skin, resting in the hollow between his collarbones. His breathing had grown shallower with every click, every brush of your fingers. But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t stop you.

And now—now he knelt.

He looked beautiful like that. Not just in the aesthetic sense, though he always had a way of appearing curated, even when undone. No—this was deeper. He looked like something offered.

The room was low-lit. Heavy drapes. No mirrors. No performance. Just you and him, framed in candlelight and silence. Your voice was the only thing allowed to break it.

“You’re trembling.”

His eyes flicked up, fast. Shame tightening his jaw before he could stop it.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you said gently. “And that’s okay.”

He exhaled like the air had been trapped in his chest for years.

You reached out, brushing his hair from his forehead, slow. He didn’t lean into it, but he didn’t pull back. Still learning. Still testing the depth of the space you’d carved open between you.

“I want to hear you say your safeword.”

��…Now?”

“Yes.”

His lips parted, then closed again. A flicker of pride, of resistance. Not defiance—just fear dressed in finery.

You tilted his chin up, thumb dragging along the edge of his jaw.

“Say it for me, Aventurine.”

“…Citrine.”

The word hung in the air. Soft. Almost delicate. Like it didn’t belong in his mouth.

“Good,” you murmured. “That word is power. Not weakness.”

You saw it flash in his eyes. That old wiring. That ache. The way he’d been taught that power only came through performance or control, through being sharper, cleverer, faster.

And now here you were, asking him to surrender.

You reached for his shirt. Silk, crisp, fitted. The kind of thing he wore like a second skin. You undid the buttons slowly, not ripping or demanding, but unwrapping him like something valuable. Something earned.

By the time you slid it off his shoulders, his breath had quickened again.

“Color?” you asked softly.

He blinked. “Huh?”

You smiled. “Give me your color.”

“…Green.”

Safe. Uncertain, but safe.

You trailed your fingers down his chest—bare, smooth, too still.

“I want to see you move when I touch you. Not freeze.”

He swallowed hard.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear. “You don’t have to be perfect here. You just have to be mine.”

He shivered.

“…Yes, Master.”

There it was. That subtle quake beneath the surface. Not fear. Relief.

You reached for the tie you’d laid on the bed earlier—rich crimson silk, soft and long. A blindfold, if needed. A restraint, if wanted. But tonight, just a tether. You looped it gently around his wrists behind his back—not tight. Just a suggestion.

“Sit back on your heels.”

He obeyed.

You let the silence stretch, letting him feel the leash of your presence even without a word. Your gaze burned into him—watching the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fingers twitched behind him, even restrained.

Then you spoke. Low. Commanding. Steady.

“Say it.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Say… what?”

“Who you are.”

His throat bobbed.

You took a step forward, letting your fingers trail beneath the collar at his throat.

“Say it, Aventurine. Who do you belong to?”

“…You.”

“That’s not enough.”

He shuddered.

“I belong to you,” he whispered. “I’m… I’m your slave.”

The words cracked on the edge of something old—something raw.

And you knew. That this wasn’t the first time he’d said it. But it was the first time he wasn’t punished for saying it wrong. The first time he wasn’t being used like a toy to be broken and left behind.

This was the first time he said it and wasn’t afraid.

You stepped around him slowly, trailing your hand across his bare shoulder as you did.

“You’re mine,” you said, voice smooth as heat. “Because you asked to be. Because I said yes. And now… I’m going to show you what that means.”

You stopped behind him, let your hand drop lower, brushing the curve of his spine.

“You’re going to listen.”

Your hand slid lower—over the waistband of his slacks, down to his thigh.

“You’re going to obey.”

You knelt beside him now, brushing your lips over his temple.

“And if I touch you and you shake, I’ll hold you.”

He let out a small sound—too raw to name. You felt his breath stutter. His entire body leaned just slightly into yours. Like the tension in his shoulders had finally started to give.

“Color?” you asked, voice warm.

“…Green,” he whispered.

You smiled.

“Good slave.”

His eyes fluttered shut. His lips parted. And for the first time since you’d collared him, Aventurine didn’t look composed.

He looked free.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You guided him onto the bed slowly. Not forced. Not posed. You didn’t bend him—you invited him. And he followed.

The sheets were dark—deep maroon silk, soft enough to slide against bare skin without a sound. The collar caught the light in a subtle gleam as Aventurine lowered himself down, legs folded beneath him, arms still behind his back. You sat in front of him, letting the room fall to quiet.

He was breathing a little too fast again.

You reached out, cupping his jaw in one hand. His lashes fluttered.

“Color?”

“…Green,” he whispered.

Your thumb stroked his cheek. “You’re doing beautifully, treasure.”

His breath hitched again, this time from something that almost sounded like relief.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Just once. And when you pulled away, you saw the dazed flicker in his eyes.

You didn’t ask for more yet. You just started touching him—slow strokes of your fingers over his chest, his arms, his thighs. Mapping. Worshipping. Letting him feel like something sacred.

“You’ve been holding yourself together for so long,” you murmured, tracing the hollow of his hipbone. “You don’t have to anymore.”

Aventurine’s body twitched under your touch, heat flashing across his face. He was already hard—aching against the front of his slacks, pulse pounding through him in quiet, desperate waves.

You kissed his collarbone, then lower. “I want to see what you look like when you come apart.”

He made a noise—small, breathy.

“I want to see how messy I can make you.”

Another whimper. This one sharper.

You undid the button on his slacks. Pulled the zipper down with slow, steady fingers.

"You’ve kept yourself so clean," you said. "So controlled."

You slid his pants down, along with his briefs. His cock sprang free, flushed red, already leaking.

"But this isn’t clean," you whispered, wrapping your hand around the base. “This is filthy. Needy. And it belongs to me.”

He shivered violently. You felt his knees twitch beneath him.

“You’re mine, Aventurine.”

He nodded. “Y-Yes, Master.”

You pumped him slowly—light pressure, thumb teasing over the slit. You kissed down his thigh as you worked, feeling the tension begin to fracture.

"That’s it," you whispered, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Breathe for me, pretty boy.”

He did. He tried. He was panting now, head tilted back, fingers clenched behind him like he didn’t know where else to hold the sensation.

“Such a good thing,” you crooned. “So obedient. So sweet. So ready to break.”

Your tongue flicked over the tip. He jerked—gasped.

"Color?" you murmured against him.

“…Green,” he rasped. “F-fuck—green—”

You hummed in approval, then dragged your tongue up his shaft, slow, tasting every drop he’d spilled.

"Look at you," you whispered, mouth just above his cock. "So wet already. You’d let me ruin you with just my tongue, wouldn’t you?"

He moaned—loud.

So you took him in. Not all the way. Just the head. Just enough to pull a shudder from his hips before you pulled off again.

“Not yet,” you murmured, hand stroking him again, firmer. “You don’t get to cum until you beg.”

You leaned up, lips brushing his ear.

“And not like a businessman,” you whispered. “Not like a negotiator. Like a whimpering little thing.”

His cock twitched in your fist.

"Say it."

“I—”

"Say what you are.”

“…Your p-pet,” he gasped.

You squeezed.

"Not good enough."

“I’m your—your toy—your slut—”

"Good," you growled. "Getting closer."

You tugged his head back by the collar, made him look at you.

"You’re mine, aren’t you?"

“Yes—yes, I’m yours—please, Master—please let me cum—"

And then he choked on a sound. His whole body jerked.

And the word fell from his lips:

“Yellow.”

You froze.

Not in fear. Not in failure.

In readiness.

Your hand left his cock instantly. You released the collar. Your voice softened.

“Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “You did perfect. You’re safe.”

His breathing was erratic. His eyes were glossy. But he wasn’t panicked. Not quite. Just too much. Overwhelmed. Drenched in sensations he’d never let himself feel before.

“I didn’t want to stop,” he said, voice breaking. “It just—just hit too fast—”

You nodded. Kissed his temple. Held his jaw steady.

“You did everything right,” you whispered. “I’m proud of you.”

He shivered. A small sound leaked from his throat—frustration. Shame. Something old.

You held him.

“You said yellow,” you murmured. “Not red. That means we slow down. We breathe. We check in.”

You reached for the silk tie around his wrists, undoing it gently.

He was trembling now.

And when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” you cut him off immediately.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Not for taking care of yourself. Not with me.”

He went quiet. Eyes searching yours.

“…So we can still—?”

You smiled.

“We’re going to continue. If you want to. And this time?”

You leaned in, kissed him slow, deep, open-mouthed.

“I want you to give me your surrender.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

He was still shaking when you brought him back to the bed.

Not from fear. Not from regret. From how much it was.

He let you hold him without asking. Let you kiss the top of his head, run your fingers down the back of his neck, cradle him in your lap like something precious. And when your hand slid to his thigh again—he opened his legs without hesitation.

“I want you inside me,” he whispered. “Please.”

Your fingers traced the line of his inner thigh, featherlight. “You sure?”

His breath caught.

Then, “Yes, Master.”

You smiled, leaned in, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Then I’ll give you what no one else ever did.”

He blinked, eyes fluttering.

“What’s that?”

You kissed his throat, tongue dragging over the edge of the collar.

“Time.”

You laid him out like he was something sacred—chest to the sheets, legs parted, cheek resting against a silk pillow. He looked wrecked already. Hair wild, skin flushed, cock twitching against his stomach. He still had the collar on.

Your hand ran down his back slowly, fingers trailing the curve of his spine. You watched his hips twitch in anticipation.

And then you whispered, “I’m going to stretch you open now.”

Aventurine shuddered.

“Not like them,” you added, voice low and warm. “Not fast. Not hard. Not careless.”

You pressed a kiss to the small of his back.

“Like this.”

Your hand slid between his legs, parting them more. You took your time with the lube—warm, slick, worked between your fingers before you ever touched his hole. You let your thumb rest against the rim, not pushing, just being there.

“Breathe for me,” you whispered. “Color?”

“Green,” he rasped. “Fuck, I’m green—just—please.”

You slid one finger in. Slowly. No resistance. Just heat. Just a shaky, desperate moan beneath you.

“That’s it,” you murmured. “That’s my good boy.”

He gasped into the pillow, his whole body tensing—then softening.

"You're so tight," you praised. "So soft inside. You were made for this."

You curled your finger, watching the way he arched, hips twitching.

“M-Master—”

You hummed, kissing the dip of his back.

“I know. It’s good now, isn’t it?”

He nodded, whimpering.

You took your time. You didn’t rush the second finger. You didn’t stretch him to watch him squirm—you stretched him because you wanted him to be ready. You wanted to give his body the chance to welcome you.

Not endure you.

Aventurine was panting now. His cock leaked freely onto the sheets. Every twist of your fingers sent a sob through him.

“You’re doing so well,” you whispered. “Letting me open you. Letting me feel how warm you are inside. This hole is mine now, isn’t it?”

He moaned—wrecked, high, humiliated.

“Yes, Master—it’s yours—just yours—”

You slipped in a third finger, carefully, watching his back arch as he cried out.

But he didn’t say yellow.

He didn’t say stop.

He pushed back.

You grinned.

“Oh, you’re greedy now,” you murmured against his ear, one hand reaching around to grip his leaking cock. “You want it all, don’t you?”

He whimpered. Nodded. Twitched in your hand.

"Say it."

“P-please,” he sobbed. “Please fill me—break me—fuck me full—I want to be yours inside—please, I need your cock—”

You laughed—low, hot, proud.

“Oh, my sweet little slut.”

He gasped—choked on it.

You leaned down, kissed the back of his neck. Then whispered, “You like being called that now, don’t you?”

“…Y-yes—”

“You like being my toy. My slave. My obedient little hole.”

His whole body seized.

“F-fuck—!”

You pulled your fingers out—slow, careful, teasing.

He sobbed at the loss.

You lined yourself up, pressed the tip against his stretched, slick entrance.

He pushed back instantly.

"Greedy thing," you growled. "Beg for it."

“Please, Master—please—fuck me—ruin me—make me your cumdump—please—”

And you gave him exactly what he asked for.

You sank in.

All the way.

Slow. Measured. No brutality. No rush. You slid into him inch by inch, letting him feel it, letting him open around it, letting the stretch burn sweet and thick as your cock filled his aching hole.

Aventurine gasped—his voice a cracked moan as his body trembled beneath yours.

“Oh, f-fuck—” he choked out, knuckles white as they dug into the sheets.

You leaned down, one arm braced beside his head, the other gripping his hip tight, keeping him spread open as your cock bottomed out, balls resting snug against his skin.

“There it is,” you whispered into his ear. “Feel that? That’s me, inside you.”

He whimpered. You felt the clench around you—tight, slick, hungry.

“This is what you needed all along. Not a man who takes. A man who fucks you like he owns every inch.”

You pulled back—slowly—and thrust in again, long and deep, your cock dragging against the sweet spot that made his legs shake.

He moaned—loud, broken. His cock throbbed untouched against the sheets.

You kept the rhythm slow, heavy, grinding deep with every thrust, pushing the sound out of him with every roll of your hips.

“Y-you’re so deep,” he gasped. “I—I can feel you in my stomach—Master—please—”

You kissed his neck, teeth grazing the collar. “You’re taking it so well. My pretty little whore.”

He shuddered. “Yes—yes—call me that again—”

You thrust deep—he jerked, crying out.

“Say it.”

“I’m your whore,” he whimpered. “I’m your obedient whore—use me—please—just—”

He clenched around you, hole fluttering, walls pulsing like he was already about to cum.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back.

“Don’t cum,” you growled into his ear. “Not until you break for me.”

Aventurine whined, a high, needy sound, mouth open, drool slipping down his chin as you kept fucking into him—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Faster,” he sobbed. “P-please—Master—please fuck me harder—need it—need you to ruin me—”

You slammed in hard. He screamed.

“Oh, that’s it,” you growled. “You like it now, don’t you? You like being fucked stupid.”

“Y-yes—yes, I do—please—don’t stop—”

You pulled the leash tighter, using it to anchor him as you began thrusting fast, hard, pounding into his slick hole until the slap of skin-on-skin echoed with every deep, bruising thrust.

“You gonna cum like this?” you hissed. “Face in the sheets, used, leaking, begging?”

“Yes—yes—I’m your cumslut—I’m yours—only yours—”

His words collapsed into gasping cries, voice breaking every time your cock slammed into that same aching spot deep inside.

You reached under him, fisted his cock—already wet, throbbing, twitching.

“You want to cum, slut?”

He nodded frantically, tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Then fucking ask.”

“Please—Master—please let me cum—let me make a mess for you—please—”

You grinned.

“Cum for me, slave.”

He screamed.

His body seized, hole clenching so tight around your cock it almost pushed you over the edge. His cum splattered across the sheets in thick, hot streaks, and he collapsed beneath you—shaking, moaning, drooling, trembling with every aftershock as you kept fucking him through it.

He was babbling now. You didn’t need to understand. It was all yours.

You growled low, thrusting one last time and spilling inside him, hot and thick, grinding deep as you filled him to the brim. He sobbed into the sheets—completely broken open, your cum leaking from his fluttering hole as he whispered, “Thank you, Master,” again and again.

You kissed his shoulder.

“You did so well for me,” you murmured. “So good. So obedient. So mine.”

He made a small sound—something close to a sob—but there was no fear in it.

Only peace.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　𓆩♡𓆪

You didn’t let go of him. Not once. Not when he came undone under you, not when his body collapsed into aftershocks, not when his sobs started—quiet and broken, into the silk sheets.

You stayed inside him, shallow and warm, one hand on his waist, the other splayed across his chest. His breath came in shivers. His body twitched with every small pulse of aftershock, still spread open, still marked by you.

And still, he whispered, “Thank you, Master.” Over and over again. Like a prayer. Like a child afraid of silence.

You kissed the back of his neck. Gently. “You don’t have to thank me for not hurting you.”

His fingers curled in the sheets. He didn’t answer right away.

You pulled out slowly. Your cum dripped down the inside of his thighs, hot and wet, and he didn’t move. He just exhaled—long, cracked, like the last of his performance was melting out of him.

You left only briefly. Warm towel. Cloth. Water. When you returned, he hadn’t shifted.

He was still kneeling.

Silent.

Shaking.

You moved behind him and eased him into your lap. Chest to back. He folded like he’d been waiting to. You wrapped your arms around him and held him there—wet, ruined, open—and he let you.

You cleaned him gently. Slow, soft, reverent. Not possessive now. Not hungry. Just present.

“I want to hear your color,” you whispered.

“…Green,” he breathed. “Just… slow.”

“Slow is good.”

Another breath. Then, quieter: “I don’t want to go back to my room.”

“You won’t.”

You tightened the towel around him, pressing your palm over his heart. The leather collar was still warm under your fingers.

“Does this still feel good?” you asked, thumb brushing it.

“…Yes.”

“Does it still feel like a leash?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You tilted his face toward you. His eyes were red, wet, shining.

He swallowed.

“I kept waiting for it.”

You blinked. “For what?”

“For the part where you stopped asking,” he said. “Where you just… took.”

Your breath stilled.

He looked down, shame creeping like old blood into his voice. “They didn’t ask. Not after I was sold. The first ones just—”

You adjusted your hold—firmer now. Grounded.

“I know.”

“There was a man who called me by my serial number,” he said. “Said names were for people.”

You didn’t speak. You held him tighter.

“I used to think… if I offered it first, let people use me, I was in control. If I moaned loud enough or spread my legs fast enough, maybe they’d forget I didn’t want it.”

His voice cracked. His jaw clenched.

“But none of them ever stopped.”

You found his hand. Laced your fingers through his.

“…And you did.”

You didn’t say of course. You didn’t say I’m not like them.

You said: “You said yellow. So I slowed.”

And something inside him shattered.

He didn’t break pretty. He broke real. Face crumpling, shoulders shaking, tears falling hard against your skin as he buried his face in your chest and wept.

Not from shame.

From being seen.

You rocked him gently. Back and forth. Holding him through every sob, every tremor, every time he tried to apologize only to collapse again.

“I didn’t think I could ever be like this again,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Soft.”

You closed your eyes. Kissed his hair.

“You’re not soft. You’re just safe.”

His breath hitched.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt wanted,” he said, voice thin, “without needing to win something first.”

“You didn’t win me,” you murmured. “You let me hold you.”

His lashes fluttered. His voice dropped to a whisper:

“…Was I good?”

You cupped his cheek, thumb wiping a tear from his flushed skin.

“You were perfect.”

He laughed. It broke halfway. “I look pathetic right now.”

“No,” you said, smiling. “You look mine.”

He flinched—just slightly—but he didn’t deny it.

You kissed his nose. Brushed his damp hair back.

“Can I ask you something?”

“…Anything.”

“What do you want me to call you now?”

You didn’t rush it.

“You can keep Aventurine. Or Slave. Or…” You paused. “Kakavasha.”

He blinked.

His breath caught in his chest.

“I haven’t heard that name in so long,” he whispered. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”

You nodded. “It does.”

He looked at you, startled.

You smiled.

“But maybe… that someone still lives here.” You placed your hand gently over his heart.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat worked. His lashes fluttered.

You leaned close, nose to his cheek.

“Until you decide… I’ll call you what I see.”

He swallowed.

“And what’s that?” he whispered.

You kissed the edge of his collar.

“My beloved.”

[cressidagrey]

Like Origami

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:   Felicity folds their lives around Oscar’s. 

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar had always known that being an F1 driver came with a cost.

Time, mostly. Energy. Pieces of himself chipped away across continents — interviews, debriefs, simulator hours, long-haul flights that blurred the edges of his life into airport lounges and hotel lobbies. 

He missed sleep. He missed Bedtime. He missed Bee’s first attempt at drawing a cat (which looked more like a haunted pancake). He missed days at home with Felicity. 

But it never really broke him.

Because Felicity never let it.

Being an F1 driver required everything. His time. His focus. His body. His brain. It asked for obsession and then demanded more. And somehow, Felicity had folded their entire life around it — not like a sacrifice, but like origami. Seamless. Beautiful. Functional.

Their schedules bent around his. Flights arranged, appointments timed, Bee’s activities slotted into neat little windows that didn’t collide with debriefs or simulator days or media obligations. The chaos of the racing calendar never touched him at home — because Felicity had already smoothed it out.

She handled the mortgage and the taxes and the kindergarten applications. She learned the structure of F1 contracts before he even signed his first one. Their fridge always had the right snacks, Bee always had backup outfits in her cubby at Kindergarten, and Oscar never, ever had to think about whether they were low on laundry detergent.

The garden bloomed when he was home. Dinners appeared like magic. Bee’s schedule adjusted itself so he could still read her a bedtime story before she fell asleep drooling on his shoulder. The house was calm. Meals were warm. The only thing he ever had to remember was where his slippers were.

Oscar never asked Felicity to built their lives around his.

She just did it.

Without fanfare. Without passive-aggressive remarks or pointed silences. Felicity folded their entire world into a rhythm that let him chase speed while never falling apart.

There were meals in the freezer labeled with dates and instructions. Garden vegetables cleaned, chopped, and tucked into glass containers. His race gear was always washed, his vitamins stocked, his passport renewed before he even thought to check. When he came home, the house felt like a deep breath. Like rest.

When he was home, she never handed him a to-do list.

She handed him their daughter.

And that was it.

He didn’t have to manage groceries or bills or appointments. He didn’t have to double-check if Bee had clean socks or if the chickens had eaten or if the plumber was coming Thursday. He didn’t even have to pack his kit —because Felicity had already done it, tucked a protein bar into the side pocket and added a hand-written note.

No expectation to fix the fence or organise the pantry or figure out why the hot water pressure was acting up in the guest shower. She’d already handled it. Or would. What she needed was him. 

Just him. Present and soft and theirs.

Oscar didn’t know how to explain it to people who hadn’t lived it. Who hadn’t walked through the door at 1 a.m. after a red-eye and found their home warm and humming, their child asleep in a bed full of storybooks and dreams, and their wife sitting at the kitchen table with tea and a smile that made him forget every horrible session that came before.

All he had to do was come home and be.

Be Bee’s dad. Be Felicity’s husband. Be the quiet, tired, grateful version of himself that only existed within their walls. The one who didn’t have to be sharp-edged or interview-ready. The one who could collapse on the floor and let his daughter crawl onto his back mid-storytime. 

Felicity had made a life that worked around his — so that when he walked back into it, he wasn’t expected to fix or lead or plan.

He was expected to rest.

To hold Bee.

To breathe.

He’d never asked Felicity to do any of it. She just did.

She learned what days he needed quiet. She knew when he was withdrawing too far into his own head. She knew how to keep the house humming while giving him space to exhale — without making him feel like he was failing for needing it.

And that was what broke him, sometimes. Quietly. Privately.

Because Felicity never made him feel like a burden. Never held it over his head. Never once made him feel like she’d put her life on hold for his.

But she had.

Not because she was dependent.

Because she chose to.

Because she loved him.

Because she believed in him enough to bend the edges of their world so that, when he came home, all he had to do was walk through the door and exist.

Oscar wasn’t naïve. He knew she was brilliant. That she could be doing anything. That she could be running companies or winning awards or building something extraordinary in her own right. And in some ways, she already was.

Because their life — their quiet, beautiful, functioning, chaotic life — was something only Felicity could’ve built.

And he would spend the rest of his life making sure she knew he saw it.

Even if she never asked him to.

He didn’t know how to repay that. Not with wins. Not with flowers. 

But every time she curled into his side at night, every time Bee reached for him with sticky fingers and sleepy eyes, Oscar knew one thing for certain:

The only thing he had to do now — the only thing he wanted to do — was show up for them, again and again, and never, ever forget what it took to make this possible.

Felicity held up their life like it was nothing.

And that made it everything.

***

Oscar realized it while sitting at the kitchen counter, barefoot and still damp from his post-run shower, a half-drunk protein shake sweating beside his laptop. The house was quiet—Bee at kindergarten, Felicity out in the garden talking to the hens like they were co-workers—and he was meant to be going through the calendar Mark had sent over. Just blocking out dates, syncing with Felicity’s schedule, adding a few notes.

He scrolled.

Paused.

Scrolled back.

July 21st. Hungarian Grand Prix. Bee’s birthday.

His stomach dropped.

He stared at the screen like it might change, like maybe the dates would shift if he just blinked hard enough. But they didn’t. The 21st stayed where it was, bright and bold, nestled between two practice days and a press briefing.

Bee was turning four.

Four. The age where memories stuck like glue. Where birthdays became important—not just cake and balloons, but promises. Traditions. She’d been talking about it for months. Sea-themed cupcakes. A dolphin-shaped cake. A sparkly blue dress.

And he’d nodded, said “I’ll be there, Bumblebee,” without realizing the truth sitting quietly in his own damn schedule.

The guilt hit him like a sucker punch—instant, sharp, and mean.

He didn’t even remember walking out to the garden. Just the disjointed blur of grabbing his phone, sliding open the back door, and calling out, “Fliss?”

Felicity turned from where she knelt by the herb beds, sunhat perched on her head, dirt smudged on her wrist. “Everything okay?”

“I need to talk to you.”

She wiped her hands on her jeans “Oscar?”

His voice cracked a little. “Hungary’s on Bee’s birthday.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I didn’t realize,” he said. “God, I didn’t realize, and now I feel like the worst—I promised her, Fliss, I told her I’d be there—”

“Hey,” she interrupted, standing now, brushing grass off her knees. “Breathe.”

“I was supposed to be there,” he said again, softer this time. “She’s been planning it for months. The dolphin cake, the cupcakes, the balloons—and I just—how did I miss it?”

“You didn’t,” Felicity said gently. “You’re just juggling a hundred other things. But you’re not missing it.”

He blinked. “What?”

She smiled, walking toward him across the grass, sunlight catching the gold chain around her neck. “I already booked the flights.”

Oscar just stared at her.

“I figured it out last week,” she added. “Called Mark, sorted the paddock passes. Bee’s excited about it. She wants to wear her dolphin dress to the track and bring cupcakes for the engineers.”

He was stunned. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I’m serious,” she said. “You’re her dad. You don’t miss her birthday unless you’re in space. We’ll come to you. It’s just geography.”

“But—race weekend—media—timings—”

Felicity reached for his hand. “She doesn’t care about any of that. She wants her papa to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ slightly off-key and help her blow out candles. That’s what matters.”

Oscar scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly breathless with love and relief and the unbearable ache of it all. “How do you always fix everything?”

Felicity shrugged. “Because I know you. And I know her.”

And just like that, the weight lifted.

He’d still be racing that weekend. Still chasing tenths and points and podiums.

But when Bee turned four, Oscar wouldn’t be missing him.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

~

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” you ask, your voice sharp. There’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of your own question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what you’ve just implied. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown- The Lunar Nodes in The Signs

The North Node is a whisper from the future, a gravitational pull toward the life you were meant to step into. It is not a place of comfort, but of growth. It calls you to release what is familiar, abandon the well-worn patterns of your past, and surrender to a version of yourself that has not yet fully emerged. The South Node, where you have been, is instinctive, ingrained, effortless. But to stay there is to remain unfinished.

The path ahead is not one of comfort, but of purpose. You are being called toward something greater. Will you answer?

North Node in Aries / South Node in Libra You have spent lifetimes tending to others, smoothing conflicts, making yourself smaller for the sake of peace. You have mastered the art of compromise, but at what cost? The North Node in Aries calls you to step forward alone, to lead without waiting for permission, to trust in your own fire. You must break the habit of molding yourself to fit others and dare to be fully seen, even when it makes others uncomfortable. Your journey is one of radical independence. Your voice matters. Use it.

North Node in Taurus / South Node in Scorpio You have danced with darkness, been baptized in crisis, and made a home in the fire of transformation. You know how to survive, but do you know how to simply exist? This lifetime calls you to peace, to build something steady rather than always bracing for collapse. The North Node in Taurus asks you to slow down, touch the earth, trust that love does not always come with suffering. Your healing is found in simplicity. Let life be gentle.

North Node in Gemini / South Node in Sagittarius You have been the wanderer, the philosopher, the one who sought meaning in distant lands and ancient texts. But wisdom is not only found in grand truths, it is found in the voices of those around you, in the rhythm of everyday conversations. This lifetime asks you to listen as much as you speak, to ask questions rather than assume answers, to find the sacred in the small things. You are not meant to teach from a mountaintop; you are meant to sit among the people and tell their stories.

North Node in Cancer / South Node in Capricorn You have built walls high enough to touch the sky, worn responsibility like armor, and measured your worth by what you can accomplish. But life is not a ledger to balance. The North Node in Cancer asks you to step away from the boardroom, the strategy, the control, and soften into feeling. You are here to experience love, vulnerability, and the strength that comes from allowing yourself to need others. Not everything must be earned, some things are simply meant to be felt.

North Node in Leo / South Node in Aquarius You have stood on the edge of the crowd, observing, analyzing, belonging to everyone and no one. You have fought for the collective, but what about you? The North Node in Leo calls you to step into the light, not as a reflection of a cause, but as your own radiant, creative force. This life is not about blending in, it is about daring to shine. Your heart is your compass. Follow where it leads.

North Node in Virgo / South Node in Pisces You have spent lifetimes floating in the waters of the unseen, surrendering to fate, dissolving into the currents of something greater. But now, you are meant to build, to shape, to make the intangible real. The North Node in Virgo calls you to bring structure to your dreams, to craft with precision, to serve in a way that is grounded and tangible. This is not about losing your magic, it is about turning it into something that lasts.

North Node in Libra / South Node in Aries You have always been the warrior, the lone wolf, the one who charged ahead with fire in your veins. But now, you must learn to stand beside another, not just as an individual, but as an equal. The North Node in Libra asks you to listen, to compromise, to see strength not as independence, but as connection. Your greatest victories will not be won alone.

North Node in Scorpio / South Node in Taurus You have known safety, comfort, and the slow, steady rhythm of a well-planned life. But security is not the same as growth. This lifetime calls you to dive into the depths, to surrender the illusion of control, to face what lies beneath the surface. The North Node in Scorpio asks you to let go, to embrace the mystery, to let yourself be transformed. You are meant to rise from your own ashes. Trust the fire.

North Node in Sagittarius / South Node in Gemini You have lived among the details, learned to navigate the chatter of the mind, but now you are called to something greater. The North Node in Sagittarius asks you to stop seeking answers in fragments and embrace the whole story. Let go of distractions, of hesitation, of overthinking. This is your time to leap, to explore, to believe in something bigger than yourself. The world is waiting. Go.

North Node in Capricorn / South Node in Cancer You have been held, nurtured, protected, but you cannot stay in the cradle forever. The North Node in Capricorn calls you to step into your own authority, to build something lasting, to claim your place in the world with discipline and determination. You are not here to be carried. You are here to lead.

North Node in Aquarius / South Node in Leo You have been the center of attention, the artist, the performer, the one who thrived on recognition. But this life asks you to turn your gaze outward, to use your gifts for something greater than personal glory. The North Node in Aquarius calls you to innovate, to revolutionize, to break free from ego and create for the collective. This is not about you alone, this is about all of us.

North Node in Pisces / South Node in Virgo You have spent lifetimes measuring, perfecting, fixing. But the North Node in Pisces asks you to let go of control, to surrender to the mystery, to trust in something beyond logic. This is your time to step into the divine flow, to dissolve into the vastness of possibility, to know that not everything needs to be planned, some things are meant to be felt. You are the dreamer, the poet, the mystic. Let yourself drift. Let yourself believe.

[frostgears]

officer's ball

If there was one thing that eventually turned you against the aristocracy, it was the yearly humiliation of you, your handler, and your entire ground crew being forced into beribboned beyond-antique pre-starflight fashion every year for the Officer's Ball. They insisted. They said the nobles needed the human element. They said it'd justify your funding.

"Ammo doesn't grow on trees," the woman who directed your every combat action said. "And if it did, they'd be found growing only in First Landing family gardens. I hate this. I hate these people. Every fucking year, just to keep the program running. Don't they get bored?" and then she burst into tears and you had to do her makeup again, from the beginning.

You didn't mind it so much for yourself. The entitled fat old perverts of every gender trying to grab your ass and catching a handful of hoopskirt were entertaining. So was being forced to sample a continuous mix of canapés, sherry, cocaine, chocolate, PL-2141, and further canapés. If you really worked at it, you could approximate a slight buzz, the faintest echo of what interface drugs did on an average mission day.

But your poor mechanic wasn't used to being groped by the nobility or plied with anything stronger than hangar coffee. By two hours in, she was looking green around the edges and ready to puke in the nearest potted palm. Your avionics specialist, parted from her usual headphones and overlay glasses, was rigid with sensory overload and unable to dissociate because some third son of some electronics bureau minister had her cornered about a harebrained idea and wouldn't let go.

Your handler was worst of all: thoroughly miserable in her tightly corseted dress and constitutionally unsuited to any kind of discomfort inflicted upon her own person, rather than yours. She jumped at the slightest touch, gritted her teeth even more noticeably with every introduction. Your signed or whispered attempts to quietly reassure her that the "mission" was on track and would be over soon caused her to twitch and on one occasion even yelp, startling the admiral responsible for your fuel allocation. You smoothed it over as best you could, insinuating something about "combat nerves" — the old fool might have actually thought she was a pilot! But you didn't feel the need to explain, not that night.

The next day, as you hunted down a rebel tactical element in the hills above Seyan's Folly, she was still hung over. Not hung over enough to not notice when the pinned-down rebel lieutenant started in on an honest-to-God "you're not so different, you and I" speech, but hung over enough that she told your comms operator to cut the audio feed to Command, not your cockpit speakers.

"We're listening," you boomed over external PA speakers, forwarding her orders. "Wait? We're listening? Apparently we're listening."

"Shit. I mean. We're not that different, really, but obviously there's, uh, you're part of a system, and there's, redemption is on the table, I guess, maybe you'd like to, uh… honestly, I was just buying time."

"Don't get cocky, I've had your reinforcements bracketed by smart mortars for the last two minutes," you said. "You never had any time to buy. But… tell me about your side's command structure. Does it have a yearly ball?"

"Are you fucking joking?"

Things got complicated after that, with the improvised extraction, but what the hell, your team already worked well together.

You've had to work for every round and every joule and every mole of active nanomachinery since (much of it wrested from lesser units sent from your homeworld to drag you back) and you share a tiny, noisy cabin with your handler above the large bay of a rebel assault transport.

Maybe you're on the right side. Maybe there isn't one. But they're still letting you pilot, and your handler has happily returned to a tank top, fatigue pants, and what's left of her battered leather jacket, restoring her confident growl over the tactical link. The liaison officer they've got watching you has assured her that there's not a single brocade ball gown in the entire fleet. □

[halfvalid]

through the night

ABOUT

| 18+ | smut | explicit |

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

description: zoro comes to the reader's room during the night. sex ensues.

tags: smut, female reader, oral (receiving), fingering, vaginal sex, creampie, kissing (a lot of it), soft zoro, first time together, confessions (kinda), fluff, no use of "y/n", banter, pwp (lowkey).

author's note: consent is sexy and so is zoro

i have up to now only watched 2 episodes of OPLA and have never consumed any other type of one piece media. expect him to be ooc. also it's my first smut fic help

It was nighttime on the Going Merry, and the dull kiss of the setting horizon drifted lazily through the single window in your room. You were lying on your bed, leaning against the headboard as you flipped through a book you’d picked up the last time the ship had been docked. It wasn’t too interesting, but it was something to pass the time with, so you stifled a yawn and flipped to the next page.

There was a knock at your door, and you glanced up, watching as the shoddy metal hinges slowly creaked open. Zoro was standing in the doorway, his broad frame blocking out nearly all the light coming in from the hall. He was still dressed in his daywear, which reminded you that you needed to change—the loose shirt and trousers you wore were, although clean, nothing near sleepwear.

“Zoro?” you asked, watching as he started into the room. You clicked your tongue before he could step another foot inside, though— “If you’re going to come in, take your shoes off.”

Zoro scoffed but obeyed, pausing by the mouth of the room to slide his heavy boots off. He tread lightly to where you lay, climbing up to sit on the edge of the bed beside you. “What’s up?”

“Can’t sleep,” Zoro answered. You moved aside to allow him some more room, centering yourself on the bed. Zoro didn’t move, though.

You raised your eyebrows. “That’s possible?”

He looked unimpressed, propping his arms under his head and leaning back so his head was splayed against your thighs. His three matching earrings glinted in the light. “Luffy and Nami are being loud. Your room’s the farthest away.”

“Your elbow is digging into my gut,” you said, turning back towards your book. Zoro rolled his eyes, but readjusted his position, pulling his arms down to instead lay folded atop his stomach. “Are you just going to nap there?”

Zoro shrugged, and you had to stifle a giggle, the sensation vaguely ticklish. He’d never been a man of many words, so you lowered your book again and went back to reading. The light in the room was dim, though; after a few minutes, the glow from the light at your bedside no longer sufficed, and you were too tired to strain your eyes to squint at the page. You could, of course, just turn on the cabin lights—but Zoro was asleep by now, and you hadn’t even liked the book that much anyway.

You set it on your nightstand, gazing down at the slumbering man in your lap. Despite the glare he so often sported, Zoro looked near-angelic in his sleep, his face all smooth planes and straight lines. Those dark eyes of his were hidden like this, black lashes splayed across his cheeks as shadows emphasized the hollows of his bone structure.

He really was beautiful, an ever-comforting presence within the Straw Hats that your eyes had always strayed to. There was a certain kind of fondness you held for him that none of the other crew members could quite compare to, although if you voiced those thoughts Luffy would probably end up giving you a lighthearted scolding. You could already imagine the teasing from the other members of the crew—Usopp and Sanji particularly—making fun of your little crush, which is why you kept your lips firmly sealed. A secret was a secret, and this was yours to keep.

You finally tore your eyes away, focusing instead on getting out of the position you’d gotten stuck in. Somewhere in the back of your mind you liked the idea of Zoro sleeping in your lap, but the clothes you wore were getting increasingly uncomfortable. You carefully slipped out from under him, cradling his head so as to support him as you gently lowered him to the mattress. Thankfully, he didn’t rouse, and you slipped to the other side of the room to open up your wardrobe, satisfied knowing you weren’t disturbing him.

You made deft work, first brushing through your hair and rinsing your face with some clean water before focusing your attention on changing your clothes. You removed your trousers, instead donning a pair of shorts. You were halfway through peeling off your blouse to replace it with a softer, silk one, when Zoro coughed from behind you.

You froze, daring to glance behind you whilst still topless. Zoro had awoken, eyes having lost all trace of sleep as he slowly sat up, staring at your figure across the room. He coughed again as soon as your eyes met, dropping his gaze. “Sorry,” he said very carefully, voice hoarse and grating.

“No, it’s okay,” you managed out, but you were still frozen. Your thoughts were on the dark look that’d been in his eyes the split-second before he’d looked away—surprised but sharp, cutting like just his gaze could pierce through your soul. Gooseflesh had prickled up along your arms.

“I’ll just… go,” Zoro muttered, already having gotten up as he started shuffling towards the door. You jolted into action, nearly dropping the shirt still in your hands as you turned towards him.

“No, you can—” your words softened, seeing his gaze flicker rapidly around your figure before finally landing on some spot by your cheek. “You can stay.” You paused, hoping your words weren’t too direct. “If you want.”

“You should put your shirt on,” Zoro said, almost choking on his words, like they were too big to fit in his mouth.

Your gaze dropped down before a steady blush started climbing up the sides of your face. “Right,” you started, but it was like you’d lost control of your hands. The shirt still hung limply from your grip.

“Or you could…” Zoro paused, lips parted as he sucked in a soft breath. Carefully, he moved back towards your bed, the only sound in the room a soft thump as he sat back on it. “Not.”

You swallowed. You could barely feel the lax of grip as your fingers released the shirt, letting it fall to the floor in one pathetic heap. You took a tentative step towards Zoro, and then another, until you were right in front of him. The soft night breeze through the window caused chills to erupt down your spine. Or maybe that was Zoro’s expression—nearly studious in his attentivity, eyes grazing across your chest and torso like he was taking in information for a new, particularly high-paying bounty.

“Zoro,” you started. He finally glanced up at your face, and you shuddered, biting down hard on your tongue. “I, um—hi.”

“Hey,” he said carefully, like he was testing the word on his tongue. Your gaze flickered down to his lips. He seemed to notice, but he didn’t say anything; rather, he raised one of his hands, pressing it against your side until his fingers tightened against your waist, a present, ever-pulsing rush of warmth. “I think my chest is bigger than yours.”

You flushed, a quick rush of crimson gracing your cheeks as you turned away. Zoro’s grip on your waist tightened, and a low laugh escaped the bottom of his throat. “That was mean,” you whined. Zoro’s other hand came up to your face, fingers pressing against the underside of your chin. He carefully angled your face down, so you couldn’t look anywhere but straight at him.

“It worked to calm you down, though,” he said easily. You were about to protest against the fact that you had been calm in the first place, but then Zoro was kissing you.

Zoro was a lot less aggressive than you’d originally expected, but as you sunk deeper into the kiss, it started to make sense. Zoro was all clean lines when he fought, practiced and perfect—no space for sloppy lines or scribbles. The way he kissed was similar; he applied pressure, but not too much pressure, and his thumb traced firm circles into the skin of your waist.

He angled your head with the hand firmly propped against your jaw, so you didn’t have to do a lot of the work—just press against his lips and move against the gentle rhythm he’d set. His teeth scraped carefully against your lower lip, and he tugged, letting a soft gasp out from your throat.

Zoro took the opportunity to pry your lips apart with his tongue, the fingers splayed against your chin coaxing your jaw open until he could slide his tongue against yours. You let out a soft whimper, hands scrambling to his shoulders and running along the muscles of his back. Of course you’d known he was well-built, but the firmness of his body forced another squeak out of you—one he was more than willing to swallow up.

Eventually, Zoro’s hand dropped from your jaw, skimming along your body line before coming to rest on the underside of one of your breasts. You gasped as he started to massage the skin with his thumb, accidentally biting down on his lower lip in the process. He groaned, the sound low as his rhythm sped up, the hand cupping your waist dropping down to your hip.

And then he was hoisting you up and onto his lap. “Oh my God,” you muttered, causing him to break away, eyes glinting with amusement.

“What?”

A heady rush had blossomed along your cheeks again. “Nothing. You.” Somewhere in the back of your head, you wondered how strong Zoro had to be to lift you off the ground so easily with only one arm—granted, it hadn’t been that far of a lift, but still. “Kiss me again.”

Zoro laughed but obeyed, his hand still working at your breast as the other dropped to your thigh. Your fingers interlaced with his short hair, tangling within the moss-green locks as his tongue ran along the ivories of your teeth. His teeth scraped against your lip as he moved away, lips instead following the line of your jaw and moving down to your neck.

You dropped your arm from his hair, hand pressing flat against his upper back. Zoro’s muscles flexed as he chased down your throat, and you sighed as he pressed gentle kisses along the line of your vein.

“Been—wanting to do this for a while,” Zoro panted between kisses, placing a final one kiss at the junction of your collarbone before glancing tentatively back up at you. You met his mouth in another kiss, a smile you hadn’t felt rising bright along your cheekbones.

“Me too,” you whispered, and a look of relief flashed across his face before he was ducking his head again to press more kisses along your neck. You let out a laugh—you could feel the rumble of his lips against the sound as it left your throat. Carefully, you ran your finger along his earrings, soft clinks filling the room at the action. “What was that? Did you think I didn’t?”

“Dunno,” Zoro muttered, and you laughed again before he nipped at your skin, teeth scratching in a gentle bite. At your chest, his hand squeezed your nipple, and you gasped.

“That was mean.”

“Mhm.” Zoro didn’t seem appeased, his kisses turning sloppier—open-mouthed, full of bite. He never pressed down hard enough to hurt, but your mouth was full of soft gasps and whines, and your hand had come down to clench against his bicep. God, his arms. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

You nudged him, meaning only for it to be a slight press. But Zoro let the action guide him, falling onto his back with you pressed against him, flat against the bed. He stilled, both hands dropping to your hips as he gaze lifted to drink you in.

You were certain you were a mess—blushing, lips probably swollen, bruise blossoms that would purple by morning scattered all along your neck. But the way he looked at you made it seem like you were all dolled up—like you were outfitted in a flowing gown, eyes sparkling and hair perfect instead of the mess it most undoubtedly was.

“You’re pretty,” he murmured, almost too quiet to hear. Actually, you were certain you weren’t supposed to hear it, because before you could respond, he was pulling you across him, fluidly rolling you onto your back. His forearm pressed against the mattress beside your head, caging you in. Zoro seemed to like this angle, moving down your neck to your chest with more gentle kisses.

You were content to let him take what he wanted, eyes not moving from his face as you watched his lips brush over your breast. His tongue was hot against your skin, and you sucked in a tight breath as he swirled it along your nipple. Zoro steadied you with a firm grasp, hand pressing against your side before pushing up to attend to the breast that his mouth wasn’t. You squirmed, a soft pool of warmth sitting in your lower belly as he worked. A tight knot had formed somewhere inside, and you let out a breathy gasp.

Zoro’s gaze traced lower, hand leaving your breast in favor of skidding down your figure to rest at the hand of your shorts. He paused, eyes flickering upwards to meet yours. Hastily, you nodded, and his fingers dipped below the cloth, head lowering to press another kiss by your hip bone. Your hands clenched against the bed sheets as his fingers skimmed the rim of your shorts, coaxing them down inch by inch before they finally slid down to your knees. You kicked them off insistently, and Zoro laughed, one hand coming to stroke your thigh as if to make you stop moving.

Even though you’d partly expected it, you hadn’t been ready for the soft kiss he pressed against your inner thigh. His hand hooked around the side of your panties, dragging them down as he kissed up your skin, and you took in a sharp breath that he wholly and entirely ignored. His movements became more insistent as you squirmed, open-mouth and biting, tongue darting out from between his lips to languidly swipe up your thigh. Finally he reached the junction of your thigh and core, mouth pressing a feather-light kiss that dragged an entirely shameful sound out from your throat.

Zoro pushed your panties all the way off your hips, letting them sit by your knees even as you squirmed to kick them off. “Shh,” he murmured, and you stopped, heart pounding as the sound sunk deep into your bloodstream. The tight knot in your lower belly had only grown tighter, and your breath caught in your throat as you watched Zoro, his eyes flickering all around your exposed core.

He ran a finger along the side of your slit, and you shuddered, watching as he experimentally traced it across your folds. He lowered his head to your hips, pressing a kiss onto your clit. You were barely able to suppress the buck of your hips as Zoro’s hand came to rest on your thigh, pinning you down as his other hand worked along your core.

His finger found your vagina, carefully sinking between your folds as his tongue worked languid circles around your clit. You let out a moan, voice stuttering against your throat as his finger slipped deeper inside you. It only took him a few moments to push another one in, the soft scrape of his cut fingernails eliciting sparks that drew another breathy moan out of you.

“Isn’t it a little—unfair that I’m the only one not wearing anything?” you managed out between breaths, and Zoro stopped his motions, head lifting and eyes glancing up at you from under his lashes. One of his eyebrows arched in question, and his lips were glossy with your fluids, causing your core to squeeze around his fingers. Somehow, he didn’t even seem to notice the motion.

“Oh, that’s what you want to focus on right now?” he murmured, all low and throaty. He always spoke low-pitched, vocal chords all brash and grating from the back of his throat, but his voice hummed even deeper now, although that didn’t seem humanly possible. Your muscles clenched again, and Zoro’s gaze dipped down to where his fingers were still pushed inside of you. He fluidly pressed in deeper, fingers curling inside your body before pulling out and working back in. Your retort was lost as you moaned again, the tight feeling of your gut slowly unwinding as he moved back and forth inside of you.

His mouth lowered to lick at your clit again, and you cried out, barely suppressing a scream as his fingers dug, more insistent, inside of you. He pressed one final kiss against your clit, and then sat back, eyes fixed on working at your core instead. His fingers pumped in and out, steady and fluid. Your breaths came out breathy and broken, climbing closer and closer to your climax until he finally reached the summit inside of you.

“Come,” Zoro whispered, the hand not taking care of you running reassuringly along your thigh. You came suddenly, hips stuttering from where’d they’d lifted off the mattress, a cry ripping out of your throat. Zoro slowly slipped his fingers out of you, rubbing soothing circles into your inner thigh as you ran out your climax. Your breaths evened out, becoming less deep, less frantic; Zoro watched all the while, a glossy shine over his eyes and the faintest of smiles pressed along his lips.

You tilted your gaze down to his face, catching him just as he started to move again. The fingers drenched in your fluids came up to his mouth, and he licked them clean. Your stomach dropped, somehow already turning you on despite having come just mere seconds beforehand.

“My turn,” Zoro said softly, sitting up to start unbuttoning his shirt. You hoisted yourself up, hands skimming along the sheets beside him, uncertain of whether he wanted you to touch. You glimpsed a stiff tent in his pants as he sat up, and swallowed hard, eyeing the pull with apprehension.

“Do you want me to—” you tried gesturing down to his hips, but he caught your hand swiftly, pressing it against the buttons of his shirt. “What do you want?”

“Sex,” Zoro said. Nothing else. You held back the choke that dared to escape your throat, and a sheepish grin crossed his face. It was lopsided, nearly a smirk, if not for the genuine warmth glimmering at his eyes. “Sorry. That was vague.”

“It’s okay,” you assured, stifling a laugh. Your hands worked fastidiously at his buttons. It took far longer than you felt it should’ve, fingers all clumsy as you tugged them through their holes, unlooping them from where it fixed the cloth together. Soon enough, though, Zoro was stripping the last of the fabric off, tossing it carelessly across the room before pulling you into another kiss.

He was sloppier now that you’d come, more comfortable in his element—you could taste the tang of yourself on his lips, and you let out a sigh, hands moving down his figure to work at his belt. He had to stop kissing you to tug at his pants, pushing them down his legs before finally kicking them off fully.

You ducked your head to press a kiss at his navel, eyes tracing the length that jutted out from his hips. Your breath caught, gaze fixed to a pale vein running up the line of his length. “Up,” Zoro murmured, and you glanced up. Zoro pressed a long kiss to your mouth, one hand skimming around your butt to pull you up by the headboard. He ran a hand over your core, as if to ascertain you were relaxed enough for him.

“Do you have anything for it?” he murmured, lips sending chills down your back as he pressed a soft kiss at your jaw.

“I’m on the pill, yeah,” you huffed out, arms winding around his torso. Zoro hummed his response, fingers running up and down your thigh as he adjusted, hips sliding against yours to meet your core.

You sucked in a breath, but he was gentle with it, pushing in slowly, hand running along your lower back and coaxing you still. The sensation sparked tingles all over your body; up your spine, along your hips, down your legs like Zoro was electricity himself. You let out a little sigh as he pushed up to his hilt into you, hips stuttering against his as you both paused for breath. He brushed a ghost of a kiss along your lips. “Okay?” Zoro murmured.

“Perfect,” you answered, arms clutching tighter around him, fingers digging into his back. You hoped it wasn’t too sharp, but considering how big Zoro was, it was likely he barely felt the pressure—the crescents of your fingernails were probably just pinpricks to him.

Zoro started moving, then, his actions soft and fluid at first, fingers pressing reassuring circles into your waist and hips. He was nearly tender with it, motions languid and slow, like he had all the time in the world. Your breaths came out easy, soft and just barely edging towards gasps.

He started thrusting with more insistence soon, though; Zoro’s hips bucked against yours, and your grip tightened along his shoulder blades as he pushed in and out of you. Soft gasps and whines left your throat, in stark contrast to the heavy groans and grunts that barely stuttered past Zoro’s lips.

“Like that,” you said, barely able to let out words of encouragement as he hit your sweet spot, buried deep inside of you. You let out a throaty moan as he moved faster and faster, thrusts becoming harder and more aggressive. You knocked your head back, one of your hands reaching to grab Zoro’s from where it propped him up by your head. He welcomed the invitation quickly, fingers interlacing with yours, coaxing your palm open into a kiss of your hands. His thrusts worked harder than ever, and you stopped chasing the friction, letting your hips buck up against his as he shoved into you.

A low groan erupted from his throat as he hit your spot again, mouth coming down to bite into your shoulder as he suppressed the cry that tore from his mouth. You swallowed, gasping hard for breath as you felt him come inside you, your walls clenching tight around him before you also felt the familiar burst of pressure. You let out a gasping moan, mind buzzing with sparks and tingles. Vaguely, you felt Zoro’s hand against your hip, moving up and down in calming strokes.

It took a moment for you both to recover, coming down from the blissful high after long seconds ticked by. Zoro removed his mouth from your shoulder, carefully prying his jaw off from your skin. He scrutinized the marks he’d left—crescents of teeth, undoubtedly—before lowering his head again to press an apologetic kiss to the bite. You laughed in surprise.

“I can be a gentleman,” Zoro protested lightly, though his words didn’t hold much of a fight as he carefully slid out of you. He did it slowly, inch by inch, leaving a hollow sensation in his wake when he eventually parted from you. “You okay?”

“Lovely,” you answered honestly, eyes grazing up his chest before meeting his. “You?”

“I’m good,” Zoro answered, a vague smile on his lips. It was soft, tender; maybe not as big as ones you’d seen when he was laughing with the crew, but special nonetheless. He studied you for a moment, and you took the opportunity to trace his face with your eyes. His pupils were blown, slowly receding back into small dots of shadow, and his lips were kissed red, swollen over and glossy with your saliva. “Want me to draw a bath?”

“No,” you said, content just to watch him like this. “We can clean up in the morning, it’s getting late.” You hesitated, suddenly uncertain, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “Unless�� you want to go?”

Zoro snorted. “No, I think I like it here,” he decided. He sat up, reaching to pull the blankets over your figure so the gooseflesh you hadn’t even noticed on your skin would subside. “Too tired to move, anyway. Might stay here forever.”

“Dramatic ass,” you mumbled, wrapping a hand around his wrist and tugging him closer to you. Zoro obeyed, sliding beside you, one arm moving to wrap around your waist. “Go to sleep, you big dummy.”

Zoro’s breath was light against the shell of your ear. “That was unwarranted.”

“Sleep,” you insisted, and Zoro huffed, reaching the arm that wasn’t around you to the nightstand. He flicked the lantern off, then turned back towards you, finally settling down. His lips pressed a soft kiss along your shoulder, and you smiled, your hand reaching down to meet where his was splayed along your belly.

“Good night,” you whispered.

“Night,” he mumbled back, the end of the word tapering off into a soft, tired breath. You could feel his chest move, up and down in a steady, soft rhythm. You buried your head into the crook of his arm, letting out a contented sigh before finally closing your eyes to drift off to sleep.

© halfvalid 2023

[callsigns-haze]

Meet and greet

Summary: Jake proudly introduces his daughter to the Dagger Squad in their unfinished San Diego home, where teasing and affection blend as they embrace her as part of their extended family.

Warning: Mild teasing, lighthearted banter, mentions of unfinished home construction, family bonding moments.

Word count: 1367 words

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x reader

English is not my first language so I apologies for mistakes

Could be read alone or as a one-shot of the little life universe

It was a warm, golden afternoon when you first stepped into the new house in San Diego. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a rich glow over everything it touched. The house itself was bathed in this soft light, a stark contrast to its cold, unfinished interior. The air outside still held a hint of autumn chill, but inside, the sun filtered through the uncovered windows, filling the empty rooms with a warmth that softened the raw edges of the place. The floor was bare, an expanse of concrete where future hardwood would eventually go. The walls were mostly drywall—some unfinished, others completely absent—revealing exposed beams and the skeletal structure of what would one day be your home. There were no countertops, no cabinetry, and aside from the few boxes scattered about, the place was still more of a construction zone than a liveable space.

But this was the first time you’d seen it. The first time you had walked through the front door with Ellie, who was four months old now, her tiny body resting in the crook of your arm. She stirred, her bright green eyes—Jake’s eyes—blinking sleepily in the dim light as she adjusted to the new surroundings. You cradled her closer, gently smoothing a lock of her fine blonde hair that had slipped out of place. She was curious but quiet, taking in the unfamiliar shapes and shadows around her, her small mouth slightly open in wonder.

“It's... a work in progress,” you said, your voice light but laced with amusement. You glanced over at Jake, raising an eyebrow, and the corner of your lips quirked into a smile.

Jake, standing a few steps behind you, shifted his weight with a sheepish grin. He rubbed the back of his neck in that familiar way he always did when he was trying to downplay something. “Yeah, it still needs some love. And, you know... counters. And walls.”

Your chuckle echoed faintly through the empty space. “More of a construction site than a house, Seresin,” you teased, shaking your head as you walked further into what was supposed to be the living room. The sunlight streamed in through the large windows on the far wall, casting long, golden streaks across the floor.

“I know, I know,” he said, his voice softening as he moved closer, his hand resting at the small of your back. “But I wanted you to see it.” He leaned in, his lips brushing the top of Ellie’s head in a tender kiss, and she gurgled softly in response, her little fingers curling and uncurling against your chest. “This is where we’ll be someday, when it’s all done,” Jake continued, his voice full of quiet promise. “Our home.”

The words hung between you for a moment, and you could feel the weight of them—what they meant. It wasn’t just about the house, but the life you were building together. You leaned into him slightly, your eyes drifting over the exposed beams and unfinished drywall, imagining what it would be like when the house was complete. You could already see the living room filled with furniture, the sound of Ellie’s laughter filling the space as she learned to walk, as she grew up.

But for now, it was just the three of you in this shell of a house, with boxes piled in random corners and dust settling in the sunlight. And yet, there was a certain magic in it, a sense of potential waiting to be realized.

“And I figured it was about time the squad met their favourite little girl,” Jake added, his grin widening as he pulled back slightly to meet your gaze. There was a twinkle in his eye, a mischievous light that reminded you of the playful, cocky man you had fallen for, but now softened by the weight of fatherhood.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound escaping before you could stop it. “Oh God, I can only imagine the teasing that's coming,” you said, shaking your head.

As if on cue, the unmistakable sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway reached your ears. You turned toward the front of the house just as several cars pulled up in quick succession. A few moments later, the door creaked open, and in they came—like a whirlwind. Rooster was the first through the door, his aviators still perched on his nose, even though the sun was beginning to set. He was followed by Phoenix, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, with Payback and Fanboy right behind her. Coyote lingered at the back, his easy grin already in place, knowing exactly what was about to unfold.

Phoenix was the first to speak, her eyes immediately landing on Ellie, who was still nestled against your chest, her head resting on your shoulder. “Well, well, if it isn’t the famous Ellie Seresin!” she said, her voice laced with mock surprise as she crossed the room in a few quick strides. She reached Jake first, giving him a playful shove. “I still can’t believe Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin has a daughter. The world is officially upside down.”

Ellie blinked up at Phoenix, her big green eyes wide with curiosity, her little mouth forming a small ‘o’ as she tried to make sense of this new face. She kicked her legs slightly, the fabric of her tiny onesie bunching up around her chubby thighs.

“She’s got his eyes,” Rooster chimed in, coming up behind Phoenix, a grin already spreading across his face. “But thank God she doesn’t have his attitude.”

Jake groaned, rolling his eyes but clearly expecting the jab. “Can’t you just be nice for once?”

“Nope,” Phoenix said with a smirk, leaning down to coo at Ellie. “This is payback for every time you’ve called me slow or trash-talked me in the air.”

Fanboy and Payback joined in, their laughter filling the empty space. “Seriously, Jake,” Payback said, chuckling as Ellie let out a small yawn, “I thought you’d be a terrible influence on a kid. But look at her—she’s perfect.”

Jake, his face flushed with a mix of pride and exasperation, shook his head. “I must be doing something right, then.”

“Or maybe YN’s the one keeping you in line,” Coyote piped up from the back, his grin wide and knowing. He had always been the one to see through Jake’s bravado, the only one who truly understood how much fatherhood had softened him, how much Ellie had changed him.

As the squad continued their good-natured ribbing, each of them took turns getting closer to Ellie, their teasing gradually shifting into softer, more affectionate tones. Rooster ran a gentle finger along the back of her tiny hand, his expression uncharacteristically tender. Phoenix kept making little cooing noises that made Ellie blink and smile, her toothless grin brightening the entire room.

“I gotta say,” Phoenix said eventually, straightening up and crossing her arms as she looked between you and Jake, “I never thought I’d see the day when Jake Seresin would be this soft. But here we are.”

Jake, always one to play it cool, shrugged, though the smirk on his face was undeniable. “What can I say? She’s got me wrapped around her finger.”

“She sure does,” Rooster agreed, grinning. “But don’t think this means we’re going easy on you in the air.”

The banter carried on, with the squad teasing Jake mercilessly, but beneath it all, there was a palpable sense of admiration, even love. They might have been a bunch of rowdy aviators, but in this moment, they were family. And Ellie, despite being so small, was already the centre of it all.

Eventually, Ellie dozed off in your arms, her tiny fist clutching at the fabric of your shirt as her breathing deepened. The noise of the room faded into the background, and you leaned against one of the unfinished walls, watching as Jake stood in the middle of the squad, a proud father, surrounded by the people who had been through so much with him.

In that moment, the house—still raw, still unfinished—felt like home. Not because of the walls or the counters or the floors, but because of the people inside it.

If you'd like to be tagged let me know!

[wordsofwhimsy]

Power Play ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Pairing: Omni-Mark x f!CEO!Reader

Warnings: None

Genres: Fem!Dom budding romantic adventure (what a description lmao)

Word Count: 1330

Synopsis: Omni-Mark thought he was the superior being in any room he entered, that is until he met you.

Inspiration: “I’m Sprung” – T-Pain

a/n: when i tell y’all i am strugglinggg with the next part for Shattered Affections i feel like my brain is going to melt out of my ears. so i had to take a break from it and write something quick & fun instead

Omni-Mark always prided himself on being the epitome of control. Super strength, near invulnerability, the kind of cool and collected confidence that made people look twice. Yet, despite all of that, there was one thing that had him completely off-balance: you.

He’d seen you before, of course. Your sleek, perfectly tailored suits, the way you commanded attention with nothing more than a look, a sharp word, or the sheer force of your presence. As CEO of the most powerful tech conglomerate in the world, you were a woman who didn’t need to ask for respect – it was given, the moment you entered a room.

But Omni-Mark wasn’t just mesmerized by the way you carried yourself. No. What had him sprung was how effortlessly you seemed to break through all the walls he'd so carefully built around himself. It wasn’t just your power or authority. It was the way you saw him – like he was more than just a suit of armor and raw power. You didn’t need saving, but you saw him, and that made him feel something he couldn’t even begin to describe.

He still remembered the first time you’d asked him to meet. The corporate event at the annual tech summit. He’d been there, of course, his presence always required when heroes and villains needed to play nice for the sake of business. But that night, when you’d extended your hand to him with a smile that was both knowing and curious, something inside him had snapped.

“Invincible, right?” Your voice had been smooth, rich with a slight but powerful edge. It made his name sound like a compliment, like you knew the weight of it.

"Yes," he’d said, his throat suddenly dry. "Nice to meet you, uh... Miss Y/L/N." He stumbled over the words, heart hammering in his chest.

But you hadn’t let that fluster you. Instead, you leaned in a little closer, as if you were truly interested, and he swore he could feel the heat of your gaze sink into him. “I like what I see,” you had said, barely above a whisper. “I think we could make a lot of things happen together.”

Make a lot of things happen. A simple phrase, but one that had played over and over in his mind ever since. He’d seen countless powerful people come and go, but none had ever made him feel like you did.

It was stupid, really. He was a viltrumite. Strong. Unstoppable. And yet, every time he saw you, he felt a little weaker in the knees, his control slipping away like sand through his fingers.

—

Tonight was no different. He’d just left a fight—one that had left his body aching, his mind scattered. But when you texted him to meet at your office for a "quick chat," it was as though all that mattered was getting to you. You had a way of making everything else irrelevant.

His flight through the sky was sharp, clean, his usual speed, but his mind raced at a different pace. What was he even doing? He was superhuman. Yet, all he could think of was the way you looked in that black pencil skirt earlier today. The way your heels clicked with authority as you walked through your skyscraper. And the way you spoke to him when no one else was around—soft, but no less commanding.

When he arrived, he touched down in front of the glass building. His stomach flipped at the sight of the towering structure, where everything seemed to be in its place, and yet somehow, the only thing that truly made him feel grounded was you.

The elevator ride up was quick, his mind swirling. He wasn’t sure what to expect from tonight. Maybe another conversation that would leave him tangled in his own thoughts, or maybe, just maybe, something more.

The doors slid open, and there you were, waiting for him in your office. The blinds were pulled back, and the night’s skyline sprawled out beneath you. You looked every bit the CEO—cool, collected, in control. But there was something in your eyes as they met his that made his breath catch.

“Mark,” you said, standing from your desk with a slow, deliberate movement. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

He couldn’t help but smirk, the tension between them thickening. “You call, I come. That’s the deal, remember?”

A small, amused smile danced across your lips, but it was the glint in your eyes that got him. You were testing him. Pushing his boundaries, like you always did. And for all his strength and invulnerability, he found himself falling deeper into the trap.

You stepped closer, a move so confident it left him breathless. “You’re always so serious, Mark. Don’t you ever just let go?”

Your words hung in the air, daring him to admit what he already knew: that the stoic mask he wore was slipping, and it was because of you. He was trying to keep his composure, but you were already too close, your perfume an intoxicating blend of power and elegance. It clouded his senses, and he swallowed hard, unsure how to respond.

“I… I don’t know if I can let go,” he finally admitted, voice low, strained. “But you make it hard not to try.”

Your smile widened, satisfaction lighting your face. “That’s the idea, Mark.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause, the air between you thick. Your gaze softened, and he found himself mesmerized by the way you looked at him, like you truly saw him—beyond the hero, beyond the mask. It made his heart beat a little faster.

He knew the risks. He knew how easily things could go wrong. But right now, with you standing in front of him, there was only one thing on his mind.

You stepped closer to him, eyeing him evenly for a moment before gesturing to the chair across from you.

“Sit,” you commanded, your voice cool and unwavering.

Mark’s eyes flickered to the chair, his stoic expression momentarily shifting as if weighing the command. But he didn’t resist. He simply lowered himself into the seat, every muscle in his body tense yet still, as if awaiting the next move.

You paced around him, slow and deliberate, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each step. The sound echoed around the room, and you couldn’t help but enjoy the way he was already reacting to your presence. His gaze tracked you as you moved, his breathing shallow, betraying just how much control you had over him without even touching him.

You circled him a few times, each lap making him more and more aware of the power you wielded. The tension in his shoulders, the slight clenching of his jaw—it was all confirmation that you had him right where you wanted him.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you stopped in front of him. You stood there for a moment, your eyes locking with his. And without breaking your gaze, you lifted your foot and placed it in his lap, delicately at first to gauge his reaction before pressing harder into his crotch.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, knuckles white, but there was no fight in him. No resistance. Only the mild hint of a groan being suppressed in his throat.

“Good boy,” you whispered, your lips curling into a satisfied smile. The words were simple, but they were enough to make his heart race. You could see it in his eyes now—the realization that he was completely under your control.

“You’re mine now,” you added softly, the power of those words settling between you both, unspoken yet undeniable. And with that, you knew for sure that Invincible, the powerful and stoic hero, had become your willing captive, and he wouldn’t fight it. Not now, not ever. And your fun with your new toy was only just getting started.

[r3starttt]

OMGGG CAN YOU PLEASEEEEEE DO A CAITLYN X KINDA STONISH READER???I mean like reader isnt swayed by much she's straight postured and all that fancy stuff ykwim??? BUT cait is down BADDD. IDK IK IT'S KINDA WEIRD BUT PLEASE

CW: Mean? reader. Spitting, degrading, fingering. Both Caitlyn and reader are so kinky... yum

It began, as many things do in Piltover, within the walls of the Council chamber.

You're always there. Immaculate. Silent unless prompted—and even then, your words are chosen with such care and such discipline, it’s as though each syllable has been practiced before being offered aloud.

To Caitlyn, you never falter, never lean back in your seat, never shift in discomfort. Not even when Ambessa Medarda looks at you and you only when talking.

Your back remains straight. Your hands folded. And yet—somehow—Caitlyn knows you are not a passive observer. You are not aligned with Ambessa’s ruthlessness, nor are you indifferent to the plight of the undercity.

And it drives Caitlyn mad.

Because you never react. Not to the chaos in Zaun, not to the mention of Jinx’s latest attack, not even when Caitlyn is officially appointed to lead a task force beneath the Council’s eye. You do not flinch. Do not nod. Do not smile. You only look at her. Quietly. As if you were already aware it would happen.

Gods, it’s infuriating—how deeply she wants to see you waver. How badly she wants to lean across the long table and ask, plainly:

Why are you here? Why do you care?

Who taught you such obedience? Who made you so composed?

You are not heartless. You are just... practiced. Walled-in.

And Caitlyn, gods help her, cannot stop looking.

One day, she sees you reviewing reports. Rain taps against the windows in a soft, persistent rhythm. You do not look up when she approaches—at least not immediately.

Just as she opens her mouth to speak, you cut her off, voice smooth and quiet.

“Is there something you need, Kiramman?”

Her breath catches, just slightly. She steps closer, the clink of her uniform boots echoing in the chamber. “Only your opinion,” she replies, tone lighter than she feels.

You hum. Not quite a dismissal. Just a note of acknowledgment, and then you return to your papers. As if she had not spoken at all.

But Caitlyn isn’t deterred. She places the folder down on your desk, flipping it open to her proposal. It’s detailed, structured. Everything you usually admire. But tonight, she is looking for something more than approval.

She wants to see what you think.

“You do know your mother—” you begin, eyes flicking toward her.

“I do,” Caitlyn interrupts quickly. Her voice is a little sharper than intended. Defensive. She hates how small she feels under your scrutiny.

“Then may I ask,” you continue, your tone calm but edged with something near condescension, “what makes you believe deploying such volatile compounds would lead to Jinx’s capture rather than the death of more innocents?”

It is the first time anyone has spoken to her like that. Untouched.

“What do you suggest I do instead?” she shoots back, stepping closer to your desk, hands pressing into its surface as though her weight alone could crack your composure.

But you’ve seen Caitlyn before she wore that uniform. Before tragedy reshaped her innocence. You know she isn’t cruel. You know she doesn’t strike unless cornered.

So you do not rise to meet her tension.

You settle on a nearby couch. You cross your legs. Fold your hands in your lap. Like a portrait come to life.

“I suggest,” you say, voice as even as ever, “you think before you act.”

The silence stretches.

“Excuse me?” Caitlyn’s voice is louder now, incredulous. Offended. Her heels strike the floor as she follows you, her posture squared, arms crossing tightly across her chest. She stops a few paces from you—hovering and praying she can scare you like she does with the rest—one foot turned out, hips angled in defiance.

You tilt your chin up to look at her. Still.

“You’re better than this,” you say softly. “Don’t you agree?”

Caitlyn doesn’t answer immediately. She just looks at you—searching your face for the familiar scorn of the other councilors, or for mockery, or even pity. But there’s nothing. Only the gentle weight of your gaze and silent breath.

“I… believe,” you begin again, and for the first time, Caitlyn hears a hesitation behind your words, the care in their crafting. You do not speak lightly. You measure truth.

“You’re blinded by your heart,” you continue. “All the grief you carry—it’s steering you into fire. If you came here for a stamp of approval, you won’t find it in me. I don’t nod for the sake of comfort, Caitlyn.”

You stop. Let the air settle.

She’s frowning now, brows drawn together, jaw clenched like she’s tasting something she doesn’t like—but isn’t sure how to spit out.

Because no one talks to her like this. And yet… she doesn’t hate it. Not from you.

To Caitlyn, it feels like you’re speaking another language. One she doesn’t know—but desperately wants to learn.

“I think you’re smarter than that. Which is why this—” you nod faintly toward the folder on the desk “—disappoints me.”

Caitlyn stares. And for a moment, she says nothing.

“You want to be justified." It lands sharp.

She laughs. Once. It’s bitter and soft and slips from her lips before she can stop it. “I do not."

“We need a leader who doesn’t confuse rage with reason.”

It's not the way you say it, but the words that drive Caitlyn to the edge of something reckless. She wants to hurt you now.

Your eyes meet, and everything else—your titles, your uniforms, the city burning below you—falls away. There is nothing polite left in the space between you. Only tension. Only a quiet ache of two people who cannot stand one another—because neither will break first.

“You’re not any better than I am,” Caitlyn murmurs.

“And you’re not so clever,” you reply, like it’s the last line in a chess match she’s just lost.

She steps closer. You remain still, but your breath catches—just slightly. Enough for her to notice.

“You’re ridiculous.” For the first time, your words come out in a stutter. And you stand up, walking closer to her.

She breathes out a short, helpless laugh. It stops the second your fingers caress the fabric of her uniform, from her shoulders up her neck. Your nails fidgeting with the red collar, undoing the rest with your other hand, like you knew how the uniform worked– where was a button, how to undo it.

"Won't you say anything?" Your tone mocking her quietness, the way her eyes simply widened and looked at you like she had been waiting. And she had, sliding her hand between her legs and bitting her pillow at the thought of you. Because unlike any other woman that has slept in her bed, you weren't easy to get and you didn't want Caitlyn enough for her to use you.

Maybe it was karma.

And maybe this was her one time to be used instead.

"You're a smart woman, Kiramman." Your fingertips traced the outline of her beasts as her uniform fell on her sides. Her skin soft and cold, just like you'd imagined.

From what you could see she was already breathing heavily, hand aching as she doubted what to do with them– with you.

"Wearing this and coming to my office..." Her eyes met yours. Cheeks slightly flushed at your words and the truth they held. She had done this on purpose.

Caitlyn is a smart woman.

"What did you expect? mhm?" You insisted again, tracing a path down her stomach. "What do you want me to do?"

The words came before a quiet hum from both of you. Caitlyn didn't know what to do.

Being honest? she wanted anything. A kiss, a touch, just this. She was beyond willing to take anything you were about to give her.

This was the exchange she was looking for.

So she didn't hesitate–between silent and too heavy breaths–to lean forward and cup your neck.

The kiss was messy and sloppy and she couldn't resist herself for once.

You felt her moans against you. Soft and quiet at first until you slid your hand under her tight pants.

No warning, no questioning.

"Yeah?" you almost laughed at her in between kisses, rubbing small circles on her damped clit.

Her lacy black bra shinning every time you opened your eyes, begging for your hands to properly touch the skin she was offering so eagerly.

"Take it off." You commanded, and Caitlyn–for once–obeyed. No hesitation.

Her skin was glowing, so soft and just perfect like Caitlyn herself was every single time.

Her clothes and bra fell to the floor, somewhere near. And you stared, not with lust or at least not an explicit face. Just eyes tracing paths on her skin.

"Get on your knees." And she did. Her hands around your knees as you sat on your desk. "Open."

Her tongue slipped out from her lips a little, looking up before taking your spit. The thin hair covering her face being moved behind her ear as you cupped her face. Thumbs on cheeks and then lips, nodding in approval. "Good girl."

Who would've thought this was the way to make Commander Kiramman herself so quiet and obedient for once in her life?

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight

[greengoblinswifey]

Blessed Are The Tempted—Father Charlie Mayhew x Fem!Reader

summary— after partially denouncing your faith, you decide to make one last trip to see if you could feel a connection to it and God. all you left feeling was your new God’s cum deep inside you. based on this request.

warnings— sacrilege, blasphemy, father kink, daddy kink, Charlie being praised/referred to as God, objectification, ass slapping, mentions of bruises and welts, choking, face slapping, hair pulling, face fucking, fingering, spitting degrading kink, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink.

a/n— took a break from being depressed over finals to write this! working on the other requests so enjoy this while i take my time <3

The night was heavy, and your heels clicked loudly as you walked toward the church. Clad in a black skirt and a long black coat covering your bare skin underneath, your goth aesthetic stood out against the backdrop of the ancient stone structure. The heels you wore were intricately designed, each one featuring a subtle cross etched into the side—a nod to the symbolism that had always intrigued you, even if you’d long since stopped believing.

As you approached the church, you noticed how still the world felt. There was something almost reverent about the emptiness, the silence that wrapped itself around the tall, pointed spires. You hadn’t been here in ages. The heavy wooden door creaked as you pushed it open, the scent of incense lingering in the air, mixed with something else, something familiar.

You had called earlier, and the voice on the other end had been low, almost too smooth—Charlie. It stirred something in you, a curiosity, a feeling you hadn’t realized you missed. That’s why you were here now—one last chance to feel something, anything, before you walked away forever.

As you stepped inside, the cool air embraced you. You walked down the aisle, your heels making soft but deliberate sounds on the stone floor. Every step felt deliberate, as if you were walking toward a decision you hadn’t fully made yet.

And then you saw him. Father Charlie, standing at the altar, watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His eyes followed you as you walked closer, and you could feel the weight of his gaze—the same way you could feel the weight of everything that had led you here tonight.

“You came,” he said, his voice smooth, but with an edge of something else you couldn’t place. There was no judgment in his tone, just an acknowledgment of your presence, and something about that made you feel strangely seen.

“I did,” you said, standing just a few feet away from him now. The silence between you was heavy, but it was comfortable, as if you both knew there was something unspoken between you—something that neither of you were quite ready to voice.

You couldn’t ignore the way his eyes lingered on your attire, how they traced the lines of your outfit, the crosses that hung from your neck. His gaze softened just slightly, and for a moment, you saw the human side of the man who had been your confessor.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he admitted quietly, taking a step closer. His voice lowered as if he didn’t want to disturb the sacred silence of the church. “What made you change your mind?”

You hesitated for a moment, looking up at him through your lashes, feeling the pull of something you couldn’t quite name.

“I wanted to feel something,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, but he heard it. His eyes flashed with something—maybe understanding, maybe surprise.

He nodded slowly and for a moment, you both stood there, suspended in time. Then, as if pulling back from the edge of something, he stepped away, but not before giving you one last look—one that left a mark on you, something you couldn’t shake off.

“Whatever you need, it’s here,” he said quietly, his voice almost a promise.

You weren’t sure if you believed him, but for now, you didn’t have to.

The church was quiet, except for the soft rustling of the pages as Father Charlie read aloud from the Bible. His voice echoed through the empty pews, each word heavy with the weight of ancient teachings. Your all-black attire, with its gothic undertones, felt almost out of place here, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that this place, this moment, was meant to answer something inside you.

Father Charlie’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” he read, his eyes drifting up to meet yours. There was a tension in the air, an almost unspoken connection that lingered between you.

You tilted your head, stepping forward into the dim light. “Temptation,” you said softly, your voice playful yet tinged with a hint of challenge. “So, blessed are the pure, huh? What about those who are tempted? Are they blessed too? Or is that only for the pure?”

He faltered, his gaze dropping slightly as he shifted uncomfortably. You could see the internal battle in his eyes, but he said nothing.

The silence hung heavy between you as you stepped closer. “You preach about purity and grace, but what does it really mean?” you continued. “Does the flesh have no place in this kingdom you speak of? Or is it something man-made to make us feel something?” Your voice had dropped, the edge now sharp and questioning.

Father Charlie didn’t answer. His eyes were focused on the Bible in his hands, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly. He was struggling—his faith, his beliefs, they all seemed to waver under your gaze. And that realization hit you hard. There was nothing here for you. The words he spoke, the symbols of faith, they meant little to you now. They were just constructs, meant to give people a sense of purpose, but you felt nothing.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, and you shook your head. “You’re pathetic,” you muttered under your breath, your gaze moving past him. “This is all just a game, a way to make people feel like they’re in control when they’re not. You should know that.”

Father Charlie’s jaw clenched, his breath catching in his throat. “Not in the house of God,” he said, his voice low, filled with a mix of anger and frustration.

You took a step forward, your black coat sweeping around you as you moved. You could feel the tension building, the confrontation nearing its peak. You caught his gaze again, daring him to say more. “House of who?” you whispered, a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “What is He going to do about it?”

The space between you seemed to stretch, and in that moment, you knew. The boundary he had drawn, the one he believed in so firmly, meant nothing to you. You had turned away from it long ago, and now, it seemed almost laughable that he still clung to it.

The silence was thick, and for a moment, you both simply stood there, facing each other. You didn’t need this place, nor the beliefs that it offered. Father Charlie seemed to sense that, his expression darkening as the tension between you only deepened. But you no longer cared. You had found your truth, and it didn’t belong here. Not in this church, not in this faith. It made what you craved to do all the more daunting.

Slowly, with his eyes on you, you pulled your coat, revealing your bare skin underneath, your nipples only covered by a chain. The rosary hanging around your neck was a stark contrast to the sinful act you’d just committed.

In a blur of frustration and fury, he grabbed you by the hair, pulling you down to your knees on the cold marble floor. His voice was sharp as he demanded, “Confess. Beg for forgiveness for your blasphemy and sexual immorality.”

But you only smirked up at him, defiant. “Pathetic,” you muttered, the word cutting through the air like a blade.

His fingers tightened in your curls, and his face was a mixture of conflict and control. “You’re playing with fire,” he warned, his voice a low growl. “Repent, or you’ll burn.”

“I don’t have time for your fairytales, I’ll be doing no such thing, Father,” you chuckled, looking up at him with big doe eyes, “but I’d bet having a holy man like you all over me would make me holy too.”

“I rebuke the spirit of Jezebel inside you,” he bellowed.

You laughed, voice thick with mockery, “fuck it out of me, make me holy, Father.”

That was it, Father Charlie had enough. He grabbed you by the curls, pulling you to the sacred chair he would sit in during the sermons you’d come to for just five minutes max. He plopped down, frantically fumbling with his pants and belt.

“I only hope God will forgive me for what I’m about to do—no, He will. Blessed are the tempted,” he muttered, looking to the cross above him.

Your eyes panned to how hard and thick he was. But you knew you could take him, you’d show him just how good temptation felt. You’d have him crawling back for more. He was already aching for you, though the battle within himself did not waver.

The priest groaned as he shoved you onto his leaking cock, immediately hitting the back of your throat and making you gag. “That’s right bitch, gag on it. This is what you wanted. This is what you get for being a temptress,” he groaned.

You moaned, doing your best to drag your tongue along his shaft as he used your hair to glide along it. He was not going easy on you, you knew he was trying to break you. Little did he know, you couldn’t be broken, this was what you wanted.

He moved you to his balls, looking down at you with dark eyes as you took the sacks into your mouth then continued your assault on his shaft. As he went back to fucking your throat, you made sure your eyes were on him so he could see how he had you. Eyes teary, black mascara running down your cheeks, salvia and pre cum running down your chin and onto your boobs. You were completely at his mercy.

“Disgusting whore,” he moaned, as you spat onto his cock then glided your tongue over every inch of him, “y-you’re really enjoying this.”

“Mm— tell me more, tell me I’m your dirty bitch,” you pleaded.

“Fuck, you’re my dirty bitch, you’re my cock sucking bitch,” he gasped, bucking his hips as he was practically down your throat.

You suctioned your lips around him tightly, feeling the way he throbbed under the touch of your soft hands squeezing his balls. They tightened as he tipped his head back, staring up at the cross and you could feel how close he was.

“Cum for me daddy,” you moaned, bobbing your head as your dark eyes pierced into at him.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped at the nickname you gave him.

He couldn’t hold back even if he tried, as you deep throated him, his warm seed spurted down your throat, his cock throbbing. He held you down onto him, your nose touching his pubic hair as you savored the taste of the holy man’s cum you had just swallowed.

No amount of post nut clarity could prevent him from aching for more. As he stared down at you on your knees for him, he knew he needed more. This wasn’t sinful—blessed were the tempted. Right?

You shrugged off your coat and the jewelry covering your nipples and pulled down your skirt, heat rippling through your body as Charlie’s eyes raked over your figure. Left in only your thigh high stockings and your cross heels, you sat on Charlie’s lap, your back facing him.

His hand instinctively went to wrap around your throat, while the other groped you, roughly. “I should have you stoned to death for what you’re doing to me,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll see you in hell when your time comes,” you retorted.

Your wit didn’t last long as you felt two of his fingers plunge into you, and his hand tightened around your throat.

“Yes daddy, finger fuck me in front of the altar,” you moaned.

His hand snapped across your cheek, causing your head to whip to the side. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

You squirmed against him, feeling how his fingers stretched your walls. The sound of your wet pussy shamelessly filled the church causing pure desire to swell inside you. You were defiling this sacred space and this sacred man, the thought made your pussy even wetter.

“Look at you, look at what you’re forcing me to do to you,” Charlie sneered into your ear.

“If that’s what you tell yourself,” you chucked, earning another slap across the face.

“Fucking whore, your pussy is leaking all over the chair,” he uttered.

His thumb circled your clit roughly as his other fingers curled inside you, toying with the spongy spot that had you screaming his title.

“Fuck— Father. Faster, harder, make me cum,” you moaned, your head dropping to his shoulder.

His fingers thrusted into you faster and his hand gripped your neck so tight, you couldn’t breathe. “Take it bitch, this is what you wanted. This is what whores like you get.”

His efforts became too much and your body arched in his lap as your orgasm came crashing down. Your fluids spurted from your pussy, coating the floor the congregation would kneel on to pray. Charlie continued rubbing your clit, drawing every sound and every drop of your cum out of you.

“That’s a good little whore, that’s all you’re good for, being used like you’re nothing,” he cooed.

He brought his shaky fingers up to his lips, sucking your juices. “How can a slut like you taste like Heaven?”

“It’s my blessing and your curse.”

Charlie held your body against him as he stood from the chair then he laid you down, shoving your face into the floor while your upper body was still pressed against him. He sat back down, slightly leaning over as he admired your body in an uncomfortable position all for his pleasure.

“I don’t care if you’re in pain, you’re going to take whatever I give you and you’re going to praise me like I’m your God,” he bellowed, “you’ve denounced Catholicism and now you will worship me.”

His grip on your hips was bruising, surely to leave dark bruises when he was finished with you. A gasp left your lips as he slammed into you, pulling you onto his cock at the same time.

“Thank you Father, I— I worship you and praise you for everything you do to me,” you moaned.

You felt his cock throb inside you at your words. Hell would definitely be his resting place. You held up your body by your hands as Charlie slid in and out of you like an animal. He slapped your ass, welts slowly beginning to form as he moaned at the sight of his shaft being covered in your cream.

“That feels so good daddy, please. Hit me again, I’m just your servant, a vessel for you to use and fuck,” you cried.

“That’s right bitch, you’re nothing. You.are.nothing,” he growled, each word emphasized by a hard thrust into you and slaps on your ass.

You did your best to bounce on his cock as you felt the lingering stings from his hand coming down on you.

“Your ass looks so much better getting all marked up from my hand,” he chuckled, his hips snapping to meet you even faster.

All you could do was moan, your pussy fluttering around his length from how wrong it was to have him defile you in his church.

“Daddy, I— I’m gonna cum,” you cried, “please let me cum, oh God, my God, please let me cum.”

“Cum all over your God’s cock,” he muttered, his hand coming down on your ass with a stinging smack.

You shuddered underneath him, your pussy twitching as your orgasm overtook you. He reached under, rubbing circles on your clit as you squirmed and thanked him for giving you permission to cum.

As soon as you came down from your high, he pulled you up by your curls and shoved you into the seat to take his position.

“Spread your fucking legs whore, I know it’s what you do best.”

Who were you to disobey your God? You spread your legs for him, each hanging over the arm of the chair and he watched in awe as your fluids glistened on your pussy, leaking to your asshole and your thigh highs smeared.

His hand slipped around your throat and he thrusted into you harshly, giving you no time to adjust to his size in this new position. You cried out, struggling to breathe and take his assault on you.

“Shut the fuck up, this is what you wanted, you’re an object and a whore, so you will be treated as such,” he groaned, squeezing your throat tighter.

You wanted to be obedient and so, you spread your legs even wider, giving him free rein to tear your pussy apart.

“T-thank you Father, thank you for fucking me,” you stammered.

He moaned, watching his thick cock disappear inside you and seeing the outline of himself moving in your belly.

“Only your God can be this deep inside you, slut,” he laughed in mockery.

He pressed his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling as he pounded into you harshly. The sound of shameless skin slapping filled the church and you could already feel the coil in your abdomen tighten.

“Shit, I can feel your wet pussy tightening around me, beg me to cum,” he muttered, still fucking into you, “beg your God to cum.”

“Please daddy, please God, I just want to be a good slut for you, please let me cum,” you begged, your eyes pleading.

He slapped the heavy tip on your clit and that was all it took for your juices to begin squirting all over him as your orgasm came down upon you. Your pussy twitched and he leaned down, sucking as you squirted then squeezed your jaw open to spit it into your mouth.

“Swallow it like a good slut.” You did as you were instructed to then stuck out your tongue, revealing to Charlie that you could be an obedient servant for him.

His hand was tangled in your curls again as he dragged you, pulling you off the chair and taking your position.

“Ride me. Ride my cock and show me how much you worship me,” he demanded.

Eager to please, you straddled him, making sure your legs were on either side of the chair, your heels clinking against it as you left your pussy at the mercy of his cock.

His hand snaked around your throat, gripping harshly as you slowly sank onto him. The new position made you feel as though he would rip you apart but you dared not to say anything. You just wanted to show him how obedient you could be to your God.

You lifted your body, gliding roughly up and down his cock while he thrusted up into you, increasing your pleasure.

“I love your cock, oh God, I love it so much, it’s so perfect, you’re so perfect,” you whimpered, as he continuously slammed into your cervix and the sweet spot inside you all at once.

“That’s it bitch, I’m your perfect God, all for you to worship and be used by.”

Your head fell forward on his shoulder, your pussy still grinding and bouncing on him but he pushed you back and slapped you hard across the cheek.

“You’re going to look at your God while he fucks you, keep your fucking head up,” he growled.

“Yes daddy, anything for you,” you croaked out.

Your heart and pussy fluttered as he smiled at you, his rough pace not faltering as he met your bounces with harsh thrusts. With his hand still around your neck, he leaned down, swirling his tongue around your hardened nipples. You arched into him, grinding on his cock and giving your clit the attention it ached for as he continued increasing your pleasure.

You could feel how Charlie throbbed and twitched inside you, he was just as close as you were.

“Daddy, please cum with me, please breed me,” you begged, “let’s make the anti-christ.”

Charlie’s jaw fell agape at your filthy words, breathy moans leaving his lips and he pounded into you hard, chasing his orgasm.

Your pace faltered but his didn’t and you cried out as you pussy creamed and squirted all over his cock. His orgasm followed and he held you down onto him, ropes of his warm load spurting deep inside you, surely to impregnate you and create the anti-christ you so desperately wanted to mother.

His forehead pressed against yours and you stared into each other’s eyes as you came.

“Thank you Father, thank you God for using me.”

[v6quewrlds]

Need more of Wifey calling Joe a good boy 😌

author's note⠀⁎⠀feral!joey inspired by this concept.

read more⠀⁎⠀joe burrow masterlist / series masterlist.

Primary colored magnets sealed to the stainless steel fridge were accompanied with the subtle gleam of golden stickers placed in an assortment of orientations on the laminated schedule. Delanie's scribbled suns and Caleb's lopsided stick figures brought a smile to her lips, despite the exhaustion that threatened to pull her features into a tired yawn. With the kids now picked up by their parents, she surveyed the kitchen, a silent sigh of relief escaping her as the chaos of the weekend retreated with their giggles.

"Thank you for the help, babe," she breathed out, turning to Joe. His tall frame was slightly hunched over, placing dishes into the dishwasher. "I could tell they had a blast."

Joe looked up, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It wasn't so bad," he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "They're structured. Your sister did good with the schedule. I might steal that idea."

She laughed, crossing the kitchen to join him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek to his broad back. "Steal it for yourself?" she questioned, her hands sneaking underneath the fabric of his plain white tee to feel his skin under her palms. He flinched from the cold touch, but his body quickly warmed against hers. "Or are you planning to fill our weekends with chores and TV bribery?"

Joe muttered, "Cold ass hands," under his breath, reaching to interlock his fingers with hers, bringing them closer to his warmth. "Just for the future. Might come in handy one day," he hummed before turning to face her, his eyes fully taking her in for the first time that day. "I wouldn't mind implementing the gold stars now, though," he added, a bright smile playing across his face as his eyes flicked to the stickers on the fridge.

"Oh, you liked the gold stars?" Their hands remained intertwined as she stepped closer. "Maybe we should start a rewards system of our own."

Joe's eyes lit up, the playful interest in them unmistakable. "I'm listening."

The sticker page lay just behind Joe's head. She reached over to pluck a shiny gold star from it. "You were so good this weekend. Such a good boy," she delicately placed the star on his cheek, smoothing it over with her thumb. His eyes grew wide, a blush creeping up his neck as she leaned in to give him a soft kiss over the glittery token. "The best boy." She added lightly, almost flippantly.

He stood frozen for a moment, swallowing thickly as he felt heat spread from his cheeks to the rest of his body. She began to turn to leave the kitchen, her mind having already shifted to the next task, but Joe had other ideas.

His grip on her hand tightened, gently yanking her back toward him. He reached to shift her hair out of the way, his breath warm against her neck as he placed a soft kiss just behind her ear. "Do I get anything for being so good this weekend?" His voice was low, a hint of a growl in his tone as he moved to pin her against the counter.

She gasped lightly, her front pressed against the cool surface of the counter as Joe's body enveloped hers from behind. She felt the unmistakable pressure of his growing arousal against her lower back, and she couldn't help but let a smug smile play on her lips.

"Well," she began, her voice teasing as she squirmed slightly in his embrace. "I guess we could discuss it."

"Discuss it?" he questioned. His hands slid from their place on the counter to pull her hips back against his. "I think we're past discussion, don't you?"

"Really wouldn't be fair, would it? All the blood in your brain is already moving elsewhere." She quipped. She felt the counter's edge press into her as Joe's hands squeezed her hips, his breath hot on her neck. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter for purchase as she leaned back into him, her body responding to his touch despite her playful protest.

"I've been on my best behavior," he murmured, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "I've earned it."

His lips found her neck again, lightly sucking and nibbling, making her skin dance with goosebumps. She could feel his need growing against her. A soft sigh escaped her once his hands made their way up to her tits, cupping them through her shirt.

She arched into his touch, her body responding instinctively. "A gold star got you this hard?" she breathed out shakily, lifting her arms as he pulled her shirt over her head. "What would a whole sticker chart do to you?"

Joe's laugh was muffled against her skin, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of her shoulder as he whispered, "I'd be putty in your hands, baby." His hands skimmed her torso, tracing the outline of her lace bra before unhooking it with a simple flick of his fingers. "That's not difficult for you to do. Everything you do makes me hard. Love everything you do."

"Romantic," she laughed, her breath hitching as his hands found her bare skin.

[slippinninque]

🎙️Wings and Two-Steppin'💐

Elias "Stack" Moore x  supernatural!blackfemreader 

warning: MINORS DNI, 18+, cursing, sensual themes, mentions of sex, mentions of desire, drinking/alcohol, supernatural!black!femreader!(Think earth/forest elemental) , long-fic, vibe fic didn't watch the movie but I have been moved 😅

The night was beautiful and you were finally able to find some good music.

You were somewhere between the moon and stars, the winds beneath your wings playful and thick as it carried you from state-wind to state-wind. When the sound of happy breathing, heavy shoes, and string picking got up to you–you looked for a place to land.

Feeling more and more solid as you traded your wings for paws, you searched amongst the warm little homes for what you needed. There were mothers and children gathered around rocking chairs, reading from a thick book made up of pages that reminded you of butterfly wings. In the yard with the tasty yams, you nipped at the clothes on the line for whichever felt like leaving with you.

Trotting with your prize, you tried to think of how to fit it again. It took a while since you’ve been anything but wild, but you knew some times were better had when you had thumbs. The dress fit good enough and you shook out the bramble shocking cloud and downpour that was your locs and coils. 

The whole time that lively music followed you. You’d reckon you were a few miles off but now that you had feet–you couldn’t keep them from dancing either way. The only time you paused was when you caught sight of your skin, deep and brown as healthy soil and mahogany.

It wasn’t long before you saw the joint, standing and vibrating with all the good time that was going on inside. You lingered at the treeline, mostly behind the leaves as you watched folk flow in and out of its doors. 

The excitement made your tongue tight, you whispered a few of the words you knew by heart to loosen your voice. You've speaking wild for so long, you weren't sure what words were People anymore.

There was a gleam that caught your eye followed by a smooth laugh that made your skin goose. You caught a sweet-husky scent of liquor and honey, caught the edge of maroon vanishing through the side door of the proud structure.

There. That’s where you wanted to be.

Peering around first, you shadowed yourself along the ground. Leaping and hopping to those who lingered outside to enjoy a smoke with the cool air. The last fella was a bit wobbly but luckily he used the wall to steady yourself so you could step off into the dark side of the juke joint. 

It wasn’t very much seeing that got you around, but feeling. You felt along the edges until you were able to bleed beneath the same door your good time went through.

The only problem was that now you didn’t know where you were. Things were put up on shelves and boxes, jars and jars of some stuff made your nose twitch. Looking around, you wondered if there was anything tasty enough to tempt you but all you could find was more of that river-clear stuff in pretty bottles of glass. 

You were running your fingers along the raised lettering, turning to find your prize when you knocked into the softest tree you’ve ever met. 

“Whatchu doin’ in here, girl?”

An unsmiling man looked down at you, plumes blowing from his nose like an angry bull. HIs eyes were like twin obsidian as they skipped over your form. Watching him back, he reminded you of one of those smooth river stones with how pretty brown and blue he was.

You tilted your head and considered his exciting smell. Close, but not quite. Almost-right. 

He raised his brows, waiting for an answer, “Where you comin’ from?”

“Above…”

The man reared back as if you shouted but you only smiled sheepishly at your garbled voice. So maybe you should have practiced a little longer before speaking to anyone. 

The man’s head tilted back at you, he stepped closer to look down at you more closely. When his eyes got stuck on the mess of flowers and moss that was curling up your ankles from where you stood, you wiggled your toes.

Liking the attention, you preened as surely he was taking in the pretty flowers that had begun to bloom along your hairline. 

“Move aside, Smoke.” 

“Annie…”

“Move, go’on.” 

A beautiful woman came from the corner shadows, eyes kind and fixed on you. The man lingered but stepped aside as she said, Annie. She glowed from her center, familiar in the way that the moon was. Turning to her and taking her offered hand, you no longer cared for the almost-right beside you.

This woman smelled like the almost-right but there was the ocean beneath her skin, the yawning night sky beneath her tongue. She reminded you of where you came from.

“What’s it that you need?” Annie asked warmly. Relief washed over you once you realized there was someone who understood. You buried yourself into her, Annie chuckling in surprise as you sighed at the warmth of her. She wrapped her arms around you in a solid hug and it felt like your hearts were doing the same in greeting. 

You looked to the man who watched you more carefully now that you were in Annie’s arms and pointed to his face. Then you pointed out the door, blinking insistently. 

“Ah, I see.” Annie looked over to the Smoke man, “Y’know who she wants.”

“What she gonna do to him?”

 Annie gave your cheek a soft pinch, and raised her brows high as she looked in your eyes. She spoke in a tone that was both kind and stern. 

“She’s gonna take it easy on ‘em and bring him back home like the lady she is.”

Laughing, you reached up and tapped her nose in agreement. Annie Ocean was right, of course, you only wanted to make good use of this form and chase this age old itch of yours. 

There was a whoop of applause from the other side of the door you saw beyond Annie. Sounds like the music was changing from the jovial, upbeat twang to something that made your hips swim. Smoke Man and Annie Ocean exchanged a few more words you didn’t care to hear as you heard the beating hearts and lungs of the crowd on the other side. When you went to take a step, Smoke Man took one as well to block you.

“Hol’ on now.” He held up a hand then took away a pair of old boots that Annie Ocean found in the corner. She came to take your hands as Smoke Man knelt down to help your feet into the boots. Your nose wrinkled but it was clearly a stipulation, but when Annie wrinkled hers back in jest–you laughed.

Smoke Man muttered about something being fucking wild as he stood from doing up your laces.

“Should hold for now.” He tipped his hat to you then looked to his woman. Annie took your hand into her arm, like a sister in wings, and escorted you towards the door. Before she opened it, she leaned in to steal a bloom from your hair and say,

“Have a good time y’hear me?” 

You gave her a wide grin, a kiss on the cheek, then set out into the joint. 

In there, apparently it didn't matter that you weren't dressed so smartly or didn’t speak. You found yourself being held and spun, shot up and thrown over backwards. There were big wide hands that held onto your hips, full lips brushing against your ear. Slender, pretty hands holding onto your shoulders to show you how to watch their feet.

You had a sip of something from someone’s cup and it lit you up. Lightening water, you called it. 

Inside the deep river of bodies that waved and lapped at each other, you lost yourself. Black and Brown, beautiful, so full of joy and of life. The scene settled like good supper in your stomach. It wasn’t long before blooms were bursting from between your toes and soles, stuffing until your boots were a perfect fit.

After being away from a body like this for so long, trading your wings for feet, dancing was like discovering how to laugh all over again. You felt the eyes you wanted on you from different corners of the room. Getting closer and closer still, remaining just out of reach just to admire you. 

That gleam, though. Settled in between a winning crew of teeth, you couldn’t ever shake your interest in the things that shone. There he was, right there and all wrapped up in that want that you could smell from beneath the canopy of desire and lust blanket over the juke joint. 

It’s funny how he looked just like the Smoke Man but in the way that the hot, clay sands meet cool blue waters. This man smiled like he didn’t care if you said his name or not, he walked towards you like he only wanted to know yours, this man was just right. 

A hand took yours, leading you to the shore of the back wall. You still saw a kaleidoscope of smiles and felt the cascade of the crowd's previous caresses. A big hand took hold of your jaw. You gasped as you looked into familiar, smoldering eyes.

Finally...

“Now, I see every face that come up in here–why didn’t I see yours 'til now?”

Shrugging, you looked into his mouth at those pearly whites and gold caps. It was tantalizing to see, you’ve never seen a smile like that before. Mr. Just Right dipped his head to catch your gaze again, chuckling and offering his name as Stack. 

“What can I call you, honey?”

You batted your eyes at him and looked down the fine line of him until you took that hand of his. He watched you, working the toothpick settled in the corner of his mouth, as you raised his hand to the column of your throat.

You sighed as your eyes closed briefly at the feeling of his stuttering heartbeat. When you opened your eyes again, you pouted slightly and whispered as softly as you could,

“Can’t…riGht…”

Stack’s expression straightened in understanding, “Can’t talk right?”

“Hm!”

Stack returned your affirming nod and stepped a little closer as he took a good look at you. He seemed to shrug himself, thumbing through the bits and pieces of buds “A’ight then, hone–shieet, or should I call ya’ flower?”

He could call you anything. Stack seemed to get that’s what the smile that dawned across your face meant. Unashamed, you leaned up to get a whiff from the source. Praise be. If it weren’t for Stack’s hands on you, surely you’d have melted around the soles of his fancy shoes. 

Where Smoke man and Annie smelled like each other and ray-warmed clouds and deep underwater songs– this man smelled like something else. 

Promises and butterscotch. Deep, hums and humid yearning. 

You gave him a warm hug and then you found yourself being swept off your feet as he spun in a slow circle. The bristle of his beards scratched at your skin as he nuzzled and you had to bite your lip to keep from kissing him.

“We ever met befo’?” he whispered in your ear once he put you down. 

Again, you gave him a shrug. It’s possible but you haven’t found all your memories yet. Stack swapped that toothpick to the other side of his mouth, tongue rolling it there real slow and taking your attention with it. Your fingers twitched. 

Stack took one of your hands, his other kept on your waist as he led you in a lazy semi-circle. In the cradle of his arms, you made a noise you didn’t know he could hear beneath the music. While you had your land legs now, you still watched your feet. 

“Why does it feel like you’re talkin’ to me?”

Because you wanted to so badly. You don’t know how well Stack man could smell, but he had to have a way of knowing you wanted him too…right?

You reached up with your free hand, to run the tip of your finger across Stack’s bottom lip. Shivering when the tip of his tongue brushed your skin as he carried the pick away from your touch–your eyes widened when he folded the pick into his mouth fully. 

Stack chuckled, showing the pick again before reaching up to flick it away. Your eyes followed, tempted and amazed by the little magic trick, and Stack took the chance to glance over to where he knew his twin was watching.

Smoke was pouring something into Annie’s glass, sparing a single nod towards the door before turning back to his woman.

“Hey lil’ flower, I gotta say I’ma bit peckish,” Stack surprised you by pressing kisses to your cheek the spot beneath your ear, “You, uh, gonna share some nectar with me?”

“Hmm…”

You leaned up and returned a kiss to his cheek, the both of you nuzzling for a moment more before Stack cleared his throat and asked if you ever rode in a motorcar before.

It looked like morning time, Stack didn’t know from the strange way light came through his motor’s windows.

He went over to press a kiss to your cheek, wanting to wake you up with another sweet, when his lips met looseness..

Reality hit him fully as Stacks opened his eyes to the sea of flower petals and downy feathers he was submerged in. Digging through them in a stupor, Stacks could only find your dress and one of the too-big shoes that you wore the night before.

He brought the dress up to his nose, the dove-white fabric now a cascade of hues that matched what you left him.

Stacks looked out to the windshield of his motor, he was still parked outside. The two of you never made it inside? No, that’s right. He remembered your kisses and the strange, intoxicating noises you made when Stack had his hands on you. When he put the car into a standstill, you crooned his name and parted for him so eagerly…

In the back of his mind when Stack was still staring down at the crown of flowers bobbing in his lap, Stack thought he should have brought you to bed. You were the type that was too good for the back seat of the motorcar but holy did you make good due with what you had. 

His eyes closed as heat seeped into his belly. You wrung him dry, all of that softness meaning anything but coyness as you rode him with a syrupy smile on your face. Stack got you back, giving it to you as kept a hold on your face to keep those pretty eyes on him as they rolled. 

Pretty, peculiar noises spilled from your bitten lips and it really felt like you were seeping nectar into his lap. How you looked at him reverently and ran your fingertips and tongue over the gold and silver in his mouth.

Stack picked up handfuls of the petals and watched as they fluttered back into the mass. He…didn’t dream of peeling roses from your skin and the dewy sweat beneath. You must have really untangled a vine of the finest tasting green grapes from the curtain of locs from the nape of your neck.

Stack didn’t know what the fuck you were saying between his name but it felt like…promises. You were so sticky, so sweet–

What were you?

His vision focused some more and he saw who was sitting on the porch. Stack cursed, sitting back in the floral bath and tried to get his head together.

 It didn’t sit well that he didn’t get to wake up with you, that he didn’t get to say goodbye, that he cared to…

The sun crawled a bit higher and the sudden company didn’t leave long enough aside to get some coffee. The second mug caught his attention and finally Stack got out of his motor. As best he could without letting the petals out, Stack closed the door up behind himself to be dealt with later. He fixed clothes up and ran a hand over his face to chase away the left-over sleep then set forward. 

If she was here, then his brother was probably inside cooking up something and to tell Stack how thick his skull was. He grumbled a bit to himself at the thought of his brother and his wife just waltzing past him as he slumbered away as pretty as a princess.

Lord...

Annie sat on the last porch stair, setting that second mug down beside her in invitation. Smoke sat down, gingerly, once he felt the ache in his legs and lower back. He huffed a little at her knowing side-eye.

They sat in silence for a moment. Stack looking at the trailing and dancing petals, following a feather until it flew high enough up into the air to vanish into the awakening blue of the sky.

“She ever gonna come back?”

“I reckon she will.”

Stack gave Annie his own look and she only shrugged a shoulder, “I don’t know when but she will. I’ve seen her before, once or twice. Goes all over, I think, but she lives here.”

“You even know for sure? Met anythin’ like her befo’?”

“She's a joy. She’s in every part of life, every bit of the world.” Annie put a hand on his shoulder and used the other hand to gesture to the petals that had not blown away yet, “You’ll see her again soon. Knowing how you are, especially. You might end up being her favorite.”

Hope quickened his heart. Stack took a sip and before he could ask his next question, the call of a bird overhead caught his gaze. 

The sound was familiar enough to loose the incredulousness feeling in his chest, shifting it to wonder and anticipation as he watched that bird settle high within the cover of a nearby willow tree.

-------------

✨ending notes✨: I....don't even know exactly what this is but I'm happy it's here! 🤣I haven't seen the movie yet but I've been seeing nothing but good things and this is what the vibes left me with. It's a bit long so thank you so much for reading until the end! 🥰This ended up sweeter than what I thought it would be though lmao! tell me what you think and give it a reblog! ✨💓✨💓✨💓

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[dreamersworldduh]

HAPPILY EVER AFTER?

• NATE JACOBS x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Y/N and Nate had finally laid their feelings bare—no more games, no more second-guessing. What started as tension and unresolved emotion had finally unraveled into something real, something honest. Tonight was their first official date, the beginning of something they both hoped would last. What they didn't expect, however, was how quickly that night would shift from simple romance to something far deeper. A night filled with undeniable passion, yes—but also the quiet beginning of a future neither of them saw coming.

Well, maybe not Y/N. Nate? He might've known all along.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 16.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here, we are with the conclusion of HIS AWAKENING series. A bit of a long winded journey but one full of passion, love, fear, acceptance and more emotions Nate Jacobs discovered. Also the ending is sort of my Euphoria S3 hypothesis but more on that later. I’m considering a series following this one—with our lovely couple experiencing adulthood and living together alongside the hardships, of course. Let me know! Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, motionless, his hands resting loosely at his sides as he took in the reflection staring back at him. The dorm room around him was quiet, the soft hum of the air vent barely noticeable over the buzz of nerves in his chest. His breath came slow and deliberate, but his heart was beating with a steady kind of anticipation that he couldn't quite ignore.

The suit he wore wasn't just any suit—it was the suit. A deep, charcoal gray that caught the light with just a hint of sheen, tailored to perfection in all the right places. The jacket hugged his shoulders with clean, crisp lines, the sleeves stopping just shy of his wrists, revealing the slim edge of a white shirt cuff. The lapels framed his chest, giving him a sharp, elegant silhouette, while the fabric tapered at his waist, accentuating the lines of his body with precise, deliberate structure.

It was the kind of suit that made him stand up straighter. Made him feel a little more grounded, a little more seen. The kind of outfit that made a statement—not loud, not flashy, but confident. Intentional.

Y/N adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, then smoothed the front of his jacket, his fingers trembling just slightly. He wasn't usually like this before a date. But then again, this wasn't just any date.

It was Nate.

And that changed everything.

This was their first official night out together. No hiding, no tension disguised as casual conversation, no pretending it didn't mean something. Nate had promised a proper date, and Y/N had held him to it—every sarcastic reminder and raised eyebrow pushing Nate toward something real. And Nate, to his surprise and quiet delight, had risen to the challenge.

A real plan. A real place. A night that, for once, didn't feel like something uncertain and fragile, but like the start of something.

Y/N glanced down at his shoes—polished to a subtle shine—then back at his reflection. His hair was styled just the way he liked it, not too neat, not too messy. He looked... good. Sharp.

But underneath the clean lines and perfect fit, he felt exposed in a different way. Vulnerable. Hopeful.

He caught his own eyes in the mirror and gave himself a quiet, amused smile. "Okay," he murmured under his breath. "Don't let him make you melt in the first five minutes."

Still, he knew—deep in his chest, beneath all the sarcasm and teasing bravado—that Nate wouldn't need five minutes. One look, one compliment in that low, gravelly voice, one of those rare, sincere smiles, and Y/N would be gone.

He inhaled, squared his shoulders, and gave himself one final once-over. This was it. The beginning of them, not in secret, not in silence—but out in the open.

And damn it—he was ready.

The soft creak of the dorm room door pulled Y/N's attention from the mirror. He turned just as the door eased open—and there was Nate, framed in the doorway like he belonged in the center of a movie scene.

He stood tall in a sleek black suit that clung to his broad frame like it was custom-made, the dark fabric crisp and clean, accentuating the hard lines of his shoulders and the long stretch of his legs. A fitted white shirt peeked out from beneath the jacket, the top button undone in that perfectly careless way that screamed effortless cool. In one hand, he held a small bouquet of flowers—simple, understated, but thoughtful. Pale roses and white ranunculus with hints of soft green leaves, elegant and quietly beautiful.

Y/N couldn't help the way his lips curled into a smile at the sight. "Wow," he said, eyes sweeping from the top of Nate's head to the polished black shoes below. "Look at you, trying."

Nate rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped inside, holding out the flowers. "For the record, I've always known how to dress. I just don't bother unless it's worth it."

Y/N took the bouquet, brushing a finger gently across one of the petals before glancing back up at Nate. "And I'm worth it?"

Nate leaned in slightly, his voice low and rough. "You're the only one who's ever been."

It was unfair how quickly those words made Y/N's chest warm. He turned toward the desk to find a cup for the flowers, trying to play it cool even as his smile lingered. "You know," he said casually, "you could've just changed in here. It is our room."

Nate let out a snort, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket as he moved deeper into the room. "Yeah, and if I'd stripped down in front of you, we wouldn't be making that reservation tonight."

Y/N froze for half a second before turning slowly to face him again, raising an eyebrow. "Wow," he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "So little faith in your own self-control."

Nate's grin widened, his tongue flicking across his bottom lip—still healing from the fight but somehow making the expression even more infuriatingly charming. "Oh, I have plenty of self-control," he said, closing the space between them. "But not when it comes to you looking like that."

Y/N's breath caught just a little, heat rising up the back of his neck. He gestured to Nate's chest. "You're the one who came in here looking like you stepped out of a magazine spread. That's not playing fair."

Nate's eyes lingered on him for a long beat, and Y/N felt it—felt the weight of his gaze travel from his jaw to the slope of his shoulders, to the perfectly tailored fit of his suit.

"We're both not playing fair," Nate murmured, voice like a low hum between them.

And Y/N—biting back a grin, heart beating just a little faster—couldn't help but think that this night was already off to the perfect start.

THE ride to the restaurant was smooth and quiet, the soft hum of the engine and the faint rhythm of a jazz playlist playing from the speakers of the Uber Black giving the moment a subtle air of luxury. Y/N sat back against the plush leather seat, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows, casting fleeting golds and blues across his suit.

Nate sat beside him, every bit the picture of composure—broad shoulders relaxed, one hand resting casually on his thigh while the other held the edge of the seat, close enough that their arms brushed with every bump in the road. He looked calm, but there was something simmering beneath the surface. Something focused. Intent.

From the moment they stepped into the car, Nate had slipped effortlessly into gentleman mode—and damn if Y/N wasn't enjoying every second of it.

He had opened the door for him without being asked, hand resting gently on Y/N's back as he helped him into the car like they were already halfway through some old-fashioned romance movie. But nothing about it felt performative. It wasn't for show. Nate wasn't trying to impress anyone else. He was just being present.

Every now and then, Nate would glance over at him—subtle, but lingering—like he couldn't quite believe this was real. Like he was still trying to memorize the way Y/N looked tonight, the way the fabric of his suit curved along his body, the slight curl of his smile as he gazed out the window.

"You okay?" Nate asked at one point, his voice low and smooth, breaking the comfortable silence.

Y/N turned his head, meeting his eyes with a faint smirk. "Better than okay."

Nate's lips twitched into something between a grin and a sigh, his hand shifting slightly so that his fingers barely grazed Y/N's. Just a brush, a whisper of touch—but it said everything.

They pulled up to the restaurant a few minutes later, the car slowing to a stop in front of an upscale place tucked between glowing high-rises. Warm, ambient light spilled from the tall windows, the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses drifting out as the host held the door for them.

Nate was out first, circling around to open the door for Y/N again, extending his hand. Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn't hesitate to take it. Nate's palm was warm against his own, fingers curling gently, grounding.

Inside, the restaurant was intimate and softly lit, with dark wood floors, candles flickering in glass holders, and quiet acoustic music playing in the background. The maître d' greeted them politely, already expecting them, and led them to a private corner table where the world felt like it narrowed down to just them.

As they sat, Nate pulled out Y/N's chair, still riding that line between old-school charm and quiet sincerity.

Y/N leaned back once they were settled, his eyes scanning Nate across the flickering candlelight. "Okay," he murmured, voice low and a little amused. "I'll admit it—you're pulling this off better than I thought you would."

Nate arched an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of pride behind his smirk. "Told you I could do the whole 'proper date' thing."

Y/N sipped from his water, letting his foot brush deliberately against Nate's under the table. "Yeah, well. Night's not over yet."

Nate leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Not even close."

And with that, Y/N knew—whatever came next, whatever surprises Nate still had in store, this night was just getting started.

DINNER unfolded like a scene from a movie—low candlelight flickering between them, the soft hum of conversation and clinking glass filling the intimate atmosphere of the restaurant. The food was rich and indulgent, every bite worth savoring, but the real indulgence was the company.

Y/N and Nate sat across from each other in a private corner booth, their knees brushing occasionally beneath the table. Conversation flowed easily between them—light teasing, shared laughter, the casual kind of comfort that only came when you knew someone beyond the surface.

They traded stories from their childhoods over plates of seared steak and roasted vegetables. Y/N found himself animated as he launched into an impassioned rant about an old high school English teacher who took himself way too seriously—complete with dramatic impressions and exaggerated eye rolls. Nate laughed, a real laugh that softened the edges of his otherwise guarded expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Y/N's chest flutter.

But eventually, the energy between them shifted—not in a bad way, just... deeper.

Y/N leaned forward, his voice quieter now. "Alright, your turn. Tell me something about you."

Nate hesitated for half a second, his fork pausing mid-air, before he set it down and sat back in his chair. He exhaled, the kind of breath that signaled he was sorting through which version of the truth he was willing to share.

"I've got a brother," he started, his voice even but laced with something dry. "We're close in that 'we'll-never-say-it-out-loud' kind of way. I call him Asshole. He calls me worse."

Y/N chuckled under his breath. "Sounds healthy."

Nate smirked faintly, nodding. "It works for us."

He went quiet for a moment, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. "My mom and I... we're okay. She's good with advice. She listens, even if she doesn't always get it. But she's closer to my brother than she is to me. I think she sees herself in him more."

There was no bitterness in the way Nate said it—just a kind of quiet acceptance that came from years of noticing but never confronting it.

Y/N tilted his head slightly, watching him carefully. "Still... sounds like she tries."

"She does," Nate admitted. "When things get bad, she's the one I talk to. Doesn't always have the answers, but she helps me make sense of it. Calms me down."

It was when the subject turned to his dad that Nate shifted again. The air around him changed—his jaw tightening slightly, shoulders pulling in. He stared down at his plate, silent for several seconds before speaking.

"My dad..." he began, voice low, barely audible over the soft clatter of dishes around them. "He's... complicated."

Y/N didn't speak. Just waited.

Nate sighed, finally lifting his eyes to meet Y/N's. "He's never been good at... showing anything other than criticism. Growing up, I'd have a great game and he'd still find something wrong. My throwing arm. My focus. My leadership. He'd compare me to other players—ones who 'took it more seriously,' who were 'natural leaders.' Guys he thought deserved the spot more than I did."

He looked down again, his expression unreadable. "I spent years trying to be what he wanted. Trying to meet whatever impossible standard he set. Just to get a 'good job' or a nod."

Y/N reached across the table slowly, his fingers brushing over Nate's wrist. He didn't say anything right away—he didn't have to. The warmth of the gesture, the quiet patience in his eyes, said enough.

Nate didn't pull away.

He let Y/N hold that space with him, let the silence settle in, let it comfort rather than press down.

"I'm sorry," Y/N said softly, his voice full of something gentle, sincere. "You didn't deserve that. None of it."

Nate's gaze flickered to him, something vulnerable in his eyes. For a moment, he didn't speak. Just nodded once, slowly, like the words were still sinking in.

"Thanks," he murmured, the edge of his mouth tugging upward. "For listening."

Y/N squeezed his wrist once before letting go. "Always."

And in that moment, across the candlelight and quiet music, something settled between them—not a promise, not yet. But something solid. Something true.

As the plates were cleared and their drinks refreshed, the conversation between Y/N and Nate began to drift into quieter, more reflective territory. The atmosphere of the restaurant had grown even more intimate as the night wore on—most of the dinner rush had come and gone, leaving behind a hushed calm. Candlelight flickered gently on the linen tablecloth, casting soft shadows across Nate's face as he leaned forward, swirling the last of his drink in his glass.

Y/N sat back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his water glass. There was a pause in the conversation—not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. It was the kind of silence that invited something deeper, something that reached past the surface-level flirting and shared laughter of the earlier part of the evening.

"So," Y/N said, his tone curious but open, "what happens after this?"

Nate looked up. "After what?"

"After college," Y/N clarified, gesturing lightly between the two of them. "After football. After the routines and practices and school schedules. What then?"

It wasn't meant to be a heavy question, but the weight of it settled between them all the same.

Nate blinked, then looked down at his hands for a beat. "Honestly?" he said, voice quieter now. "I've been trying not to think too hard about it. Football's always been the plan. It's what my dad's been pushing for since before I even understood the game. But..." He shrugged, exhaling slowly. "There's no guarantee. One injury, one bad season, and that's it. You're done."

Y/N nodded slowly, resting his chin on his hand. "So what's Plan B?"

Nate chuckled under his breath, but there wasn't much humor in it. "That's the part I haven't figured out yet. I mean, I could coach. Maybe. I like being around the game. I get how it works, how people work within it. But I don't know if I'd be happy doing it for the rest of my life."

He leaned back in his chair, the candlelight casting golden lines along his jaw. "There's a part of me that just... wants something different. Something quieter. Something that doesn't involve living under a microscope or having to live up to someone else's standards."

Y/N watched him carefully, nodding. "That makes sense. After all the pressure you've been under, it'd be nice to just live for you for once."

Nate looked at him then—really looked at him—and for a moment, the noise of the restaurant seemed to fall away. "What about you?" he asked. "What do you want after this?"

Y/N paused, thinking. "I used to have this really specific idea of where I'd be by now. Career lined up. City picked. Life mapped out by the time I was twenty-five. But lately..." He laughed softly, more to himself than anything. "Lately, I've been realizing it's okay not to have it all figured out yet. I still want something meaningful. Maybe writing, maybe working in media, maybe something I haven't even considered yet. But whatever it is—I just want it to feel mine. You know?"

Nate nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah. I get that."

They were quiet for a moment again, but this silence was warmer, more settled.

Then Y/N added, a little more cautiously, "And... I guess I'd like someone to share it with. Not just for the big things, but the in-between stuff. The boring days. Grocery shopping. Late-night takeout and bad movies."

Nate's lips quirked into a smile. "That sounds pretty damn good."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curving up. "You saying you see yourself there?"

Nate didn't flinch. "Yeah," he said without hesitation. "If I'm lucky, I'll still have you there too."

Y/N felt the words sink into him like warm sunlight. No pressure, no grand declarations this time—just honesty.

And somehow, that was more meaningful than anything else.

NATE slid his black card across the leather-bound bill folder without a second thought, exchanging a quiet word with the server as Y/N watched him from across the table. There was something almost surreal about it—how composed, how present Nate looked in this moment. No posturing, no calculating glances, no undercurrent of aggression disguised as confidence. Just Nate, in a dark suit that hugged his frame too perfectly for it to be casual, calmly settling the tab for the best meal they'd shared together yet.

When they stepped out into the cool evening air, the night wrapped around them like silk. The sidewalks glistened faintly from an earlier drizzle, streetlights casting golden reflections against the pavement. Nate walked beside Y/N in easy silence, their hands brushing occasionally but not quite clasping—like the intimacy was already understood, no longer something they had to prove.

It was a quiet moment, one that gave Y/N time to think, to let the buzz of dinner and candlelight fade into something softer.

"You know," Y/N said, glancing sideways at Nate with a faint smile, "when I first met you, I knew exactly what kind of guy you were."

Nate looked over at him, brow arching slightly. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Y/N's voice was even, but there was a sharp edge beneath the words. "You were that guy—macho, angry, always looking for a fight. The golden boy quarterback who thought the world owed him something just for showing up."

Nate's smirk faded into something more thoughtful as Y/N continued, his tone calm but unflinching.

"Pride and ambition so unchecked it was practically eating you alive. You wanted control. Power. Respect. But only on your terms—terms shaped by every toxic, outdated idea of what a 'man' should be. You shoved your feelings down, lashed out at people who challenged you, and wore that ego like armor."

Nate's jaw tensed, but he didn't interrupt.

"And honestly?" Y/N went on, eyes forward now. "You were the embodiment of white privilege. The kind of guy who—because of how you look, where you come from, what you represent—could get away with almost anything. Hell, did get away with everything. You had the face, the name, the performance to make everyone else look the other way."

The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile. Nate took it in.

"But," Y/N added, softer this time, "then you met me."

That made Nate glance over again, brow furrowing—not defensive, but curious. Listening.

Y/N finally met his eyes. "The sassy, smart-mouthed track star who didn't give a damn how many touchdowns you scored or how many people you'd intimidated into silence. I wasn't impressed. And I didn't back down."

Nate's mouth twitched. "No, you didn't."

"And that's when you started to change," Y/N continued, his voice a little quieter, but resolute. "Maybe not all at once, but piece by piece. Like something inside you finally got sick of pretending. Of performing. Of hurting everyone else just to prove you weren't broken."

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and Nate looked at him—not as the confident, arrogant player Y/N had once pegged him to be, but as someone still learning. Someone trying.

Y/N stepped a little closer, bumping their shoulders together. "You're still rough around the edges, Jacobs. Don't get cocky. But you're not the same guy I met."

A beat passed.

Nate's voice, when it came, was low but honest. "I don't want to be."

The light turned green.

And the two of them crossed together—step for step, stride for stride.

To Y/N, the night had gone better than expected—way better. Nate had been attentive, sincere, even charming. It was a side of him Y/N rarely saw in public, one that made it harder to remember the angry, tightly wound version of him that used to dominate every interaction.

"So," Y/N said, glancing over at him, "we heading back to the dorm?"

Nate smirked, lips twitching into something smug and a little secretive. "Actually... no."

Y/N raised a brow. "No?"

Nate looked ahead, then back at him, the corner of his mouth curving up. "I got us a hotel room for the night."

Y/N blinked, taken aback—not because it was too forward, not even because it was unexpected, but because it was Nate. This was the guy who once flinched at emotional vulnerability, who bristled at soft moments like they were weaknesses.

And now here he was. Planning ahead. Making space. Thinking about them.

Y/N couldn't help the slow, amused grin that spread across his face. "You really went all out tonight, huh?" he teased, nudging Nate's arm with his shoulder. "Dinner, a suit, flowers, and now a hotel? Damn. Nate Jacobs, are you secretly a sap?"

Nate scoffed, but the tips of his ears turned pink under the streetlight, betraying him. "Don't push it."

Y/N laughed, stepping in front of him for a moment, blocking his path just enough to get his full attention. "No, no—I mean it. This is like, dangerously close to 'romantic movie boyfriend' behavior."

Nate opened his mouth, probably to deny it, to make some sarcastic remark, but Y/N didn't give him the chance.

He leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't teasing. It was soft, slow, intentional. A kiss full of gratitude, of appreciation, of the quiet awe that came with realizing someone had actually shown up for you—not just with gestures, but with their whole damn heart.

Nate melted into it almost immediately, his hand finding the curve of Y/N's back, steady and warm.

When they pulled apart, Nate was smiling—really smiling, the kind that reached his eyes and softened every line of his face.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smug now. "You like being a sap for me."

Nate gave a half-hearted eye roll, still grinning. "Shut up."

But he didn't deny it.

And that said everything.

THE soft click of the hotel room door shutting behind them was followed by a quiet hum of luxury—dim lighting, plush carpet, and the subtle scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Y/N stepped in first, his eyes immediately landing on the large, king-sized bed that dominated the center of the room, draped in crisp white linens and a mountain of perfectly arranged pillows.

"Damn," Y/N murmured, dragging his gaze over the bed like it was calling his name. "This is so much better than our lumpy dorm mattresses."

Before Nate could get a word in, Y/N was already moving. He kicked off his shoes, letting them land haphazardly near the door, shrugged off his jacket with a practiced twist of his shoulders, and tossed it onto the nearby armchair. Then, without hesitation, he launched himself onto the bed with a dramatic flop, arms spread wide as the comforter and pillows shifted around him.

"Ohhh," he groaned, face half-buried in the soft bedding. "Okay, I'm never leaving." He peeked one eye open, grinning. "You can just go ahead and cancel my tuition. This is my life now."

Behind him, Nate laughed. That deep, low, real laugh that Y/N loved, the one that only came out when Nate forgot to be guarded.

"You're such a drama queen," Nate said, pulling off his suit jacket with far more care. He walked over to the small wardrobe and hung it up with the kind of methodical attention that was so him, then began rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms.

Y/N propped himself up on his elbows, watching with open interest as Nate made his way toward the bed. When Nate reached the edge and looked down at him, there was that look—the one Y/N had come to recognize over the past few weeks. Amused, a little exasperated, and completely, undeniably smitten.

Y/N grinned up at him, his tone playful. "Well? What are you waiting for? You're not seriously gonna let me enjoy this all by myself, boyfriend."

Nate raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement, but said nothing. Instead, he brought his hands to the top button of his shirt, slowly—deliberately—undoing it. Then the next. And the next. His eyes never left Y/N's as he worked, letting the fabric pull open to reveal the smooth, lean lines of his chest beneath.

"Oh, so that's the game we're playing," Y/N murmured, smirking.

Nate gave a slow, teasing shrug as he slipped the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall onto the nearby chair. "Thought I'd give you a little show."

He paused then, fingers resting at his belt buckle, a glint of something darker—playful, confident—in his eyes. "Wanna help me with this?" he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.

Y/N didn't move for a second, just stared up at him with a mixture of amusement and interest.

Then, slowly, with an exaggerated sigh and a devilish grin, he reached forward and patted Nate's thigh.

"Well," he said, voice coy, "since you asked so nicely..."

And just like that, the night took on a new kind of warmth—one that had nothing to do with the hotel lighting and everything to do with them, finally letting themselves sink into something that felt natural, earned, and real.

Y/N reached up from the bed, fingers hooking at Nate's belt buckle with slow precision. His touch was confident, but not hurried—there was a sense of ease between them now, a comfort that had grown naturally from the night's events. He began to undo the belt, the cool metal of the buckle clicking softly under his fingers.

But then he paused, something flickering across his face—mischief. A sudden spark of an idea that made the corners of his mouth twitch into a slow, knowing smile.

Nate noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, more curious than suspicious. "What?" he asked, though his voice had already dropped a little lower, as if he could feel the shift in the air.

Y/N didn't answer right away. Instead, he slid off the bed in one fluid motion, the soft thud of his knees against the plush carpet barely audible in the quiet of the hotel room. He looked up at Nate from below, that smile still playing at his lips as he settled on his knees in front of him.

Nate's breath caught, his hands instinctively flexing at his sides.

Y/N reached for the belt again, this time with a slower, more deliberate grace. He undid the buckle with practiced fingers, the leather sliding free with a soft whisper. Then came the button of Nate's slacks—undone with a light pop, and the slow, purposeful draw of the zipper being pulled down, the sound unusually loud in the quiet, intimate space between them.

He glanced up through his lashes, catching the way Nate's expression shifted—his jaw tightening just slightly, his eyes darker now, heat blooming behind them.

"You're full of surprises tonight," Nate murmured, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper.

Y/N's smirk deepened. "You started it," he said simply, his hands resting lightly at Nate's hips, like he was waiting for permission to go further—or maybe just enjoying the way Nate was barely keeping himself still.

The moment stretched, thick with tension and unspoken meaning.

Whatever happened next, it wasn't just about lust or impulse.

It was about trust. About comfort. About them.

And neither of them was in a hurry.

Y/N's touch was reverent, patient. His fingers moved with a quiet precision, curling beneath the waistband of Nate's slacks as though he was peeling away something sacred. The fabric whispered against Nate's skin, gliding over the sharp lines of his hips, past the firm muscles of his thighs, and down to his ankles where they pooled in soft folds around his feet. The room was silent save for the faint rustle of fabric, the air humming with a stillness that felt like the inhale before a storm.

Nate shifted, stepping out of the pants with a silent grace, each movement deliberate, like he didn't want to startle the moment. His hands remained at his sides, clenched only slightly, betraying the tension humming through him. It wasn't nerves—it was anticipation, tightly coiled and quietly trembling.

Y/N didn't rush. He took his time, letting his hands roam upward in a slow, teasing ascent along the backs of Nate's legs. His fingertips trailed like heat across bare skin, the ghost of a touch more felt than seen. When he reached the waistband of Nate's boxers, he paused—his thumbs hooking gently under the edge, his gaze lifting.

Their eyes met.

Nate's stare was steady, but there was a storm behind it—something raw, something waiting to break. Y/N searched his face for a beat, then began to tug the boxers down with an exhale, slow and intentional. The cotton slid over sculpted hips, past his thighs, until they too joined the discarded slacks at his feet.

Nate stood before him now—bare, exposed, and breathtaking. His dick was hard and proud, a testament to the desire crackling between them like live current, but Y/N didn't move. Not yet. He remained kneeling, letting the moment settle like gravity between them.

His eyes roamed upward, from the strength in Nate's legs, over the sharp planes of his abdomen, to the rise and fall of his chest. Every inch of him was inked in shadow and lamplight, beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. When Y/N's gaze finally reached Nate's face, it lingered—and Nate was already watching him.

Nate's breath came slow and uneven now, lips parted like he was on the edge of a word he couldn't say. His shoulders were tense, but not from discomfort. No—this was something different. He bit down softly on his bottom lip, not from shyness, but to keep himself from letting the need slip too soon, too fast.

There was something unspoken in his eyes—something Y/N felt down to his bones. Trust. Surrender. A quiet invitation that said, I'm yours. I'm letting you see all of me. Not just this—but me.

The soft hush of the room seemed to amplify everything: the subtle creak of the floor beneath Y/N's knees, the steady thrum of blood in Nate's ears, and the thick anticipation curling low in his stomach.

Y/N looked up at him through his lashes, gaze simmering with something deeper than lust—focused, present, and brimming with a teasing kind of devotion. It wasn't just about getting Nate off—it was the way he intended to do it. Slow. Purposeful. Like he knew exactly what power he held kneeling there, and was ready to wield it with devastating precision.

Nate couldn't help the low hum that escaped him, part groan, part awe. The image burned into his memory like something carved in gold—Y/N's hands resting lightly on his thighs, his mouth so close, the heat of his breath ghosting against sensitive skin.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at Nate's lips as he reached down, fingers threading through Y/N's hair—soft, thick, familiar beneath his touch. He stroked once, twice, letting his fingers linger before gently curling them against Y/N's scalp in a quiet, possessive motion. His other hand hovered near his side for a beat, then moved to guide Y/N forward with careful pressure—an unspoken invitation, not a command.

Nate's dick continue to stand hard and ready, flushed with arousal, and when Y/N's lips inched closer, a sharp breath escaped from Nate's lungs. His hand in Y/N's hair tightened just slightly, grounding himself in the warmth, the anticipation, the trust layered in every moment between them.

His voice dropped to a low rasp, barely above a whisper. "Go on, baby..."

And in that moment, every fiber of Nate's being pulsed with need—not just for the pleasure, but for him. For Y/N. The one on his knees, eyes full of intent, ready to give not just his mouth—but all of his focus, all of his fire.

Y/N didn't rush—he never did. There was a rhythm to his movements, a kind of patient artistry that made everything feel deliberate, intimate, like he was crafting pleasure one breath at a time. His lips wrapped around Nate's dick with practiced ease, warm and wet and just the right amount of pressure. He eased forward slowly, taking more of Nate in with each pass, the motion smooth and fluid, like a tide pulling in and letting go.

Nate's hand stayed tangled in Y/N's hair, not forceful, just there—anchoring himself to the sensation unraveling him from the inside out. His head tipped back slightly, a low sound rumbling from his throat as he felt Y/N settle into a steady, controlled rhythm.

It wasn't just skill—it was intention.

Y/N used his mouth like he knew exactly what Nate needed before Nate could even ask for it. His tongue traced patterns along the underside, slow and sensual, before he pulled back with a wet pop, only to sink down again—just a little deeper, a little slower, lips sealed around him like a promise.

Nate looked down, eyes dark with heat, watching the way Y/N moved—effortless and focused, like this wasn't just about getting him off. No, this was about giving, about showing just how well he knew Nate's body. How well he knew what made him gasp, what made his hips twitch forward ever so slightly, what made that sharp breath catch in his lungs like he couldn't quite take it.

There was something devastating in the way Y/N looked up at him while working his mouth around his dick, eyes locked on Nate's face like he wanted to watch every reaction. His lips were slick, glistening, stretched wide—but there was nothing desperate about it. Just controlled, sultry focus that made Nate's thighs tense.

He groaned, deep and broken. "You always know what you're doing to me..."

And it was true.

Y/N had a way with his mouth that Nate knew all too well—had memorized, even. Those lips were soft, wicked, and impossibly precise. Every bob of his head, every swirl of his tongue, was crafted to unravel Nate one breath, one pulse at a time. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't frantic. It was calculated, seductive, maddening in the most perfect way.

Nate's fingers tightened just slightly in Y/N's hair, a silent plea for more, and Y/N responded with a deeper stroke, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room.

And just like that, Nate knew—he wasn't going to last long. Not with Y/N's mouth on him. Not with those eyes, that patience, that quiet, devastating skill.

Not when he was being worshipped like this.

Y/N pulled back with a slow, deliberate ease, his lips releasing Nate's dick with a wet, audible pop that echoed in the charged silence between them. A thin string of spit stretched from the tip to his mouth, clinging for a beat before dripping onto his chin, glistening in the low light. His breath was warm and unhurried, chest rising with steady control despite the fire simmering beneath his skin.

His lips were swollen, slick, and curved into a knowing smile—lazy, teasing, like he knew exactly what he was doing to Nate. And he did.

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N wrapped his fingers around the base of Nate's dick—firm, steady, possessive. His grip was confident but not harsh, his thumb dragging slowly along the underside as he began to stroke. The rhythm was slow—almost agonizing in its precision. He wasn't trying to rush Nate to the edge. No. He was savoring it. Drawing it out.

Y/N's eyes flicked up to meet Nate's, and what Nate saw there made his stomach clench.

Heat.

Challenge.

Devotion.

And something else—that quiet, wicked spark that lived in Y/N when he was in control, when he was focused. Nate's jaw tightened, his breath hitching as he watched Y/N's hand work him with a rhythm that felt custom-fit to his body.

"You look good like this," Y/N murmured, voice low, laced with heat and amusement.

Nate could barely respond. His entire body was pulsing with want, his muscles taut with restraint. The sight of Y/N—lips wet, chin glistening, hand working him with maddening grace—was almost too much. He could feel the pleasure building again, slow and steady, like a fuse steadily burning toward detonation.

And Y/N just kept smiling.

Smiling like he had all the time in the world to make Nate come undone—one stroke, one glance, one smirk at a time.

Nate's pulse thundered in his ears, his body strung tight with arousal, but even through the heat flooding his veins, he held onto control. Y/N knew how easily Nate could fall apart—how sensitive he was when touched just right, how quickly those soft gasps would turn to moans when pleasure hit hard and fast. But tonight wasn't meant to end quickly. No, tonight was a slow burn. And Nate had a storm of sinful intentions that he planned to unleash across every inch of Y/N's body before the night was through.

His eyes flicked down to the sight of Y/N still on his knees—lips slick, pupils blown wide, his expression a perfect blend of mischief and surrender. God, Nate loved seeing him like that, worshipful and confident all at once. But he wasn't about to let that be the end of it.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Nate reached down and grasped Y/N firmly by the arms, pulling him up in one seamless motion. Their bodies collided—chest to chest, heat meeting heat—as Nate's hand slid to the back of Y/N's neck and pulled him into a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was hunger, pure and unfiltered.

Mouths crashed together, lips parting with ease as tongues tangled in a rhythm that left no room for doubt—Nate wasn't just kissing him; he was claiming him. The taste of him, the way he melted into the kiss, only fueled the fire raging under Nate's skin.

Nate's fingers fumbled with the buttons of Y/N's shirt, tearing them open one by one, revealing the smooth expanse of warm skin underneath. He didn't bother taking it off cleanly. Instead, he shoved the fabric off Y/N's shoulders, letting it slide down his arms, baring him inch by inch.

The shirt dropped to the floor like a forgotten whisper as Nate's lips left Y/N's mouth and found their way to his neck.

He didn't hold back.

He dragged his lips along the curve of Y/N's throat, teeth grazing just enough to tease before he latched on and sucked hard, leaving the first of many hickies blooming against flushed skin. Y/N gasped at the contact, fingers digging into Nate's waist, his breath hitching with every mark Nate made.

Nate smirked against his skin, dragging his mouth lower, trailing kisses down to his collarbone before moving back up to press another bruise behind Y/N's ear. Each hickey was deliberate—a brand, a warning, a memory.

His lips grazed tender spots he knew by heart—behind the ear, just under the jaw, the place where neck met shoulder—each kiss a mix of softness and claiming pressure. His teeth followed in places, nipping just hard enough to make Y/N shiver, and when a low moan escaped from Y/N's throat, it only fueled the hunger roaring beneath Nate's skin.

As his mouth moved, Nate's hands followed suit, sliding down the smooth planes of Y/N's torso with purpose. One hand found the metal teeth of Y/N's zipper and slowly pulled it down, the sound harsh in the silence of the room, almost obscene. The pressure eased, and Nate wasted no time in pushing the pants down, fingers curling into the waistband and dragging the fabric over Y/N's hips.

The trousers slipped easily past Y/N's thighs, gliding down his legs until they pooled at his feet in a forgotten heap. Nate's hands returned, now touching with more urgency—one sliding around to palm the swell of Y/N's ass, squeezing firmly, possessively. His grip was hot, rough with want, fingers digging into soft flesh like he was claiming territory he already knew was his.

His other hand moved forward, fingers grazing over the front of Y/N's boxers, where the fabric strained over his arousal. Nate let out a low, satisfied hum, his palm pressing against the obvious outline of Y/N's dick. He rubbed slow, deliberate strokes over the sensitive length, feeling how hard and eager he was through the thin cotton.

"You're already this hard for me?" Nate murmured into Y/N's skin, his voice low and full of dark amusement, lips brushing against the newest hickey blooming on his neck.

Y/N's breath hitched, hips twitching forward into Nate's touch instinctively, a quiet gasp breaking free from his lips. And Nate drank in every reaction—every subtle shift in Y/N's body, every breathless sound—as if it were his favorite song playing just for him.

Nate's thumb dragged along the tip through the boxers, applying just enough pressure to make Y/N moan again, louder this time.

The fabric was damp now—proof of how much Y/N wanted him.

And Nate had every intention of making him beg as his hand moved in a slow, torturous rhythm over the front of Y/N's boxers with practiced ease. The thin fabric did nothing to dull the sensation—if anything, it heightened it, making every pass of Nate's fingers feel hotter, heavier. Y/N's breath had grown shallow, his body pressing forward, hips subtly rocking into the pressure, seeking more.

But Nate didn't give more—at least not yet.

Instead, he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Y/N's ear as he whispered, voice smooth and laced with wicked amusement.

"So sensitive already," he murmured, letting his thumb circle right over the head through the fabric. "You're aching for me, aren't you? I can feel it."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, hands curling slightly against Nate's chest as a low groan escaped him. Nate smirked, letting his teeth graze the edge of Y/N's jaw before pulling back just enough to look him over—shirtless, flushed, lips parted in anticipation. Absolutely stunning.

But this wasn't just about teasing.

Not tonight.

Tonight was about something deeper—heat, yes, but wrapped in care, in connection, in the slow-burning intimacy of being truly seen.

Nate's expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to something warmer. He dropped his gaze and slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Y/N's boxers. Slowly, reverently, he eased them down, his knuckles brushing against Y/N's dick as he freed it from the soft cotton. It bounced free, thick and already leaking, the head flushed a deep shade of red.

Nate exhaled through his nose, almost like he was grounding himself at the sight.

"Beautiful," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The boxers fell the rest of the way to the floor, leaving Y/N fully exposed, and before he could even react, Nate's hands slid down, cupping the curve of his ass with both palms. He squeezed firmly—possessive and grounding—then pulled Y/N flush against him in one fluid motion, their skin colliding with a soft slap of heat meeting heat.

Y/N's dick pressed against Nate's abdomen, leaving a smear of precum in its wake, and Nate relished the sensation—the warmth, the weight of him, the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces long meant to align.

He pressed his forehead to Y/N's, their breaths mingling, hands still holding him close.

"No more barriers," Nate whispered, voice low and full of promise. "Just us."

Nate's lips found Y/N's again, the kiss slow and deep, full of warmth and want—a quiet promise wrapped in heat. His hands held Y/N's face gently at first, thumbs brushing his jaw as their mouths moved together with practiced rhythm. There was no urgency, just intensity, like Nate wanted to savor every second their lips touched.

Without breaking the kiss, Nate began to guide him backward, one hand sliding down Y/N's chest, fingers dragging lightly across heated skin. He nudged him gently toward the bed, their bodies moving as one, until the backs of Y/N's legs met the edge of the mattress.

Nate broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Lie back for me."

Y/N obeyed without hesitation, sinking onto the bed with a soft exhale, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hair splayed out across the pillows, and the warm, low lighting painted golden highlights across his bare skin. He looked flushed and stunning, completely at ease beneath Nate's gaze.

Nate followed immediately, climbing on top of him in a slow, fluid motion, like a panther stalking its prey—but this wasn't about conquest. It was reverence. Devotion. Desire wrapped in affection.

He started with a kiss just above Y/N's navel, lips parting against warm skin. Then another, just below the curve of his ribs. He trailed upward with purpose, kissing a slow, sensual path across the dip of Y/N's stomach, to his sternum, to the center of his chest. Each kiss lingered, lips warm and open, tongue occasionally flicking out to taste as Nate moved higher.

His hands roamed as his mouth did—one splayed across Y/N's side, fingers tracing along his ribs, the other dragging down his thigh, grounding them both in the closeness of skin-on-skin.

Y/N's breath hitched with every kiss, every stroke of Nate's mouth. He arched slightly, instinctively, offering more of himself as Nate made his way up his body.

Then Nate reached his neck.

He kissed along the curve slowly, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ear, then down to the hollow of his throat. One kiss turned into two... then three. His mouth opened slightly, and he sucked gently at a spot just below the jaw, pulling a low moan from Y/N's lips.

"You taste so good," Nate murmured against his skin, his voice thick, almost dazed with hunger.

Y/N's hands found Nate's back, fingers digging in lightly as if to hold him closer, to anchor himself in the pleasure.

And Nate continued his worship—mouth, hands, body pressed fully to Y/N's now—letting every kiss say what words never could.

Nate then leaned over Y/N, the heat between their bodies humming like a live current. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, every breath shared between them drawing deeper, heavier, more electric. His eyes never left Y/N's face—flushed, lips parted, eyes dark and waiting. There was no mistaking the trust there. The want. The silent plea: I'm yours. Take your time, but don't hold back.

With a breath through his nose, Nate brought his hand to his mouth, his gaze never wavering. He slipped two fingers between his lips, coating them thoroughly with saliva, his tongue curling around them, slow and deliberate. It wasn't just about readiness—it was about intent. Preparation as a form of care, of promise. And the way Y/N's breath hitched at the sight made a thrill run down Nate's spine.

When his fingers were slick, he pulled them free, dragging them slowly past Y/N's hip and down between his thighs. Y/N shifted instinctively, spreading his legs further, opening himself up with a quiet vulnerability that made Nate's chest ache.

Nate's hand was gentle as it reached him, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly over the sensitive skin around Y/N's entrance. He didn't push in right away—he took his time, circling the rim with slow, teasing passes, watching the way Y/N's body twitched under the attention.

"You okay?" Nate murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

Y/N nodded, a breathy, "Yes," slipping past his lips, already trembling with need.

At that, Nate gently pressed one finger inside, his pace unhurried, letting Y/N's body adjust to the intrusion. The tight heat of it made his breath falter for just a moment, but he focused—this was about Y/N, about preparing him the way he deserved.

Once his first finger was buried to the knuckle, he moved with care, curling slightly, then withdrawing just a bit before pushing in again. His other hand rested on Y/N's thigh, grounding them both, thumb drawing soft circles into his skin.

Then, after a moment, Nate eased the second finger in beside the first.

Y/N gasped, his back arching slightly at the stretch, but Nate stilled, offering him time, whispering soft encouragements against his skin.

"That's it... you're doing so good for me."

He began to move then, fingers sliding in a slow, deliberate rhythm—scissoring gently, stretching him open bit by bit. The wet sounds between them were subtle but unmistakable, and every time Nate brushed against that spot deep inside, Y/N's breath would stutter, his hands fisting in the sheets.

Nate watched it all unfold—the way Y/N's thighs trembled, the way his mouth fell open in helpless pleasure—and he knew, without a doubt, that the night was just beginning.

He reached forward, hands wrapping firmly but gently around Y/N's ankles, lifting and spreading them apart with care. He guided Y/N's legs upward, bending them slightly as he held them in place, exposing everything to him. Y/N looked back at him through half-lidded eyes, breath shallow, chest rising and falling with growing anticipation.

Nate's dick throbbed, already flushed and slick, the head glistening with precum. He guided it down with one hand, brushing it against the cleft of Y/N's ass before settling it at the entrance—already open, stretched, warm and glistening from the prep.

The pink tip met Y/N's hole with a teasing nudge, and both of them let out quiet, involuntary breaths at the contact.

Nate leaned in slightly, adjusting his grip on Y/N's legs as he whispered, "You ready?"

Y/N nodded, voice soft, breathy. "Yes... please."

That was all Nate needed.

He pressed forward, slow and controlled, letting the head of his dick breach Y/N's entrance with practiced ease. The heat of it wrapped around him immediately, tight but yielding, welcoming him in inch by inch. Y/N's body opened for him like it was meant to—slick and ready, no resistance, just the wet slide of Nate easing deeper inside.

A groan rumbled from Nate's chest as he sank in further, his fingers tightening slightly around Y/N's ankles. The feeling was intoxicating—Y/N was so warm, so tight, the way his body clung to every inch made Nate's head fall forward briefly, eyes fluttering shut to focus on the overwhelming sensation.

Y/N moaned softly beneath him, lips parted, his back arching just enough to shift the angle and let Nate slide in deeper. The sound only made Nate's pulse pound harder in his ears.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity drawn out in heartbeats and shallow breaths, Nate bottomed out—his hips flush against Y/N's, buried to the hilt. He paused there, breathing hard, taking it all in—the warmth, the closeness, the intimacy of being joined like this.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes glassy, mouth curved in a lazy, satisfied smile. "Perfect," he whispered, voice hoarse.

Nate leaned in, kissed the inside of his ankle, and murmured, "We're just getting started."

He held still for just a moment longer, letting them both feel the full weight of it—of him. His hands remained steady around Y/N's ankles, keeping his legs open and spread as he drank in the view beneath him. Y/N was breathtaking like this—completely bare, flushed from head to toe, chest rising and falling with soft, eager breaths, lips slightly parted in anticipation.

Then, slowly, Nate began to move.

His hips pulled back, just enough for the thick slide of his dick to drag along every inch of Y/N's stretched heat, and then he pushed forward again—sharply, with purpose, but never rough. It was a sensual rhythm, a deep, grounded thrust that had Y/N gasping softly, his fingers gripping at the sheets, eyes fluttering shut.

Nate set a deliberate pace—measured, focused. He wasn't chasing release. He was savoring this. Savoring him.

The room filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin, the wet heat between them singing with each deep push. Nate's thrusts weren't rushed or frantic—they were intimate, sensual, meant to make Y/N feel every inch of him. Every slow retreat, every smooth return, every angle carefully aimed to make Y/N shudder beneath him.

"God... you feel so good," Nate breathed, voice rough and low, full of reverence and something deeper—something that felt like the start of something real.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes hazy, lips trembling with a quiet moan as he whispered back, "So do you... Nate..."

That single sound—his name on Y/N's lips—made Nate's heart thrum in his chest. He leaned forward, shifting his grip from Y/N's ankles to the bend of his knees, folding him gently as he pressed their bodies closer together, never breaking the steady rhythm of his hips.

Tonight was special.

Their first date—hours earlier—had been perfect. Laughter over dinner, soft looks exchanged beneath city lights, hands brushing together until they finally linked. And now, here they were, tangled together, connected in every way. Nate didn't want to rush any part of this. Not the way Y/N sighed his name. Not the way his body welcomed him so willingly. Not the way their souls seemed to align with every shared breath.

So he thrust with care—deep, slow, sensual strokes that made Y/N gasp and squirm and melt beneath him. Each push forward was a promise.

I want more of this. More of you. This isn't the end of the night—it's just the beginning.

And as Nate bent down to press a kiss to Y/N's lips—gentle, slow, but burning with intensity—he whispered, "First date or not... I'm not letting you go."

His thrusts remained steady, deliberate—each one rolling through Y/N's body like a wave of heat. The tension between them was thick, electric, humming with that delicate balance of restraint and rising need. Nate was in no rush. He was building something—moment by moment, breath by breath—letting Y/N feel the full weight of his presence with every slow, sensual drive of his hips.

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, a harmony of breath and skin and want.

But then something shifted in Nate's eyes.

A flicker of deeper hunger. Of closeness not yet close enough.

Without a word, he adjusted his posture, his hands sliding away from Y/N's knees—fingers trailing along flushed skin until they found the dip of his waist. His grip tightened, firm but full of care, fingers pressing into the warm flesh of Y/N's hips as he pulled him forward in one fluid, controlled motion.

The effect was immediate.

Y/N gasped as his body was drawn flush against Nate's, Nate's dick plunging deeper, reaching places inside him that made his back arch and his hands claw helplessly at the sheets beneath them.

Nate groaned low and sharp at the sensation—the tight heat of Y/N's body taking him in so completely, so perfectly, it nearly shattered his focus. His thumbs dug into the hollows of Y/N's hips, holding him there, keeping him exactly where he wanted him—close, stretched, trembling.

"Just like that..." Nate murmured, breath brushing across Y/N's thigh as his thrusts deepened, each one slow and strong, driving into him with a sensual power that left Y/N panting. "You feel incredible."

He rolled his hips again, dragging his dick almost all the way out before sinking back in—deeper now, thicker, filling every inch of Y/N's body with practiced ease. The wet sounds between them were soft but lewd, mingling with the quiet creak of the bed and Y/N's broken moans.

Y/N's legs wrapped instinctively around Nate's waist, trying to anchor himself, to pull him even closer. Nate's hands remained firm, guiding his body with each thrust, his fingers digging in just enough to mark the moment on his skin.

Every move was deliberate. Every stroke meant to say: I'm here. I'm with you. And I'm not stopping until you fall apart in my arms.

And in that moment—full of heat, connection, and deep affection—Nate's grip tightened just slightly as he pulled Y/N in again, dick buried to the hilt, and whispered against his skin,

"I want you to remember this... every inch of it."

The pleasure between them was no longer a low hum; it had become a steady current pulsing through every point of contact. Y/N's body rocked beneath him, supple and open, breath catching with every deeper thrust.

Then Nate leaned down, closing the space between them, and captured Y/N's lips in a kiss that was equal parts heat and tenderness. Their mouths collided—wet, open, breathless. Nate's lips moved over Y/N's with urgency now, not rough, but hungry, like he needed to taste him just as badly as he needed to feel him.

The kiss was messy in the best way, mouths parting only to draw in quick, shallow breaths before reconnecting again. Nate swallowed every moan Y/N gave him, every broken gasp that slipped through the seam of his lips each time Nate's dick drove a little deeper, a little harder, right into that spot that made Y/N tremble beneath him.

Nate groaned lowly into Y/N's mouth, the sound vibrating against Y/N's lips, and the way his body tightened in response was everything. His hands slid from Y/N's waist up his sides, then back down again—touching, gripping, grounding them both as his hips began to thrust faster, more insistent now, but still intimate.

Their kisses turned into panting exchanges between moans—hot breaths mingling, lips brushing, then colliding again.

Y/N's fingers tangled in the short hair at the nape of Nate's neck, holding him there, needing that kiss just as much as the rhythm of his body moving inside him.

Nate broke away only briefly to whisper against Y/N's lips, his voice ragged with heat, "You sound so fucking good... every time I push into you."

Y/N moaned again, head tipping back slightly as Nate thrust harder, deeper, the angle just right to drag a cry from his throat.

Nate chased it—with his hips, with his mouth, with everything he had.

And with every kiss and every thrust, it became more than just pleasure—it was something raw, something consuming.

It was them.

Nate's rhythm deepened into something urgent—something primal. The slow, sensual pacing from earlier had transformed into harder, more powerful thrusts, each one hitting deeper, sharper, as his need to push Y/N closer to the edge took over. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room in rhythmic bursts—wet, heavy, and unmistakably raw. The slap of skin on skin echoed off the walls, a lewd symphony of movement and mounting pleasure.

Sweat clung to Nate's skin, his muscles flexing with every snap of his hips, but his focus never wavered from Y/N—flushed, panting, writhing beneath him. Every gasp, every moan that spilled from Y/N's mouth only pushed Nate further, igniting the fire that blazed in his gut.

He shifted slightly, angling his body just enough to press even deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside Y/N with unrelenting consistency. Y/N's fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, mouth open in a string of broken sounds that barely formed words.

Then Nate's hand slid between them, slick and sure, wrapping around Y/N's dick with practiced ease.

His palm was hot, fingers stroking in tandem with the rhythm of his thrusts—tight, fast, just the right amount of pressure. The dual stimulation made Y/N arch off the mattress, a desperate cry tearing from his throat as his eyes fluttered shut.

"That's it," Nate growled, his breath ragged as he leaned over him, hips slamming forward with more power. "Let go for me... come for me..."

Y/N's body was trembling, teetering on the edge, his dick leaking freely into Nate's hand, thighs quivering around Nate's waist.

Nate's own climax was building fast now—the coil tightening low in his spine, the burn in his legs, the desperate pulse of his dick as it drove deeper and deeper. Every thrust was a chase, a promise. His grip on Y/N's dick pumped faster, matching the pace of his hips.

The slap of skin meeting skin filled the air, mixing with the gasps, moans, and the steady creak of the bed beneath them. The whole room felt drenched in heat and breath and tension, building to that one inevitable explosion they were both racing toward.

And Nate wasn't letting go until Y/N shattered first—until he felt Y/N's body clamp down around him, pulling him over the edge with him.

Suddenly, Y/N's breath caught in his throat, his entire body going rigid as a powerful wave of heat surged through him. His dick twitched violently in Nate's grip—once, twice—before thick ropes of hot release spilled out, painting Nate's hand and Y/N's own stomach in slick, glistening strands. The pleasure hit him in full force, dragging a moan from his chest that echoed through the room, raw and broken.

His thighs trembled as his body arched off the bed, every nerve lit up, his mind momentarily blank with the sheer intensity of his climax. His walls clenched tightly around Nate's dick as the aftershocks rippled through him, milking every inch with pulsing contractions that nearly made Nate lose control right then and there.

Nate's eyes dropped to the sight—Y/N panting, spent, flushed and utterly wrecked beneath him, and his own hand slick and glistening with Y/N's release. He groaned low, his jaw flexing with restraint, and without pausing in his steady, powerful thrusts, he brought that hand up between them.

He stared at it for a brief moment—Y/N's cum glistening across his fingers—before he wrapped his lips around them, one by one, tongue curling between each digit as he sucked the evidence of Y/N's climax off with slow, deliberate motions. His eyes never left Y/N's face while he did it, gaze smoldering with heat and satisfaction.

"You taste just as fucking good as you feel," Nate rasped, voice low and frayed with arousal.

Still driving into him with steady, punishing thrusts, Nate used his now-clean hand to grab Y/N's hip again, anchoring himself as he chased his own release. The tight clutch of Y/N's body around him, still fluttering from orgasm, only pushed him closer.

His thrusts became erratic, hips jerking forward harder, deeper, fueled by the sounds of Y/N's breathless moans and the memory of his taste still lingering on Nate's tongue.

And as the heat at the base of his spine exploded into blinding pleasure, Nate knew—he wasn't just coming apart inside Y/N.

He was falling, completely.

Nate's pace faltered for just a moment—his hips stuttering as the heat coiling in his lower abdomen finally surged forward, threatening to overtake him. He groaned, low and guttural, his entire body tightening as the climax crested fast and hard. The way Y/N's body still clenched around him, hot and slick from release, only drove him faster toward the edge.

"Fuck—Y/N," he hissed through gritted teeth, pulling back in one swift motion.

His dick slipped free with a wet sound, flushed and pulsing, and he wrapped his hand around the base just in time. A second later, he came—hot, thick spurts spilling out in heavy waves across Y/N's stomach, streaking across flushed skin in glistening ropes. His breath came in sharp gasps, hips jerking with each pulse as he released all over Y/N's trembling body.

He hovered there for a moment, breathing hard, his chest heaving with the aftershocks as he watched the way his seed marked Y/N—on his belly, his skin slick with sweat and release, looking utterly wrecked and beautiful beneath him.

But Nate wasn't finished.

Once the tremors in his muscles settled and his breath began to even out, he lowered himself again—slow and intentional, like gravity was drawing him back to Y/N. His fingers trailed lightly across Y/N's abdomen, tracing through the warm mess he'd left behind. Without hesitation, he brought those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low, appreciative hum, eyes locked on Y/N's the entire time.

The taste, the intimacy, the act—it was raw, deeply sensual. Intimate in a way that wasn't just about sex. It was about closeness. Comfort. Trust.

Then Nate leaned in, catching Y/N's jaw with one hand, and kissed him—deep, slow, and messy. His tongue parted Y/N's lips easily, sharing the taste of their bodies, the heat of the moment, everything they'd just poured into each other. The kiss was lazy but lingering, a slow drag of mouths pressed together in the afterglow of something that felt a hell of a lot like love in its earliest, hungriest form.

"You're perfect," Nate murmured against Y/N's lips, still tasting him.

And in that moment, with their bodies spent and tangled, nothing else mattered.

THE hotel room had fallen into a deep, comforting stillness—the kind of quiet that only came after passion had given way to peace. The energy that had once crackled between them like a live wire now pulsed gently, muted and warm, blanketing the space in something that felt far more intimate than lust. The echoes of earlier moans and whispered names still lingered in the air, but they'd softened now, replaced by the steady rhythm of two people simply being—together, vulnerable, real.

Moonlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting a cool, silvery wash over tangled sheets and bare skin. The soft hum of the city below was distant and blurred, like background music to a moment that no longer belonged to the outside world. In here, everything was slower. Softer. More sacred.

They were sprawled in the center of the bed, limbs entwined in the kind of closeness that didn't require movement or words. The sheets were twisted around their legs, pillows scattered and forgotten. Skin pressed to skin—warm, bare, breathing in sync.

Y/N lay curled against Nate's chest, his cheek resting just over Nate's heart, where the steady beat grounded him like an anchor. His fingers traced lazy, mindless shapes across Nate's stomach—lines, circles, nothing with purpose except the act of touch. Of knowing Nate was real. Still here. Still his.

Nate had one arm cradled around Y/N's back, his hand stroking along the slope of his shoulder in slow, soothing motions. The other arm was bent behind his head, but his attention wasn't drifting. He was fully present, eyes lowered to Y/N, watching the way his lashes fluttered now and then. The way his lips parted when he sighed, like something sat just behind his breath, waiting to be spoken.

And Nate knew that look. He knew Y/N's silences better than anyone.

So he didn't ask. He didn't rush.

He just waited.

Until finally, Y/N stirred. He shifted slightly, head tilting up so he could see Nate's face—bathed in moonlight and softened by the aftermath of everything they'd shared. His usual edge, that quiet confidence that framed his every move, had melted into something quieter. Something tender.

Y/N studied him for a moment, like he was gathering the courage to crack open a door he'd kept closed for too long.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "I never said it back."

Nate blinked, lifting his head from the pillow, brow furrowed—not with confusion, but with the kind of tension that came from knowing exactly what was coming and needing to hear it anyway.

"Said what?" His voice was soft, coaxing, careful.

Y/N's eyes didn't waver. They held Nate's with full vulnerability, nothing hidden, no guards left standing.

"That I love you."

The words hung in the space between them like a held breath—quiet, unscripted, but alive with meaning. They didn't need music, didn't need candles or the perfect timing. They were perfect, because they were true.

Nate stared at him for a long moment. Not in disbelief—he'd known. He'd felt it in the way Y/N kissed him, the way he looked at him when he thought Nate wasn't paying attention, the way he gave himself without hesitation even when his heart was full of questions.

But hearing it—really hearing it—was something else entirely.

A slow, tender smile broke across Nate's face. Not smug. Not cocky. Just full. Full of relief. Of joy. Of something deep and reverent.

He brought his hand up from Y/N's shoulder, cradling the back of his head and pulling him closer, holding him like something precious.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear that," he whispered, his lips brushing Y/N's temple.

Y/N smiled into Nate's chest, nuzzling closer, his voice small but content. "I think I did. I just... needed to be sure."

Nate leaned back just enough to look into his eyes, his thumb brushing along Y/N's cheek. "You're sure now?"

The teasing note in his voice was gentle, affectionate—just a spark of playfulness between the weight of truth.

Y/N nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yeah," he said, voice firm, clear, steady. "I'm sure."

And with that, Nate exhaled—a long, slow breath that seemed to release everything he'd been holding inside.

"Good," he said softly, pulling Y/N against him again. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

The words weren't grand. They didn't need to be.

They were everything.

And as they lay there, chest to chest, hearts beating in time beneath the silver wash of moonlight, the world outside faded into silence. No noise. No rush. Just two souls finally settled into place—wrapped in warmth, surrounded by stillness, and grounded by the kind of love that didn't need to be chased anymore. It had already been found.

FIVE years later, the world around them had shifted—new cities, new routines, new pressures—but Nate and Y/N remained unmistakably, stubbornly them. The sharp banter, the relentless teasing, the dramatic debates over who actually started the laundry but never finished it—all of it had endured. The difference now? That chaos existed within something lasting. Something they had built brick by brick, through sweat, sacrifice, and the kind of love that doesn't waver when the real world presses in.

Their relationship had ripened into something steady, rich with the quiet depth that time brings. The kind of bond forged not just in kisses and soft touches, but in choosing each other—over and over—on the days when life was loud, when tempers flared, or when exhaustion settled into their bones. They had learned how to bend without breaking, how to speak in silences, how to apologize with a look and forgive with a touch.

After graduation, they'd closed the chapter on dorm rooms and late-night campus strolls, trading them in for a cozy apartment nestled on the fourth floor of an old brick building in the heart of the city. It wasn't fancy—no doorman, no pristine granite countertops—but it was them. The exposed brick walls were scattered with framed photos from their college years, game nights with friends, and polaroids of them brushing their teeth together, half-asleep. The large windows welcomed in soft morning light that bathed their mismatched furniture in gold. And the scent—part Nate's warm cologne, part Y/N's vanilla-amber candles—had, over time, become the smell of home.

Y/N had gone pro—not just a rising star on the track, but a name that fans now chanted in stadiums across the country. His days started early, filled with grueling workouts and relentless travel schedules. But no matter how far he flew or how many medals he brought home, he always returned to Nate with tired eyes and a content heart. There was never a moment too small for them—a shared takeout dinner on the couch, brushing their teeth side by side, curled up watching reruns with feet tangled beneath throw blankets.

Nate had made it into the league, too. Drafted to a team that didn't just want his arm—they wanted his mind, his drive, his fire. He'd become a cornerstone on the field, not just for his performance but for the kind of leadership that demanded respect. He still had that signature edge, the one that first made him electric—but it had been softened by love. By Y/N. He was still intense, still passionate, but now he was grounded. No longer just playing to win, but playing for something more—for the life they'd created, the future they were building.

They supported each other like clockwork. Nate brought home flowers on Y/N's recovery days—sunflowers when he was happy, tulips when he wasn't saying much. He never made a big deal of it, just placed them in the chipped vase on the kitchen table and kissed Y/N's cheek like it was any other Tuesday. Y/N, in turn, left notes in Nate's gear bag—ridiculous puns, inside jokes, or scrawled confessions of how proud he was. Nate pretended to groan about them in the locker room, but he kept every single one folded in the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

Their home was lived in and loved through—medals on the mantle, cleats by the door, half-solved crossword puzzles on the coffee table. A slightly lopsided bookshelf—assembled during one of Nate's I got this weekends—leaned a little too far left but never fell, much like their love.

And no matter how fast the world spun—no matter the away games, endorsement deals, media pressure, or long-haul flights—they always found their way back to each other. To that apartment. To that bed with the faded sheets. To the kind of love that made Sunday mornings sacred—waking late, limbs tangled, coffee forgotten on the nightstand as they stayed wrapped in each other just a little longer.

They still fought. Still flirted like it was the first night. Still laughed until one of them snorted. They were older now, wiser in some ways, but still wild about each other.

They hadn't changed much.

But they had grown into something extraordinary.

And five years later, they were still, irrevocably, in love.

THE locker room was alive with noise—booming voices, the clatter of cleats against tile, showers hissing open in the background, and the ever-present stench of sweat, turf, and testosterone. It was the kind of chaos only a professional football team could generate after an intense practice—bruises half-forgotten, adrenaline still thrumming, teammates laughing too loudly about fumbled plays and near tackles that had turned into unexpected highlights.

Towels were tossed like missiles across the room. Jokes were shouted from one end to the other. Someone had queued up music from a portable speaker, the bass heavy enough to rattle the metal lockers.

But Nate Jacobs was in his own world.

He sat at his cubby near the back wall, stripped halfway out of his uniform, methodically peeling off the soaked fabric of his jersey and shoulder pads with the ease of habit. His muscular frame glistened with a post-practice sheen, his skin flushed from exertion, veins prominent down his forearms and neck. Every movement was deliberate—no wasted energy, no rush. His breathing had slowed, and though his body was fatigued, his expression was relaxed. Grounded.

This was not the Nate Jacobs of five years ago—the one who let pressure wrap around his spine like barbed wire, the one who snapped first and thought later, who mistook rage for resolve.

This Nate was quieter. Not soft—he was still fire when the game called for it—but he'd learned how to wield that fire differently. With purpose. With control.

His jaw, once always tight with tension, now relaxed with a subtle curve. His brows didn't knit together like they used to. His hair—shorter now, neatly edged with curls just beginning to reform around his temples—still held the faint dampness from where his helmet had pressed it flat. Y/N called it his "good boy" haircut. Said it made him look like a reformed heartthrob who finally paid off his student loans and started therapy. Nate had rolled his eyes at the time, but the memory made him smirk now.

He reached into his locker, brushing past the usual post-practice clutter: a towel slung over a protein bar he hadn't touched, a pair of joggers, half-drunk water bottle, neatly stacked gear. At the very back, nestled between his backup cleats and a roll of wrist tape, sat his phone.

It lit up the second his fingers grazed the screen.

There it was.

Y/N's face filled the lock screen—his lips exaggerated into an obnoxious pout, hoodie draped around his shoulders, hair messily fluffed up like he'd just rolled out of bed. The image was ridiculous and endearing, taken in a flash of morning light that made his skin glow and his eyes sparkle even beneath the theatrics. It had started as a joke selfie. But Nate had never changed it.

Because every time he looked at it, his chest tugged in that quiet, aching way it always did when it came to Y/N.

He unlocked the phone.

A text sat waiting at the top of his notifications.

Y/N: Don't forget, babe—dinner's on me tonight. You just show up hungry and pretty.

Nate huffed a soft laugh through his nose, thumb tapping the screen to reply.

Nate: Always.

But before he could close it, another message buzzed in.

Mom: Reminder: pick up your brother tomorrow for dinner tomorrow. Don't make me text Y/N to make sure it happens.

He groaned, rolling his eyes—but with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He sent a quick reply, "We got it. Don't worry." Then shoved the phone back into his locker.

Around him, the team was still loud—someone was trying to argue that they hadn't technically stepped out of bounds, another guy was recounting his impossible catch like it belonged in the Hall of Fame. The music kept thumping.

But for Nate, it all dimmed into background static.

Because in his mind, he was already gone from here.

He was already walking through the front door of their apartment, greeted by the smell of something warm on the stove. Already kicking off his shoes while Y/N hummed off-key in the kitchen, arms waving in chaotic rhythm to whatever music he had playing. Already imagining the soft press of a kiss, the sound of Y/N's voice teasing him for being late, the heat of two bodies curling on the couch after dinner—tangled in each other, sharing silence that didn't need to be filled.

This life—their life—wasn't always perfect. It was messy, loud, full of stubbornness and laughter and late-night grocery runs. But it was real. Built with hands that had once only known how to push people away, now creating something worth holding onto.

And as Nate leaned back against the cool metal of his locker, muscles sore, hair damp, heart full—he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He wouldn't trade it for anything.

THE front door creaked open with a low groan, the hinges announcing Nate's return like an old companion. A beat later, the familiar clink of his keys landing in the shallow ceramic bowl by the entryway echoed through the quiet apartment. It was a sound Y/N had grown to love—one that said he's home, no matter how late it was or how long the day had dragged on.

Nate's path through the apartment was a breadcrumb trail of exhaustion. His cleats were the first to go, kicked off just inside the door. His gym bag came next, thudding softly to the floor near the hallway. Then his jacket, half-draped over the back of a chair, the sleeves still warm from his body heat. Every discarded item was a silent testament to the grueling practice he'd just survived—his way of peeling off the day piece by piece until only the man remained beneath the armor of sweat and routine.

His body ached—thighs burning from endless sprint drills, shoulders sore from too many tackles, fingers bruised from one-too-many helmet grips—but it didn't matter. None of it did. Because the moment he stepped through that door, he wasn't the quarterback anymore.

He was just Nate.

And more importantly, he was home.

The scent of something warm and savory teased at the edges of his senses, pulling him forward like a thread. Garlic. Maybe thyme. Something rich and bubbling. It wrapped around him like a blanket, easing the stiffness from his bones better than any ice bath ever could. He followed it straight to the kitchen, drawn by more than just hunger.

There he was.

Y/N stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing one of Nate's old college T-shirts—the faded navy one with the cracked logo and the stretched-out collar that hung just a little too wide around the shoulders. It swam on him in the most perfect way, clinging to his back, barely covering the curve of his thighs. He was humming—terribly off-key, as always—completely unbothered, spoon in hand as he tasted whatever simmered in the pan with a soft, pleased hum.

Nate's stomach growled loudly in protest, but he barely noticed. He was too busy watching him.

"Greedy," he muttered under his breath, a tired smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Y/N didn't turn, but his response came immediately, tone full of teasing edge. "If you were home on time, you might've had first dibs."

Nate rolled his eyes—but he wasn't interested in the food. Not yet.

The distance between them evaporated in a few long strides. He came up behind Y/N and wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, sliding his hands beneath the oversized shirt to rest against warm skin. He pressed his chest firmly into Y/N's back, his face tucking into the crook of his neck with a deep, contented sigh. The contact was immediate, grounding. The heat of him bled through their skin like they were two halves snapping back into place.

Y/N froze for a fraction of a second, then let out a soft, knowing laugh. "You're disgusting," he said, even as he leaned back into the embrace without hesitation, spoon still in hand.

"Yeah," Nate murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder, "but I missed you."

And he meant it.

Not just in the casual, throwaway way people toss around after a long day—but with the weight of someone who'd spent hours pushing his body to the brink, aching for this exact moment. The kind of missing that clung to his chest and softened his spine the second Y/N was within reach.

Y/N turned his head, just enough to catch Nate's face in the corner of his vision. His hair was damp, curling at the edges, plastered to his forehead. His eyes were half-closed, features slack with that rare kind of quiet Nate only ever showed here. With him.

Y/N's teasing faded into something softer. "I missed you too."

Nate's arms tightened, just a little—like if he could press their bodies closer, he'd never have to leave again. His breath was warm against Y/N's neck, his hands splayed possessively across his stomach. Everything about him screamed exhaustion, but underneath it was something fierce. Devoted.

They stood there in silence, swaying slightly in the glow of the under-cabinet lights, the room smelling of roasted garlic and something baking in the oven. The world was still loud outside—coaches and deadlines and blinding stadium lights—but in here, it was just the rhythm of shared space, the quiet pulse of love wrapped in domestic stillness.

Because love, as they'd both come to learn, wasn't just grand gestures or perfect timing.

It was sweaty jerseys clinging to sore muscles. It was missed dinners and back hugs. It was laughing over bad singing and kissing someone who smelled like turf and body wash and home.

And it was always, always worth it.

Nate let out a groan in protest as Y/N peeled out of his arms, the warmth of his body slipping away too soon for his liking. His forehead dropped briefly to Y/N's shoulder, a dramatic sigh puffing against the fabric of his shirt. Still, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, amused by how quickly Y/N was trying to squirm out of the clinginess he'd clearly missed.

"Come on," Y/N said, shooting him a playful look over his shoulder as he nudged him lightly in the ribs. "You smell like a locker room and a grudge. Go shower before I lose my appetite entirely."

Nate rolled his eyes, reluctant but amused, his arms still looped around Y/N's waist like they were magnetized there. "Only if you join me," he said, voice low and teasing, a familiar spark flashing through the exhaustion in his eyes.

Y/N huffed a short laugh, shaking his head as he tried to duck out of Nate's hold. "You always say that like I'm the one who needs convincing." He turned back toward the stove, but not without tossing a glance over his shoulder. "Fine. Go warm the water. I'll be there once I make sure you don't burn down dinner."

That earned a small, smug grin from Nate, who he leaned down, cupping Y/N's jaw gently with one hand and pressing a kiss to his lips. It wasn't rushed or hungry—just slow, tender, full. A kiss that carried the weight of a long day and the comfort of coming home. It lingered for a moment longer than necessary, until Y/N sighed softly against his mouth.

Then, with one final brush of his thumb across Y/N's cheek, Nate turned and headed down the hallway, already tugging his sweat-dampened shirt over his head, revealing the broad stretch of his back as he disappeared around the corner. The sound of the bathroom door creaking open was followed shortly by the rush of running water, muted but steady, like another quiet heartbeat in the apartment.

Y/N watched him go with a fond shake of his head, a quiet smile tugging at his lips as he turned back to the stove. He lowered the heat beneath the pan and gave its contents a stir, the aroma of garlic, rosemary, and seared meat wrapping around him like the softest blanket.

The apartment was full of warmth—physical and emotional.

From the simmering dinner on the stove to the faint sound of water running in the bathroom, from Nate's footsteps padding down the hall to the knowledge that this was their life now. A shared rhythm. A house full of softness and sarcasm, of long days and quiet nights, of missed moments that always found their way back to each other.

He didn't say it aloud, but as he leaned on the counter and took in the familiar scent of home and the quiet comfort of being wanted, Y/N knew—this was everything he'd ever hoped for.

Y/N moved slowly down the hallway, the soft pads of his bare feet sinking into the familiar rug beneath him, still warm from the lights left on in the apartment. The aroma of dinner still lingered in the air—garlic, rosemary, something distinctly home. The sound of running water drifted faintly from the bathroom, the steam beginning to seep into the hall like a gentle beckoning.

He was headed toward the bedroom, ready to join Nate in the shower, but something made him pause halfway down the corridor.

The gallery wall.

It was subtle, tucked along the inner hallway just before the bedroom. Not grand or overly decorated—just a series of framed snapshots arranged in an uneven but personal rhythm. And even though he passed them every day, tonight they tugged at him with quiet insistence.

He stopped.

His eyes roamed over the photos, fingers grazing one of the wooden frames, and for a moment, the sounds of the apartment faded into the background.

There they were—versions of him and Nate from the last five years.

One photo showed them in their college graduation gowns, caps crooked, Nate's tie half-loosened, Y/N sticking his tongue out while Nate tried to pretend he wasn't smiling.

Another: a candid from their first apartment, Y/N curled on the couch with a book, and Nate fast asleep beside him, mouth slightly open, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his chest.

There was one from Nate's first pro game—Y/N in the stands, screaming with a face painted in his team colors, caught mid-cheer while Nate stood in the background, sweaty and grinning, reaching up to wave to the stands. That moment had been a blur, but somehow, the camera caught everything.

Then came a photo from a quieter moment: the two of them on a trip upstate, wrapped in scarves, leaning against a wooden fence with mist-covered hills behind them. Nate's chin was resting on Y/N's shoulder, and both of them were smiling like they had nothing else in the world to worry about.

Y/N's chest swelled.

Every frame told a story—not just of time passing, but of growth. Of how far they'd come, from the tension-filled standoffs of early college days to the easy domestic rhythm they now lived in.

He lingered there for a moment longer, lips curling into a soft, private smile.

In the bathroom, he could hear the shower running still, the faint thud of something hitting the tile—probably Nate knocking over a bottle in his usual chaos.

Shaking his head fondly, Y/N finally pushed off the wall, continuing his walk down the hallway, toward the bedroom, toward the man waiting for him.

But as he passed the final photo—one of them on the couch, tangled together in sweats, smiling like the world had finally made sense—he whispered under his breath, "Yeah. We've done okay."

Just as Y/N reached for the bathroom door, warm steam curling out from beneath the frame, a knock echoed through the apartment. He paused mid-step, brows furrowing. It was late—too late for visitors, and they weren't expecting anyone.

Another knock followed, firm but not aggressive.

With a soft sigh, Y/N turned on his heel and made his way back through the hallway, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor to the front door. He glanced through the peephole, his brows knitting together tighter as he took in the sight of a woman with long blonde hair, holding the hand of a young boy who couldn't have been more than six.

Confused, Y/N unlocked the door and pulled it open cautiously. The woman's face was familiar in a way that made something uneasy settle in his gut.

"Hi," she said, voice delicate, uncertain. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "I'm looking for Nate Jacobs."

Y/N blinked, taking in her features—blonde, wide-eyed, nervous—and then looked down at the boy beside her. He had Nate's eyes. That same sharp jawline forming, the same messy dark brown hair. The resemblance was unmistakable.

"I'm Cassie," the woman added, swallowing hard. "Cassie Howard."

Y/N's heart skipped. He knew that name. Nate had mentioned her in passing once or twice—old history, he'd called it. Drama long buried under years of silence.

Y/N stepped back, stunned but composed enough to call out down the hallway. "Nate! You've got... someone at the door."

From the bathroom, Nate's voice called out, teasing and unaware. "They better be delivering champagne or you better be naked!"

Y/N didn't respond. He just kept his eyes on the woman and the boy.

Then came the sound of wet footsteps slapping against tile, the distant hum of the shower cutting off. A towel rustled. A door opened.

Moments later, Nate rounded the corner, shirtless, a towel slung low around his waist. The grin on his face faded the second he saw who stood in the doorway.

"...Cassie?" His voice was low, shocked. "What the hell—how did you even—" He glanced at the kid, his words faltering, unraveling.

Cassie's eyes softened. "Your mom. She told me where to find you." She reached down and gently squeezed the boy's hand. "And I wouldn't have come if it wasn't important."

Y/N stood off to the side now, his heart pounding, trying to piece together the math, the silence, the way Nate was staring at the boy like he'd seen a ghost.

Cassie took a deep breath. "I thought it was time you met your son."

The words hit the room like a thunderclap.

Nate's expression went blank, his towel-clad form suddenly very still. "My... what?"

Y/N felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at the boy again, really looked, and the resemblance slammed into him all at once.

The same eyes. Same mouth. Even the way the kid stood—defiant, guarded, familiar.

Cassie looked between them, her voice barely a whisper now. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how else to do this. But he's yours, Nate. And he's asking questions. And I just... I thought you should know."

Nate couldn't speak.

Y/N stepped back, his hand finding the edge of the wall for balance as the weight of the moment crushed down around him. The dinner. The laughter. The promise of a quiet night in each other's arms.

Gone.

So much for a happy ending.

[heliosunny]

I'm honestly curious on what you would do for Mystery Plant! The Herta

MYSTERY PLANT

Yandere!The Herta x Reader

She was born strange.

Not in the twitch-of-an-eye, whisper-behind-closed-doors kind of strange, but the kind that bent metal without touch, the kind that could see through lies like glass. Her parents called it a gift.

The villagers called it witchcraft.

And witchcraft, in their brittle, trembling hands, was never a compliment.

Still, the girl named Herta grew. She tamed lightning in glass bottles and coaxed moonlight into vials. She built a floating marionette out of bones of fallen birds.

They hated her for it.

And one night, under a blood-sick moon, they came. With pitchforks and fire.

They didn’t care that she was only thirteen. That she begged, not for her life, but for her mother’s, her father’s.

They set the house alight anyway.

But the fire didn’t win.

Because where her body had burned, right there, in the center of the ruin, something took root. From the blackened soil rose a rowan tree, its bark dark and smooth like ink, its leaves blood-red even in spring. A sentinel born of hatred.

The villagers tried to cut it down. They failed.

Herta had died, yes. But Herta also lingered. Not in the way ghosts do, aimless and mourning. She was rage with consciousness. In the quiet world beyond death, she rebuilt herself, piece by calculating piece.

She was no longer human.

----[Present]----

You were hungry.

Not desperate, just the kind of hungry that gnawed at the back of your ribs after hours of stalking things that slithered or skittered too fast to catch. The forest had been quiet today. The kind of quiet that made you feel like prey instead of hunter.

The sun dipped low behind grey clouds, and the wind began to smell like lightning. A storm was coming.

You adjusted the strap on your bow and stepped through the thick underbrush, boots squelching in the moss.

And then you saw it.

Tucked in a hollow near the edge of a black-barked rowan tree, there was a small structure. Stone, too precise for a ruin, too aged for something recent. There was something unnatural about how the wind bent around it. Like it was avoiding the place entirely.

You approached.

“...Don’t.”

The voice snapped from the shadows like a blade.

You froze, hand instinctively brushing your dagger. “Didn’t mean to trespass.” you said, glancing around. “Just looking for shelter. Storm’s rolling in.”

There was a pause. You couldn’t see her yet, but you felt her. Like pressure in your head.

“Monsters out there...” you added. “I’m more polite than most.”

“I’ve killed worse than monsters.” the voice said, closer now. “And I don’t like company.”

She stepped out from behind the tree like she'd always been part of it. Her presence was uncanny, but not threatening like a beast.

You raised a hand slightly, palm open. “You’re not the first to threaten me today. But you’re the first with a roof.”

“You talk too much.”

“Talking’s better than bleeding. What's your name?”

You realized she wasn’t breathing. Not like a normal person.

“I’ll leave after the storm. Just need a corner.” you said carefully.

There was a long pause. Then, she said “Herta. Stay by the firepit. Don’t touch anything.”

“Understood.”

The firepit flickered, low and stubborn. You sat with your knees up, trying to pretend you weren’t watching her.

Herta had returned to her corner, surrounded by odd glassware. A cauldron, no, not a cauldron. It looked more like a pressure orb with vines stitched into it, hummed as she adjusted dials with her pale fingers. Something green simmered inside.

You cleared your throat.

“So… that’s alchemy, or magic?”

No answer.

You leaned slightly. “I mean, no offense, but if this whole tree-house thing’s amazing.”

Crash.

Your elbow hit something behind you, a shelf of hanging trinkets, or what looked like dried bone charms. One fell. Shattered on the floor like brittle glass.

The light in the room dimmed.

And Herta slowly, silently turned.

She stared at the shards. Then at you.

You raised both hands, instantly contrite. “Okay. That was a bad one.”

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just broken?”

“Nope. And I feel like guessing would only make it worse.”

“Then don’t speak.”

You clamped your mouth shut. She turned back to her work with a sharp, mechanical grace, muttering under her breath. Something about containment seals and thaumaturgic decay. You didn’t dare ask.

Minutes passed. The storm outside hadn’t let up. Water dripped through the cracks in the stone ceiling in a slow rhythm. You tried to sit still, tried not to breathe too loud.

Then you heard it.

A low scraping sound.

It came from the far wall, where a thin crack ran near the floor, too small for anything solid. At least, you'd thought so.

You turned slowly. A clawed limb slithered through the hole, twitching. A wide, yellow eye followed it, pressing against the stone, unblinking.

Your voice was a whisper. “Uh. Herta?”

She didn’t look up.

“Yeah, well, something’s trying to crawl in. Thought that might interest you.”

Now she turned.

Her gaze fell on the creature, and for a moment, she looked almost bored. She lifted a finger. The air around her crackled. A spark of violet surged forward—zap—striking the limb. The monster shrieked and recoiled, but only for a second.

“Why’s it not dead?” you asked, already pulling your knife.

“Because that’s a scout.”

You slashed at the limb as it lunged again. Herta moved beside you, holding what looked like a sphere of swirling ink.

“Duck.”

You ducked.

She tossed the sphere. It imploded in mid-air with a thud, pulling the monster into itself with a screech like breaking glass.

But then… the walls trembled.

And from the distance came a thunderous groan. Not from the storm.

From something much worse.

Herta’s eyes narrowed.

“That,” she said, already grabbing something from a high shelf, “was the mother.”

You stood beside her. “So. That storm shelter still available?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t tell you to leave, either.

The storm passed like a beast tired of growling.

The morning after, golden light broke across the charred treetops and soaked the moss in warmth. You rolled your shoulders, pack light, blade cleaned, boots half-dry. You turned toward Herta, who stood near the roots of her twisted rowan, arms crossed, gaze somewhere distant.

“Thanks for not letting me die.”

Her eyes flicked toward you. “You did less damage than expected.”

“I’m flattered.”

You gave her a slight smile. She didn’t return it.

“Leave.”

“Well,” you said, slinging your bow over your shoulder, “I’ll keep your haunted treehouse a secret.”

You turned.

And then, suddenly—pop.

The ground under your feet vanished.

Your body stumbled mid-step, then landed hard on grass. You rolled and snapped up, blade half-drawn.

But her hut was gone.

You were standing in a completely different clearing, with nothing but disturbed earth where her house had once been.

You looked around. “...Really?”

[Some days later...]

In a village on the outskirts of the northern wilds, people began dying.

Quietly, at first. A fever here. A missing child there. But the signs grew stranger: animals with backwards legs, clocks that ticked in reverse, shadows that looked uncanny.

You returned after hearing whispers on your hunt route.

What you found was chaos.

You grabbed the nearest elder, a hunched man with old burns on his arms.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, just pointed toward the forest, where the trees looked wrong, bent like they were bowing toward something.

“She’s returned!” he whispered. “The witch! The child we burned.”

That night, you found her in the heart of the village. The rowan tree had grown taller, its branches like ribs over the square. Villagers crawled like insects under it. She stood at its roots, eyes aglow with unholy purpose.

“Herta!” you shouted.

She turned.

“I told you to leave.”

“I did leave. You brought me back into this.”

“I didn’t. You traced it yourself. Like a moth to flame.”

You stepped forward. “These people... maybe their ancestors were monsters, but these aren’t them.”

She tilted her head. “Do you think justice is erased with time?”

“No. But you’re not after justice. You’re after satisfaction.”

“And you’re here to stop me?”

You looked down at the villagers, then drew your blade. “I didn’t want to be.”

The fight was brief.

You were fast.

But she wasn’t human.

You landed a hit, just once, across her shoulder. She hissed. Not pain. Annoyance.

“I could have let you live.” she said coldly. “You could have remained a page in the chapter, nothing more.”

You panted, bleeding. “Guess I’m too talkative.”

“I warned you once. Maybe I should tell you this.”

She lifted her hand.

“You're also one of them.”

The last thing you saw was the shimmer of a gravity rune fracturing the world around your ribcage.

She stood over your body, observing. She brought your body to the base of the tree. The bark opened like a wound, and she laid what remained of your body into the hollow.

“You were inconvenient.” she murmured, almost thoughtfully. “But you were... reliable.”

She dipped her hand into the dark sap bleeding from the wood and etched runes into your skin.

“You wanted to protect them.” she whispered. “You failed.”

Then her lips brushed your brow.

“And now you’ll help me end them.”

The wind twisted. Your lungs filled again. You gasped.

Then she turned to the villagers, those still trapped in her spell, and walked past them, the wind pulling her cloak.

The revenge had begun.

“Kill them, my puppet.”

Days later…

You sat by the fire, sharpening a blade you didn’t remember forging. The stars were out. Herta stirred a pot of something pungent, her sleeves rolled up, mouth taut in focus.

You looked over. “Why do we stop here? We could’ve flown through the night.”

“Some of them went underground. I need clarity. You need rest.”

You nodded, trusting her word without thought. The edge of your knife caught firelight.

“Did I always use a blade?”

She glanced at you. “You tried magic once. It didn’t suit you.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds right.”

She didn’t smile back, but she didn’t correct you either.

The search continued.

There were nights flying on a two-person broom, your arms loosely wrapped around her waist as the clouds streaked below. She never spoke during flight. Only pointed when she saw ruins, remnants, sigils half-buried in mud.

“There.” she’d say.

And you’d descend like thunder.

Another time, you sat in the corner of a crumbling inn, hood pulled low. Herta sipped bitter tea and murmured over a hand-drawn map.

“Five families.”

“Want me to track them?”

“No,” she said, “We do it together.”

You watched her.

“Why?”

She paused.

“It's better that way.”

Your brow furrowed. You didn’t understand, not fully.

But when she moved, you followed.

When she pointed, you killed.

And each night, beneath the stars or the limbs of the rowan where you sometimes camped, you dreamed of blood and fire. Faces half-familiar. Screams just out of reach.

Once, at dusk, as you gathered wood

You returned to find her standing with one hand on the tree’s trunk. Her eyes were distant, voice soft:

“This bark is mine. These roots are my past. And through it… I remember what they took.”

The night was colder than usual.

You stood at the edge of a cliff, wind stirring your cloak, gazing down at the forest below. Fires from a distant village flickered like dying stars. Another target. Another bloodline to end.

Behind you, Herta approached. Her steps made no sound.

“We leave at first light.” she said simply.

You didn’t turn around.

“I had a dream again.”

She hesitated. “...Describe it.”

“A house. Not yours. Smaller. And someone laughing. I don’t know their face.”

You turned to her. “You said I died.”

“You did.”

“Who was I?”

Silence.

“Was I… good?”

“You served your purpose.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Now her eyes met yours. But there was something else behind them. Something heavy.

“You asked to protect people.” she said quietly. “And they killed you anyway.”

You stepped closer. “And you brought me back to kill others. You ever think that’s the same thing?”

She turned away, fast. Almost… shaken.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“You made me this way.” you said, “You didn’t give me a choice.”

“No,” she snapped. “I gave you purpose!”

You took a step back. “What are you, Herta? A god? Or just lonely?”

That landed. Her expression cracked, just for a moment.

“You… weren’t supposed to speak to me like that.”

A gust of wind passed between you, like the forest itself had stopped to listen.

“You want to stop me?” she said, raising a hand, magic building at her fingertips.

“I want the truth.”

“Then take it.”

She struck first, magic arcing through the air like a storm. You dodged, barely, rolling through bramble and drawing your blade. It felt heavier this time.

Your breath came hard. Her movements were sharp.

You cut her sleeve. She scorched your arm. Both of you stumbled back.

Chest heaving, you said, “Why do you hesitate?”

Her voice cracked. “Because this time, I don’t want to lose you.”

That stopped everything.

“You’re not just a tool.”

“…Then why lie to me?”

“Because if you knew who you were, you’d leave.”

You lowered your sword.

The night held its breath.

She didn’t look back.

The night you asked her, truly asked her 'Who was I?' was the night she turned and walked into the trees without another word.

She left behind no goodbye. Just a faint, invisible glyph clinging to your back like a whisper.

A tracing spell.

She’d find you again, of course. She always could.

And maybe she believed you’d just… stay. Sit and sulk. Swing your sword at birds, sharpen your blade in circles until the past dulled away again.

But you didn’t.

Two days passed.

You found a ruined shrine. Moss-covered. Half-swallowed by the ground. And carved into one of the old stones—your name.

Not the one Herta gave you.

Yours.

“For those who stood against the fire. For the hunter with kind eyes.”

Your fingers touched the stone.

A memory stirred. A voice in your head. Then gone.

And with it, came the shattering.

You sat at the shrine long into the night.

And when you finally returned to the house—her house—you weren’t the same.

She stood at the tree’s base when you approached.

You said nothing.

Neither did she.

Her robes were dusted with red petals. She looked thinner. As if the weight of her own heart had started collapsing in on itself.

But when her eyes lifted to meet yours, something shifted.

“You found something, didn't you?”

You nodded. “Enough to know I wasn’t born for this.”

Her hand clenched around the staff she held. “You were reborn for this.”

“I don’t think that’s the same thing.”

She turned her back. “So what now? Will you run?”

You stepped into the clearing. “No. I’m not here to betray you. I just… I think I loved someone once. Before all this.”

She went still.

And after a pause: “So did I.”

“I can’t let you go.” she said suddenly, stepping forward.

“I won’t be your weapon anymore.”

“You belonged to me!” Her voice echoed through the trees, through the bones of the rowan that watched from behind her like an old god. “I gave you back your life!”

“No,” you said quietly. “You just replaced it.”

Her magic surged before her eyes did.

You raised your hand, not to fight—but to plead.

But it was too late.

A dozen runes unfolded like blades.

You lunged too slow.

She whispered something.

Your name.

And then the spell struck.

Light tore through your chest. You gasped, staggered, knees hitting the ground.

You reached for her, but she didn’t come closer.

“You didn’t have to.”

Tears lined her eyes. “I always have to.”

You collapsed at the roots of her tree.

She just knelt beside you, pressing her forehead to yours.

The first time she killed you, she felt nothing. The second time, it tore her apart. But then it hurt less. By the third, she didn’t even hesitate. That spark inside her had twisted into something colder.

You were no longer a person in her eyes, but a pattern: one she could undo, reweave, restart when you unraveled the wrong way.

Every time you strayed, questioned, remembered a little, she struck you down with frightening precision, not even looking away as your body crumpled. Then she’d kneel by your cooling chest and start again.

“You’re mine.” she would whisper, “And you’ll stay mine.”

The resets became routine.

That vengeance had dulled under the weight of her own rituals. You were her focus now. Her only constant.

“Don’t worry about the past.” she would say, running her fingers through your hair as she murmured a control glyph behind your ear. “You don’t need it anymore. It only made you question me.”

The more she remade you, the further away your soul felt. Until one day, you stopped dreaming entirely.

But you did notice something else.

The rowan tree, the one you had always sensed was somehow part of her, was dying. Slowly, but unmistakably. The bark had cracked like dried skin. Its once vibrant leaves dulled to a brittle gray, falling too early, too often. You asked her about it once, curious but cautious.

“It’s nothing.” she replied.

You didn’t believe her. And when she left to gather supplies one twilight, you knelt before the tree alone, pressing a hand to its gnarled trunk. It was cold. Like touching the corpse of something once divine. You whispered to it, words you didn’t understand. Pleas you weren’t sure were yours. “I’m trying,” you said. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

Days passed. The leaves fell faster. You tried everything you could recall. You cleaned the soil. Cleared the pests. Drew half-formed glyphs into the dirt. Lit incense. Waited. But nothing helped. The tree just sagged further into silence, as if mourning something lost.

It wasn’t until one night, after another silent dinner where Herta simply stared past you, murmuring incantations to herself—that you felt a desperation you couldn’t explain. Like the tree was calling to you, but in a voice too broken to reach your ears. You stood, walked out barefoot into the freezing night, and pressed your palm against the withering bark again. It hurt this time, stung like it was resisting you.

And then, almost instinctively, you bit your own lip and drew a dagger across your palm.

The blood fell slowly, soaking into the base of the trunk. The tree didn't move.

So you gave more. Pressed your open wound into its roots. And something—something—shifted. The bark shimmered for just a breath. A few leaves, high up, flickered green before fading again.

You staggered back, breathing hard. Dizzy. But there was no mistaking it.

You didn’t hear Herta come up behind you.

“Step away from it.” she said.

You turned. “It reacted to my blood.”

“I know.”

You looked at her. Her eyes were sunken. Magic pulsed at her fingertips. She wasn’t surprised.

She was afraid.

“It’s dying because of me… isn’t it?”

She didn’t speak.

“You tied your soul to it,” you murmured. “And now I’m... draining it. Every time you bring me back.”

Her silence was the answer.

And as you stared at her, this girl made of fury and sorrow, who had killed you more times than you could count, a strange grief took root inside you.

Because despite everything… she had only wanted to keep you.

Even if it meant destroying herself.

It happened quietly, almost kindly.

Just a day where your body didn’t wake again.

The wound had been small, some beast’s claw, caught off guard on one of the hunts she still insisted upon. A minor gash. But the blood didn’t stop.

And when you collapsed in her arms, lips trembling with a name you didn’t remember, her magic sparked like panic and then sputtered out entirely.

No matter how she whispered. No matter how tightly she clutched your body. No matter what spell she carved in the dirt, what life she tore from deer or bird or root—

You stayed still.

She didn’t cry.

She just… held you.

For three days, she sat beneath the rowan tree, cradling you. Your weight was heavy in her lap, and yet she barely noticed. Her robes stained in your blood, her hands shaking not with grief, but with disbelief. The magic was gone. She could feel it.

The tree behind her—herself—was withered to a husk. She no longer needed a mirror to know she too had become pale, wan, stripped of all hunger.

Without you, her anger had nowhere to go.

Without you, she could no longer even remember why revenge had mattered.

That night, she built a pyre. Not for you.

For herself.

She placed your body at the base of the tree. The same spot where once she’d grown from. Where the village had burned her family alive. Where she had crawled back from death.

She poured oil across the roots with care.

Then she sat beside you one last time, gently adjusting the lock of hair that always fell over your eye.

She leaned her head against your shoulder. Let her eyes drift closed.

“Maybe this time, we’ll go together.”

Then she snapped her fingers.

The fire took quickly.

Faster than she thought. The bark, old and dry, went up in seconds. Flames curled through branches, tearing skyward like grasping hands. Ash whirled in every direction. The night filled with crackling heat and the bitter scent of ancient grief.

For a moment, it felt like falling asleep beside you again.

In the end, there was nothing left.

[screaminglygay]

third time is a charm, right? (part nine)

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader, wanda maximoff x fem!reader, natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff,

summary: attending a gala together should have been a glamorous evening, but an unexpected encounter ruin the vibe... or show you the truth?

warnings: swear words, drinking alcohol, mention of a toxic relationship, teasing, crying, i think that´s it

word count: 5.2k

an: this one was fun to write, also the next part will be last and we will end this series after a looong time, which is crazy hehe, enjoy the reading and thank you as always!!

(italica = your thoughts)

You stare at your closet like it personally insulted you. Dresses, blouses, jackets... everything is a mess, thrown across your bed in a whirlwind of indecision.

"Okay, so… fancy-fancy? Or formal-fancy?" you mumble to yourself, holding up a sleek black dress in one hand and a more structured pantsuit in the other. "What does ‘gala fancy’ even mean? Is it rich people sipping champagne kind of fancy or ‘I’m about to get knighted’ kind of fancy?"

With a frustrated sigh, you toss both options onto the growing pile of discarded outfits. Natasha’s invitation had seemed like a good thing, proof that she was serious about you, but now you were spiraling. What if you overdressed? Or worse, underdressed?

Grabbing your phone, you quickly text Wanda.

You: tell me what level of fancy this is before I have a full crisis.

You pace as you wait for a response, staring at yourself in the mirror. Maybe the dress? Or was it too much? But the pantsuit... god, what if Natasha hated pantsuits? Not that she had ever said anything about them, but what if tonight was the night she decided she hated them? You groan, rubbing your temples.

Your phone buzzes, and you snatch it up like it holds the meaning of life.

Wanda 🌼: Deep breaths, sweetheart. It’s formal but not "sell your soul to capitalism" formal. Wear whatever makes you feel hot. Which, spoiler alert, is everything you wear.

You exhale, rolling your eyes but smiling. Of course, Wanda would be both reassuring and completely unhelpful at the same time.

You: That doesn’t help, Wanda. I need a scale.

Wanda 🌼: Okay, fine. Imagine "rich people event" but Natasha is there, so some leather is still acceptable.

You: So... like "sexy mafia girlfriend" vibes?

Wanda 🌼: Now you’re getting it.

You snort, finally feeling some of the anxiety melt away. Still, a part of you hesitates. Would Natasha even care what you wore? What if you showed up in something nice and she barely noticed? What if-

No. Stop. You shake your head, refusing to let that insecurity take over.

With a deep breath, you grab the pantsuit, pairing it with a sleek jacket, just enough edge to keep it from feeling too formal. You weren’t going to overthink this. It was just a gala. Just a night out. And Natasha had invited you, which meant something. Right?

Your phone buzzes again.

Wanda 🌼: Nat will do that little eyebrow raise thing when she sees you, I can bet on that.

You laugh, shaking your head. Okay. You could do this.

You stand by the window, your fingers tracing the fabric of your pants as you wait for Wanda to pick you up. The nervous energy hasn’t left your body since you finished getting ready. You keep smoothing down the outfit you finally settled on, glancing at your reflection in your phone screen every few seconds.

Natasha had to be at the event early... some CEO responsibility that required her presence, so Wanda insisted on picking you up. That should’ve put you at ease, but instead, it just gives you more time to overthink.

Would Natasha even like how you looked? Would people at the event notice I didn’t belong in their world?

The sound of a car pulling up outside makes your stomach do a nervous flip. You exhale, straightening up as you grab your bag and step out.

The sleek black car door opens before you even reach for the handle. Wanda steps out first, her deep red dress hugging her figure just right, and her emerald eyes sweep over you with an unmistakable gleam. Then comes the eyebrow raise, slow, deliberate, and paired with a smirk.

You knew Wanda was going to look good. She always did. But nothing could have prepared you for the vision that was Wanda Maximoff in a red dress.

The silky fabric hugged her figure in a way that was downright unfair, the slit along her thigh adding just the right amount of skin. She moved like she owned the damn place, confidence dripping from her every step. And when she turned to smirk at you, eyes glinting with amusement at your obvious staring, it was a miracle your knees didn’t give out.

Oh my god, how is that possible. Calm down, it´s all good all okay, just pretty girl- oh my god the thighs! This was going to be a long night.

"Well, well," Wanda hums, tilting her head as she lets her gaze roam over you one more time. "Aren’t you a sight to behold?"

Your face heats instantly, and you roll your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. "Shush."

"I’m just appreciating the view." She gestures toward the car, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow. "Please, after you, beautiful."

You shake your head, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes, and slide into the car. Wanda follows, settling beside you as the driver starts towards the event.

The momentary ease vanishes as the city lights blur past, and the weight of where you’re going settles in again. You press your hands against your lap, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants once again.

Wanda must notice because a second later, you feel her warm hand on your thigh. It’s not just a touch, it’s grounding. You glance at her, and she’s already watching you, concern flickering in her gaze.

"Nervous?" she asks softly.

You nod, exhaling shakily. "A little."

She squeezes your thigh gently, her thumb brushing back and forth in slow, soothing strokes. "You don’t have to be. You look stunning. You belong there just as much as anyone else."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Doubt that."

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Okay, between you and me, half of those people are only interesting if you like hearing about investment portfolios or tax loopholes."

That earns her a small giggle from you, and she grins.

"There it is," she murmurs, giving your leg one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. "Just stick with me, detka. I promise you’ll survive."

You nod, swallowing back some of your nerves.

The car slows as it nears the entrance, and you swear your heart is trying to claw its way up your throat. Even from inside, you can see the flashing lights, the swarm of people elegantly dressed attendees mingling near the grand entrance, photographers trying to capture glimpses of the elite stepping out of their cars.

There is even photographers?! What is this Met Gala?!

Wanda, completely unfazed, glances at you. "Alright, here’s the plan," she says, her voice light but reassuring. "We’re going to head straight for the bar, get some drinks, and then say hi to Nat. Sound good?"

You swallow and nod. "Yeah. Okay."

She smirks. "Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon you to a pack of business sharks. I only deal with them when absolutely necessary... aka, when Natasha needs me to look pretty next to her or to stop her from murdering someone with a champagne flute."

You huff out a small laugh, grateful for the way she’s making this feel less overwhelming.

Wanda reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze. "Stick with me, detka. You’re gonna be just fine."

The car door opens, and you both step out.

Inside, the event is nothing short of extravagant. Chandeliers cast golden light over the room, reflecting off the sea of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos. Conversations hum in the air, glasses clink, and waiters glide effortlessly through the crowd with trays of expensive drinks.

Despite the nerves buzzing in your chest, you keep your focus on Wanda. True to her word, she doesn’t leave your side. The two of you make a beeline for the bar, where she orders for both of you.

Once drinks are in hand, she glances toward the center of the room. "Alright, let’s go say hi before she gets too deep into whatever business talk she’s pretending to care about."

You follow her gaze and-

Oh.

My lord.

Natasha stands near a group of polished, serious-looking executives, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand. But it’s not the expensive liquor or the high-status company that has your brain short-circuiting.

It’s her suit.

The perfectly tailored black suit that fits her like a dream, making her look effortlessly powerful, the crisp white shirt underneath just barely unbuttoned enough to be unfair. The way she holds herself, confident, unreadable, a force of nature has you momentarily forgetting how to function as a human being.

Hot. Hot. Hot. How can one look so good in a suit. Jesus.

Have my babies.

Wanda, sensing your reaction, smirks behind the rim of her glass. "Breathe, sweetheart," she teases before nudging you forward.

As you approach, Natasha’s sharp gaze shifts and the moment she sees you, something softens.

"Hey," she murmurs, stepping away from the conversation without hesitation. Her eyes flick between you and Wanda, and a small smile tugs at her lips. "You both look incredible."

She leans in, giving Wanda a quick peck on the lips as a greeting before turning her attention fully to you. And for a second, you feel like the only person in the room.

Her hand finds your waist as she pulls you into a hug, not just any hug, but one that lingers just a little too long, her arms pressing you close, like she can sense the nerves radiating off you.

You let out a breath, allowing yourself to melt into her warmth for just a second. "You’ve got this," you whisper against her shoulder.

She exhales, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Yeah?"

You nod, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah."

Something unreadable flickers across her face, but before you can decipher it, she gives your waist a final squeeze and steps back.

"Come on," she says, voice softer now. "I want to introduce you properly."

And just like that, despite the overwhelming setting, despite the lingering nerves, you feel a little more at ease. Because Natasha is here. Truly here. Truly with you.

Natasha leads you through the crowd with an ease that makes it obvious she’s used to navigating these kinds of events. Wanda sticks close, making sure you don’t get swallowed up by the overwhelming energy of the room.

Finally, Natasha stops near a tall man in a dark suit, his long hair neatly tied back. He’s mid-conversation but turns the second he notices Natasha approaching, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

"Bucky," Natasha greets, a hint of warmth slipping into her usually controlled tone.

"Nat," he replies smoothly before his gaze shifts to you. His blue eyes sweep over you in a quick but not unfriendly. Then, he extends a hand. "You must be the infamous plus-one."

You hesitate for only a second before shaking his hand. His grip is firm but not overbearing.

"This is James Barnes," Natasha says, her hand resting lightly against your back. "But everyone close calls him Bucky."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah, if you call me James, I’m gonna assume I’m in trouble."

You smile and nod, "I´m (Y/N)." He nods.

There’s something easy about the way he carries himself... polished, but not as rigid as the others in the room. It helps ease the tension coiled in your chest.

Wanda hums, tilting her head. "I don’t know… I kinda want to call you James just to see what happens."

Bucky narrows his eyes at her. "Maximoff, don’t start."

She grins. "I would never."

The playful exchange melts some of your nerves, and you finally let out a small breath.

Bucky notices, his smirk softening into something more knowing. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Don’t worry, it’s overwhelming at first, but you’ll get used to it. Just gotta survive the first twenty minutes."

You give a small, appreciative nod. "Good to know."

Then, just as the tension starts to fade completely, Bucky turns to Natasha with a look of pure mischief. "By the way, did she tell you about the time she almost got escorted out of an event like this for trying to sneak a burger under the table?"

Natasha groans. "Jesus, Bucky."

You blink. "Wait, what?"

Bucky grins. "Yeah, our dear CEO decided she wasn’t interested in the five-course meal and made me smuggle her a burger. Security thought she was hiding something illegal."

Wanda snorts, she heard the story many times, but it always bring a smile to her face.

Natasha shakes her head, exhaling like she’s questioning every life choice that led to this moment. But there’s no real bite in her irritation, just the kind of resigned amusement that comes with longtime friendship.

You bite back a laugh, can you imagine it? Gosh.

Just as you’re starting to settle, a shift in the energy around you makes Natasha straighten slightly. You follow her gaze and see a few sharply dressed individuals making their way toward your group, their expressions poised and unreadable. Big names, powerful people, you assume. The kind who don’t just attend these events but own them.

Natasha exhales, rolling her shoulders back like she’s bracing for battle. Then she glances at Bucky. "You’re coming with me."

Bucky quirks a brow but doesn’t protest, already stepping closer to her side.

Natasha leans in just a little, her voice low but teasing. "Wish me luck. The sharks are here."

"You’ll be fine," Wanda assures her with a smirk, but there’s understanding in her eyes. Even she knows Natasha would rather not deal with these people alone.

Natasha nods, giving you one last lingering look, something that feels almost grounding, like she’s silently reminding you she’ll be back and then she and Bucky slip into the crowd.

The moment they’re gone, a waiter holding a tray of drinks weaves through the space near you, offering another round. Without thinking, you reach for one, needing something to do with your hands.

Before you can grab it, Wanda’s fingers close around your wrist, stopping you effortlessly. She tilts her head, her green eyes dancing with amusement as she plucks the glass from your grip.

"Malysh…" she drawls, her voice both affectionate and teasing. "Careful with that. Don’t drink your nerves away."

Your stomach flips at the casual endearment, and you swallow hard. "I wasn’t-"

She gives you a look. You were.

You huff, crossing your arms. "I just wanted something to hold."

Wanda grins, pleased with herself, and instead of handing the drink back, she brings it to her own lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before setting it aside.

"Here," she says, slipping her arm through yours instead. "Hold onto me instead."

Her body is warm against yours, her presence grounding. It’s unfair, really, how easily she makes everything feel just a little less overwhelming.

You sigh but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

After a some time you’ve settled into a strange rhythm now. The nerves are still there, but they no longer coil tight in your stomach. They just exist, humming beneath the surface as part of the night. Wanda’s presence helps, always keeping close, whether through a light touch at your back or a soft comment.

But then she shifts beside you, sighing. "I need to use the restroom. Can you stay here?"

You blink up at her, deadpan. "Wanda, I’m anxious, not five. Yes, I can stand here."

Her lips twitch, but she tilts her head. "Watch your mouth, detka."

And then, with a smirk and a wink, she’s gone, slipping toward the restrooms and leaving you alone.

For the first time tonight, there’s no safety net. No Natasha, no Wanda - just you, standing in the middle of a crowded event filled with people who belong here far more than you feel you do.

You exhale, shifting your weight from foot to foot, trying to focus on anything other than the weight of being alone in a sea of power players.

That’s when you feel it - a shift.

Not in the room itself, but near you. A presence approaching, deliberate and too familiar in the way people with bad intentions always are. And then, just as you’re trying to decide if you’re imagining it, a smooth, saccharine voice cuts through the air.

"Well, well… look what we have here." Your stomach twists, because you already know this isn’t going to be good.

You straighten your shoulders, forcing yourself to stay composed even as nerves crawl up your spine.

"May I help you?" you ask, polite but cautious.

The woman, Sofie, though you don’t know that yet - tilts her head, her lips curling into something that might have been a smile if it didn’t feel so… off.

She takes a slow sip from her glass, eyes flicking over you, assessing. "I was just wondering," she starts, voice honeyed, "how Natasha and Wanda are doing these days.”

You fight the urge to frown. There’s an unsettling weight to the way she says their names, like she’s pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel.

"They’re fine," you answer carefully. "And you are…?"

The woman’s smile sharpens. "Sofie."

You nod, waiting for more, but she doesn’t elaborate. Just watches you, her expression entirely too self-satisfied.

Finally, you cave. "I’m sorry, do we know each other?"

Sofie hums, tilting her head. "No, but I know you." She takes another sip, eyes dark with something unreadable. "I’m like you."

Your brows furrow. "Pardon me?"

The alcohol has loosened her tongue, and she clearly has no interest in holding back.

"I mean," she continues, swaying slightly, "I was in your place once." She gestures vaguely, her fingers lazily swirling the liquid in her glass. "All wrapped up in their little world, thinking I mattered. That I was different." Her gaze flicks over you, amused. "But they always get tired of their toys, sweetheart."

Your stomach knots.

Sofie leans in, lowering her voice like she’s telling you some grand secret. "They’ll get rid of you, too, you know. When they’re done playing house. It always happens."

Your jaw tightens, but you stay firm, protective instincts kicking in despite the discomfort crawling under your skin. "I don’t know what you think you know," you say, voice steady despite your unease, "but Natasha and Wanda don’t keep people around for fun."

Sofie lets out a laugh soft and pitying. "Oh, darling.” She shakes her head. "That’s what I thought, too."

The words slither into your head, settling into the cracks of your insecurities, planting roots where doubt already lingers.

And the worst part?

Natasha and Wanda are nowhere in sight.

Sofie just smirks, like she can see the cracks forming, like she’s enjoying every second of this.

"I mean, look at you," she continues, gesturing lazily with her drink. "So eager, so starry-eyed. Thinking you’re different." She lets out a soft, pitying laugh. "That’s exactly what I thought too. That I was special. That I mattered."

Your stomach twists, a slow, sinking feeling settling in your chest.

Sofie leans in, voice syrupy-sweet, but her words are like knives. "You think Natasha is really the settling-down type? That Wanda will always hold your hand like she does now?" She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. "They did that with me, too. And the girl before me. And the one before her."

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

No. That’s not true. That can’t be true.

But she’s not stopping, she’s circling now, smelling blood in the water.

"They loved me, too. Just like they love you. Just like they loved all of us." She sways slightly, the alcohol making her looser, sharper. "But love isn’t enough, sweetheart. Not when they get bored. Not when they move on."

You swallow hard, throat tight.

"You really think you’re the one?" she murmurs, shaking her head. "You really think they won’t eventually get tired of you, too?"

Something in you shatters.

Because the truth is... you don’t know.

You never really knew.

You’ve always been aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that Wanda and Natasha belong to a world that moves fast, one that doesn’t slow down for long. That they have a history - messy, complicated, full of people who came before you.

And now, here is one of those people, standing in front of you, spelling out your worst fears like it’s some inevitable fate.

Your fingers tremble slightly.

Where the hell are they?

You want to believe this is just drunken bitterness. That Sofie is lashing out because she’s jealous, because she lost something she thought she could keep.

But the doubt, the storm she’s unleashed is already roaring to life inside you.

"No."

It comes out quick and sharp, more of a desperate rejection than an argument. Your voice is tight, breathless, like the air in your lungs is barely holding itself together.

You don’t say it because you’re sure she’s wrong.

You say it because you need her to stop.

Because if she keeps going, if she keeps digging her nails into this wound she’s opened, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

Sofie just tilts her head, unconvinced, lips curling as if she can hear the shake in your voice, can taste the doubt clinging to your words.

But you don’t wait for her to respond. You turn, your feet moving before your mind even catches up, and you push through the crowd. It’s not graceful, not controlled, you’re rushing, weaving between bodies, your pulse hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to break free.

You just need air. Space. Anything but this.

Wanda steps out of the restroom, smoothing down her dress as she moves back toward where she left you. But the spot is empty.

Her brows knit together. She glances around, scanning the crowd. First toward the bar. Nothing. Then back toward the entrance. Still nothing.

That’s… strange.

A flicker of unease curls in her stomach. You wouldn’t just leave.

Right?

A new presence shifts beside her, and she turns to see Natasha approaching, a triumphant smirk playing at her lips. "Managed to tame the sharks," she announces, slipping beside Wanda. "Didn’t even lose a limb."

But Wanda doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look at her. And that’s what makes Natasha pause.

"What?" Natasha asks, her smirk fading.

Wanda’s eyes are still scanning. Still searching. "She’s gone."

The words hit Natasha like a slap.

Gone?

Her eyes flicker across the room, shoulders tensing. "What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean she’s not here, Nat," Wanda snaps, turning to her fully now. "I left her for two minutes."

Natasha’s jaw tightens. She’s already moving, already searching. But then-

Laughter. Smug. Giggly. The kind of laughter that slithers under your skin and makes something burn. And when Natasha turns, she sees her.

Sofie.

Leaning lazily against the bar, drink still in hand, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Wanda follows Natasha’s gaze, and immediately, her expression darkens.

Sofie notices. And her smirk only grows.

"I saw your new girlfriend," she purrs, sipping at her drink, eyes flickering between them like she’s relishing this moment.

Natasha’s body stiffens, her whole posture going razor-sharp. "What did you do?"

It’s not a question. It’s a warning. A low, dangerous edge creeping into her voice.

Sofie just hums, all feigned innocence. "Oh, nothing," she muses. "We just had a little chat."

Wanda’s hand twitches at her side.

Natasha’s eyes darken, her jaw tightening so hard it could crack. "Where is she?"

Sofie shrugs. "No idea." Then she leans in, voice dripping in satisfaction. "But she looked pretty upset when she left."

Natasha doesn’t think. She moves. Fast.

Wanda barely has time to process before Natasha is grabbing Sofie’s wrist, yanking her just enough to force their eyes to meet.

"I swear to God, Sofie," Natasha hisses, voice so sharp it could cut glass. "If you-"

Wanda steps in before it escalates further, pulling Natasha back, her touch firm. "Not here," she murmurs, voice low.

Natasha might be furious, but right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, they need to find you. And neither of them waste another second. Wanda is the first to move.

She doesn’t waste time telling Natasha to calm down or warning Sofie again, there’s no point. You’re out there somewhere, and nothing else matters.

Natasha follows instantly, her body rigid with unspent anger, but her mind already shifting to something more important - finding you.

They push through the crowd, sharp eyes scanning every corner, every possible exit. Natasha is dialing your number, pressing the phone so hard to her ear that it might snap in her grip.

Voicemail.

A quiet curse slips from her lips, but Wanda isn’t waiting, her hands are already on the shoulders of a passing server. "Did you see a woman leave alone?" she demands, urgent.

The man blinks, startled. "Uh- maybe? Pentsuit? Looked-"

"Anxious?" Natasha cuts in.

The man nods. "Yeah, I think she went outside. Looked like she was in a hurry."

Wanda’s heart is hammering against her ribs, her pulse so loud she can barely hear anything else.

Outside.

That’s all she needs to know.

She’s gone before the man can say another word, heels clicking against the floor as she rushes for the exit. Natasha is right beside her.

The night air is sharp, cold enough to bite at exposed skin. The city hums around them... cars, distant voices, the occasional burst of laughter from inside the gala. But none of it matters.

They are both scanning. Searching.

Nothing.

Natasha exhales harshly, running a hand through her hair. "Where would she-"

Then Wanda sees it.

A park bench. A little ways down the path, tucked beneath the dim glow of a streetlight.

And you.

Sitting there, curled in on yourself, arms wrapped around your body as if that might keep the cold at bay.

Wanda moves before she even breathes.

Natasha follows, both of them crossing the distance in seconds, their heels barely making a sound against the pavement.

And when Wanda reaches you, when she finally sees you, her chest tightens painfully. Your eyes are downcast, distant. Your hands are gripping your arms, your whole body tense with cold. And you’re shaking. Not violently. Not enough that someone passing by would notice.

But Wanda notices.

Natasha notices.

The moment Wanda speaks, her voice is softer than she meant it to be. "Detka…"

Your head jerks up, eyes wide, like you weren’t expecting anyone to find you so quickly. Or maybe at all.

For a second, you just stare at them, like your mind is trying to catch up to what’s happening.

Then Natasha exhales, stepping closer, her voice low but firm. "What the hell happened?"

You open your mouth. Close it. You don’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not now.

What I would even tell them?

But your silence only makes Wanda kneel down in front of you, her hands finding yours - warm, steady.

"You’re freezing," she murmurs, frowning as she rubs gentle circles into your knuckles. "Why didn’t you answer your phone?"

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how you ended up here, so you just shrug. You just know that your chest is tight, your head is buzzing, and there’s this horrible mix of doubt and fear swirling inside you.

Wanda’s gaze searches yours. Slowly, she lifts a hand, gently brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen into your face.

And that’s when you break. Not fully. Not enough to cry.

But enough that your lips part, and you exhale a shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

"I just needed air," you whisper.

Wanda swallows. "Okay," she says softly, voice warm, careful. "But next time? Tell me."

There’s no anger. No frustration. Just concern.

Natasha sighs through her nose, shifting beside you. "Let’s get you out of the cold," she murmurs.

But she doesn’t just say it. She shrugs off her own jacket, the expensive, tailored one she was so proud of and drapes it over your shoulders without hesitation.

The warmth is immediate. So is the scent of her perfume, faint but grounding. You blink at her, caught off guard.

Natasha just arches a brow. "What? You thought we’d let you freeze?"

You hesitate.

The weight of Natasha’s jacket is solid around your shoulders, the warmth of Wanda’s hand grounding in yours. But your mind is still stuck on Sofie’s words, circling like a storm that won’t pass.

And before you can stop yourself, it spills out.

"But- she said-"

Your voice is quiet, but strained. Like you’re forcing yourself to say it, like you know you shouldn’t, but you just need to get it out.

"She said you’d get rid of me, too," you murmur, eyes flicking between them, searching, pleading. "That I’m just another name to add to your list. That you-" you swallow. "That you loved her."

It’s barely a whisper by the end of it, but it doesn’t matter.

Because the moment the words leave your lips, Natasha snaps.

"Fuck her."

It’s not angry. Not in the way you’d expect.

It’s firm. Unwavering. A decision made long ago.

Even Wanda blinks, caught off guard by the sharpness of it.

Natasha steps in front of you, her expression unreadable, but her eyes are sharp, piercing through every doubt Sofie left in your mind.

"Whatever she said, it’s not true." She says it like fact, like there’s no room for argument, no space for doubt.And when she continues, her voice is steady, but there’s something raw underneath it.

"We did break things off with her," she admits. "But that’s her problem. Not yours."

She exhales, shaking her head. "Sofie didn’t want us. She wanted the idea of us being wealthy. The lifestyle. The benefits." Her lips press together, as if she’s holding something back before deciding, screw it. "And when she didn’t get what she wanted, she made herself the victim. But we saw through it."

You don’t miss the way Wanda is watching her now, like this is more than she ever expected Natasha to say out loud.

And then Natasha’s eyes meet yours again. Soft, but steady. "You are not her," she tells you. "And we are not idiots."

The words hit you all at once. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what to feel. But something inside you eases. Because Natasha Romanoff does not give reassurance easily.

And yet - here she is.

Telling you exactly what you needed to hear. And meaning it. A breath leaves you, something tight releasing in your chest.And for the first time since Sofie opened her mouth, you feel okay.

Not perfect. Not completely steady.

But somehow safe.

Natasha must notice, because she tilts her head slightly, watching you, before saying, "Better?"

You nod. Just once. But it’s enough.

Wanda squeezes your hand, her thumb brushing over your skin. "Come on, let’s go home."

You blink. "But what about the gala?"

Natasha scoffs. "Fuck the gala."

You can’t help it. A chuckle slips out, light and unexpected, but so needed. And Natasha notices, her lips quirk slightly, like she’s pleased with herself. Like she needed to hear that, too.

Wanda smirks, looping her arm around yours as they start leading you away. "Oh, I bet you’ve been waiting to say that for a long time."

Natasha huffs, but doesn’t deny it.

Being with them is indeed a big roller coaster ride.

Thank you for reading this, ooof this was funnn. I hope you liked it! <3 can´t wait for you to read the last part!

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