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dakusan · 12 days ago

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M a r k e d b y Y o u

Tattoo Artist!Lee Felix x Reader | Piercings. Patience. He called you “princess” and kissed you like a prayer

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been in his chair before. Piercings, mostly—ears, belly button. He always lets you choose the placement, shows you the options with gloved hands, calls you princess in that low, honey-drip voice like it means something. But this time it’s different. You’re back for a nipple piercing. The one you’ve been thinking about for months. The one only Felix could ever do. And he’s still careful. Still soft-spoken. Still sunshine-wrapped-in-black-ink. Until he’s muttering “You’re not just anyone.” Now you’re on his table again. Half-naked. Tattooed. Moaning. Marked. He touches you like you’re sacred. Fucks you like he’s starving. And when he says “Be my good girl one more time”—you fall apart all over again.

💌a/n: i took soooo many breaks while writing this… like at one point i paused to eat a grape and then just stared at the ceiling for 20 minutes. post-nap vibes. zero momentum. negative discipline. BUT I FINISHED. BYE. if something doesn’t make sense, or there's a typo, or the formatting is stupid and chaotic?? no you didn’t. you saw NOTHING. i write in markdown and vibes. we ride at dawn. also this is 1000% lee felix coded like?? sunshine man who eats you out until you cry?? puts his hoodie on you after?? feeds you a microwave rice bowl and calls it five-star dining?? yeah that’s him your honour. p.s. reblog if felix should ruin you gently p.p.s. debating squid games au!skz where seungmin wins because he cheats p.p.p.s. going to sleep now. if you see me online again tonight—no you don’t

⚠️ warnings: 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI | nipple piercings (procedure described) | tattoo scene (needle, stencil, positioning, mild pain mention) | oral sex (f!receiving, overstimulation, praise, degradation) | multiple orgasms | unprotected sex (don't be dumb irl. wrap it up) | filth language (he calls you princess and good girl and my canvas while literally buried in you) | possessive felix, soft dom felix, worship kink, marking kink | implied creampie | tattoo studio sex (felix is a professional except when he's not) | aftercare so tender it could kill a victorian child | reader gets emotionally and sexually obliterated and loves every second | dangerously high amounts of sunshine-boy-turned-dirty-mouth menace energy | minho lives upstairs and has heard them multiple times, he's annoyed

📌 Please read with caution. Hydrate. Stretch. Sit on a towel. Text your piercer a respectful “thank you”.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Trouble— EXO « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:17 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You don’t remember the exact moment it shifted—when curiosity became ritual.

It might’ve been the second time you sat in his chair, hands tucked under your thighs, letting him talk you through the angles of your ear like it was a constellation map only he could see. You'd walked into NO SAINT INK on a whim, a dare, a half-formed promise to yourself that you’d stop saying “maybe next time.” You hadn’t planned on choosing him.

But Felix had looked up from the back of the shop—half-crouched on a rolling stool, sketchbook open on one thigh, sunflower-blond hair tucked behind a pierced ear—and smiled at you like he’d been expecting you.

And that was it.

He patted the vinyl seat beside him like he already knew where this was going and you made yourself comfortable on it.

That was six months ago.

Now? You’re the kind of regular who doesn’t need to check in at the front. Chan gives you a lazy wave and goes back to the books. Seungmin nods from his little corner, earbuds in. Jisung usually grins and whispers something stupid under his breath as you walk by—but Felix? Felix always knows you’re coming.

Your file probably says four things:

– multiple cartilage – curated constellation piercings, designed together – naval (freehand, perfect placement) – Felix only.

And it’s not that the others aren’t good. They are—exceptional, even. It’s just that Felix makes it feel like more.

Felix has sunlight in his veins and something far darker in his smile. To most people, Felix is gentle. Patient. Calming. He hums when he works. Offers you a blanket if the studio’s cold. Lets you squeeze his wrist if you’re nervous—never flinches, just murmurs, “that’s it, angel. keep breathing.”

But under that softness is something sharper. You see it in the way his hands move.

He’s a piercer first, tattooer second. Specializes in placements that most artists shy away from: dermals, navals, nipples, genitals, and other delicate zones. He says he likes the precision of it. The trust involved.

“People forget how intimate piercing is,” he told you once. “You have to earn someone’s body. Be calm enough they let you near it. Gentle enough they want you to stay.”

When he tattoos, he prefers sacred geometry, micro-script, and emotional etchings. Crescent moons behind ears. Names in Morse code along ribs. Protection symbols. Memorial pieces. He doesn’t chase shock value—he tattoos meaning.

“Needles hurt. Might as well make it count.”

He rarely books more than one client a day. He gives too much of himself each time.

But with you? He always says yes.

You and Felix had started professional. It always was. Until it wasn't. Because by then, it became something else.

The way he’d guide your breathing—not just for the pain, but to calm the tremble in your voice when you asked about your next piercing. The way he remembered you drink peach tea, not green. That you like to see the jewelry options laid out first, like you're choosing a path. The way he held your hand a beat too long. Pressed gauze to your skin with a feather-light touch that lingered.

You knew it wasn’t just you. You’ve seen him work on others. You’ve seen the difference.

Felix is kind to everyone. But he’s tender with you.

You don’t flirt outright—there’s too much electricity in the silence. But you watch each other. You hover in his orbit like a star caught in slow collapse.

He calls you “darling,” “brave girl,” “pretty thing.” Sometimes he texts you the night before your appointments:

“room’s prepped. miss you a little.” “got new titanium pieces. want you to be the first.” “can’t wait to see what you wear for me this time.”

You think he notices your body more than he lets on. You’ve caught him watching—low eyes, parted lips, tongue brushing his lower lip.

But he’s never crossed the line. Not once. Which is why you’re nervous now. Because your next appointment? You asked for nipple piercings.

And maybe—maybe a tattoo. You haven’t told him where yet. Nor what the design is, yet.

The bell over the door chimes as you step into NO SAINT INK, and before you can even take two steps inside, you hear it.

“SHE’S BACK!” “Hide the lube!” “She’s got that ‘about to do something reckless’ walk again!”

You sigh. Loudly. Dramatically. “I hope all your piercings reject and your cartilage gets infected.”

Han Jisung appears from behind the front counter like a raccoon crawling out of a snack bag, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and glitter under his eyes. “Babe, please,” he grins, wide and shameless. “You’ve been threatening me with infection kink since your second appointment.”

From the corner, Seungmin doesn’t even look up from his iPad. “Because you act like you want one.”

“Don’t kink-shame me in my own place of worship,” Han mutters, then drops his voice a few octaves and mock-moans, “oh no, doc, I have sepsis—”

“Stop,” Chan groans, emerging from the back office, rubbing his temples like he’s been hearing this conversation in surround sound all day. “Don’t scare off the paying clients.”

You flash him a sweet smile. “If you wanted professionalism, you wouldn’t have hired them.”

“Touché,” he concedes, then offers you a hug. You melt into it. Chan smells like sage, mint, and the weight of adult responsibility. “You’re here for Lix?”

You nod, and Han makes a soft oohhhh in the background like he’s watching a sex scene through a cracked door.

“Big day,” he whispers like a narrator. “Big... titties.”

Seungmin finally looks up. “Are we done pretending she doesn’t have favorite-client status? Felix literally skipped lunch to get the room ready for her.”

You raise an eyebrow. “He skipped a meal?”

“Voluntarily,” Chan confirms, crossing his arms. “Said something about making sure the setup was ‘extra calming’ and ‘not rushing the process.’ He even polished the mirror. You got him nervous.”

Han gasps. “He cleaned something? For someone other than himself? Girl, are you getting pierced or proposed to?”

You flip him off on your way past the counter, but you’re smiling. Because yeah. You’re nervous too. But also… something about this feels right. Like walking toward a decision you’ve already made in your bones.

You stop at the hallway, just before the private room where Felix usually works.

The door’s closed. And your heart is racing.

Chan notices. He leans in a little, softer now. “You okay?”

You nod. Then bite your lip. Then shake your head and whisper, “He’s gonna see my boobs, Chan.”

Han yells from the counter, “BOOBS CONFIRMED! I REPEAT, BOOBS CONFIRMED.”

Seungmin sighs. “This is why we can’t bring you anywhere.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I hate it here.”

“Do you want me to escort you to the back like a lady of honor?” Seungmin deadpans from the corner without glancing up.

“Do you want to get stabbed with a sterilized piercing needle, Seungmin?” you shoot back.

“I’d let Felix do it,” he says casually, flipping the page on his iPad. “He has nice hands.”

Chan sighs. “This is becoming a lawsuit.”

Han’s already up on the counter like a meerkat, one hand to his ear like a news anchor.

“BREAKING NEWS: LOCAL BAD BITCH ABOUT TO SHOW TITTIES TO CERTIFIED SWEETHEART WITH KNIFE SKILLS—WILL SHE SURVIVE THE HORNY?”

“Find out next time on Nippled and Afraid,” Seungmin adds.

That’s when the door creaks open behind you and you freeze like a sim with a full bladder.

Felix steps out of the room.

He’s wearing black joggers and a fitted tank, gloves already on, a silver chain glinting at his throat. His hair’s tied back loosely, showing off the piercings in his ears and the constellation tattoo on the side of his neck that you’ve definitely stared at way too long. There’s a clipboard in one hand, and a titanium barbell balanced on the tip of one glove.

He looks between you and the absolute shitshow happening behind you.

“…Did I miss something?” he asks, blinking slow, voice smooth as fuckin’ butter.

“No,” you say too fast.

“Yes,” Han counters immediately. “It’s a boob day.”

Felix’s mouth twitches like he’s trying so hard not to laugh. His eyes find yours—warm, soft, but also glinting with the tiniest bit of mischief. “Is that right?”

“No,” you say again. But this time it’s more like a squeak. A guilty, betrayed-by-your-own-mouth squeak.

“Honestly,” Seungmin adds helpfully, “I’d be nervous too. She has a lot of boob.”

“SEUNGMIN.”

“Just being body-positive.”

Felix hums under his breath, completely unbothered, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Want me to clear the hallway for your modesty?”

You narrow your eyes. “I hate you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He turns to the boys and deadpans: “If you three don’t shut up and go away, I’ll pierce each of your tongues with no anesthesia and a broken clamp.”

Han gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

Felix raises an eyebrow, still calm, still polite. “Test me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Han grabs Seungmin by the arm. “Okay, we’re leaving! Everyone respect the boob event! LET HER LIVE!”

Chan gives you a wink and a mock-salute as he herds the feral duo out. “Tell him if he makes you cry in a bad way, I’m docking his pay.”

Then, finally, blessedly, they’re gone.

And Felix is looking at you like you’ve already undressed for him. “You ready?” he asks, that same gentle voice he always uses when he’s about to touch you.

You exhale. And nod.

Finally, you step inside, and the door clicks softly shut behind you.

It’s quiet now—just the low hum of the sterilizer in the corner and the faint lo-fi beats playing from a speaker tucked onto a shelf. The room smells like warm alcohol wipes, vanilla lotion, and Felix. That signature, indescribable scent you’ve come to associate with safety and danger at the same time.

The chair’s already reclined. Fresh black sheet. Towel folded neatly at the headrest. Paper tray lined up with tools—everything gleaming, precise, ready for you.

Felix follows you in, calm and unhurried, and says, “You can sit or lie down, whatever feels best. We’ll talk through everything first.” And then, in that same soft voice—

“No rush. You’re in my space now.”

You move to the chair, slowly. Your thighs graze the vinyl. The seat is cold at first, but it grounds you—forces you to breathe as you lower yourself in and let your arms rest by your sides. You try not to think about how exposed you’re about to be. About the way your heart is pounding out of your chest. About how many times you’ve imagined this exact moment but never thought it would feel like this.

Felix walks over, still gloved, and holds out the barbell he’d been carrying—pinched delicately between latex fingers. It’s titanium, rose gold anodized, and so small it looks almost delicate.

He holds it up to the light.

“This is one option,” he says gently, then places it on a sterile pad and gestures to a small velvet tray. “But I have a few others. Different finishes, gemstone ends, opal, flat discs, silver, matte black. Depends how flashy—or soft—you want the look to be.”

You glance at the tray. It’s absurd, really, how careful he is—still in gloves, still surgical in motion, even though this isn’t the procedure yet. You’ve seen him do this before, for your ear jewelry, for your navel. He always uses gloves when presenting the options. Won’t touch the pieces bare-handed, even if you’re just browsing.

Because Felix doesn’t just pierce people. He ritualizes it.

He kneels a little to your eye level now—still at a distance, still giving you space. “You okay so far?”

You nod, maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just…” You inhale. Exhale. “…I can’t believe I actually booked this.”

A slow smile curls onto his lips. His eyes flick down, briefly—so brief it could be missed. “Been thinking about it for a while though, haven’t you?”

You nod again, quieter this time. “Since my second piercing.”

He tilts his head, amused. “The conch?”

“Yeah. You were so… professional about it. I kept waiting for you to… I don’t know.”

“To flirt?”

You pause. Then smile. “Kinda.”

He shrugs, eyes soft but glinting. “Didn’t wanna mess with your comfort. But if it helps—” He leans in slightly, voice lowering, velvet-sweet. “—I’ve been waiting for you to ask me for this one.”

Your breath catches.

He straightens again, walks over to a side drawer, pulls out a few more options, all titanium, all glittering under the soft room light. Then he turns back to you, lifts his hands—

“May I?”

You nod, and he comes closer, tray in one gloved hand, the other bracing lightly on the back of your chair. He holds the options near your chest—hovering just above the fabric of your top, not touching you yet, but close enough that your breath hitches again.

“These two would suit your skin tone best. See the undertones?”

You glance at the pieces. You barely register them. All you can think about is how close he is now. How his voice has dropped. How he hasn’t touched you. Not yet. But your body feels like he already has.

Then—gently—he steps back.

“Take your time. When you’ve chosen, I’ll walk you through prep and position. You can undress once you're ready.”

He turns toward the counter, reaching for a new pair of gloves—because he’s about to discard the current ones, the ones he used for the display.

“Can’t touch your skin with these,” he says over his shoulder. “You deserve clean hands.”

You inhale, exhaled as your eyes settle on the tray. Staring at it like it’s offering answers to questions you’re not brave enough to say out loud. You choose the daintiest one—a curved titanium bar with petite opal ends, almost iridescent in the light. Sweet. Soft. Girlish in a way.

He looks at your choice when you hold it up. And smiles. “Pretty,” he says, voice low. “Just like you.”

You pretend not to choke on your own breath.

He discards the gloves—carefully, methodically, snapping them off and dropping them into the bin—then slips on a new pair from the box near the sterilizer. You watch him like you’re under a spell. Every movement he makes is calm. Measured. Intimate, but professional. Not clinical. Never cold. Just… deeply intentional.

He begins laying out the setup.

A sterile tray. An unopened piercing needle—still sealed in its package. Forceps. A marker. Gauze. Saline. A mirror.

Then he turns to you, head tilting softly, voice warm. “Go ahead and take off your top and bra. You can lie back once you’re comfortable.”

You nod, pulse quickening, and stand slowly.

Your hands fumble at the hem of your shirt. You’re not shaking—not exactly—but you feel it. That thrum just under your skin. Not fear. Something else.

Excitement. Anticipation. The quiet ache of being seen.

You peel off your top, then unclasp your bra, letting both drop neatly onto the nearby chair. For a second, you hesitate—arms half-crossed like you might cover yourself.

But then Felix turns around. And the look on his face? Pure reverence. His eyes flick over you, but not in the way you expect. Not hungry or gawking. Just… soft. Quiet. Attentive. Like he’s seeing something sacred.

“There you are,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

You bite your lip. “You’re not even trying to hide it, huh?”

He walks over slowly, already holding the marker, and gives you the tiniest smile. “Not today.”

You lie back onto the reclined chair, head resting against the folded towel, arms settling at your sides. The air is cool against your bare chest, but his gaze? His gaze is warm enough to burn.

He crouches beside you, just at the edge of the chair, keeping his hands respectful—but close. You can see the marker poised in his fingers.

“Okay, I’m going to mark the placement now. Just a little dot on each side. I’ll give you the mirror after, and you can tell me if you want any adjustments.”

You nod, and he leans in. You feel the gentle drag of his gloved hand against your ribcage. The marker dot is so light you barely feel it.

But his breath? You feel that. Warm. Barely there. Ghosting across your sternum like a secret.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmurs, like it’s just for you.

He marks the other side. Mirrors the placement with quiet focus. Then pulls back slowly, just enough to grab the small mirror from the tray.

“Here,” he says. “Take a look. Let me know if it feels right.”

You hold the mirror with slightly shaky hands, angling it as best you can. The dots are perfectly placed—subtle, flattering, aligned with the natural curve of your chest. The bar you picked will sit like a tiny, glimmering crown. Delicate. Pretty.

Princess shit, honestly.

“It’s good,” you say quietly. Then again, stronger: “It’s perfect.”

He smiles at that. “Then we’re all set.” He pauses. “One last time—are you sure you want to do both today? We can always start with one and come back—”

“No,” you cut in, pulse thrumming. “I trust you.”

Felix stares at you, a smile making way to his face, all warm and sunshine. “Alright, angel,” he finally says. “Let me take care of you.”

Your chest rises and falls faster now, breath shallow. You try to stay calm, but then you hear it—

the snap of his gloves. New pair. Clean. Tight against his wrists. Your thighs clench.

He moves around you like a storm gathering quietly—no rush, just inevitability. He sets the tray beside the chair. Everything is in place. Except your mind. That left the second he called you angel.

“I’m going to clean the area first,” he murmurs, voice low, as he reaches for the antiseptic wipe. “It’ll feel cold.”

It does.

The moment the wipe touches your skin, your breath stutters. His fingers are firm and steady, gloved hand guiding the motion. He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t tease.

But the way he holds you? It’s reverent. Like you’re something breakable and beloved.

His eyes flick up—just once—to check your face. “Still okay?”

You nod, voice caught in your throat. “Yeah. Mhm. Yes.”

He lets out the faintest hum—satisfied. Then leans in just a little closer, one hand bracing at your ribcage as the other prepares the clamp.

“I’m going to place the tool now, just for alignment. It’ll pinch a bit.”

You know what’s coming. You’ve watched videos. You’ve had piercings before. But nothing prepares you for the feeling of Felix’s hands—one steady at your side, the other applying pressure with the clamp, his face so close to your chest, concentration written across his features like he’s painting you.

“Breathe in…” he says softly.

You do.

“Hold.”

You do.

“Now exhale—”

The needle goes through in one clean motion.

And you gasp. Not just from the pain—it’s sharp, yes, a sting that blooms bright and fast. But also from the sound that escapes you. A sound you didn’t mean to make. Breathy. Soft. Almost… needy.

Felix freezes for a second.

“You okay?” His voice is low. Thicker now. Like he felt it too.

You nod, blinking up at him. Your pulse is racing. Your skin is buzzing. There's heat pooling low in your stomach and you don't know if it's the adrenaline or him.

He gently slides the jewelry through, screws the dainty opal ball into place. It should honestly feel like relief. But instead, it feels like foreplay.

“That’s one,” he says, eyes meeting yours. “Want me to keep going?”

Your lips part. “Yes. Please.”

And god, the way his jaw tenses at that. He nods once, sharp and focused, then leans in again. This time, when he positions the clamp, you're already trembling sightly. His free hand rest heavier on your ribcage, his thumb just barely brushing your skin and you swear you feel it through the glove. Swear you feel him everywhere.

“Same thing,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “Deep breath in…”

You inhale sharply.

“Hold.”

The second needle slides through and this time—you moan. Soft. Small. But unmistakable. Your body arches just slightly, involuntarily. And his hand? It flexes. Grips a little harder. Just for a moment.

“Fuck—” Felix whispers under his breath.

It’s the first time he’s broken. The first time he’s let it slip.

“Still good?” he asks, but it’s not just professionalism anymore. There’s something else there. Something tight. Raw.

You nod again, cheeks flushed, throat dry. “Y-Yeah.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since you walked in. Then moves quickly—threads the second barbell through, secures it, wipes away the tiny dot of blood with gentle precision. Then sits back.

Just looks at you.

You’re breathing hard. Skin flushed. Lying there, bare, pierced, glowing.

And him? His gloves are still on. But his eyes? They’re filthy. “You did perfect,” he says, voice low and quiet like a secret. “So fuckin’ perfect for me.”

Your thighs clench again. He notices. He always notices. “Let me get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, reaching for the aftercare.

Felix grabs the clean compress and gently warms it in his hands. You watch him as he works—his fingers moving smoothly despite the gloves, the barbell glinting faintly as he adjusts the overhead light.

When he turns back to you, there’s something different in his expression. Still gentle. Still focused. But underneath it, there’s a tension. Like he’s gripping a secret between his teeth.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling beside the chair so he’s level with you again, “this’ll help soothe any swelling. Just a little pressure.”

He presses the warm compress to your skin with slow care, one hand steady against your ribs, the other adjusting the angle. And it should be nothing. Should be routine.

But you swear his thumb is tracing circles now. Tiny, slow ones.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It shudders at the edges.

“Still doing okay?” he asks without looking up.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

His eyes flick up. And you know he sees it. The flush in your chest, the rise and fall of your breath, the way your body is buzzing from more than just adrenaline.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“Because you touched me like that,” you say before you can stop yourself.

That makes him pause. Like he’s deciding something. Like he’s reining something in. Then he smirks—small, dangerous, and too pretty to be fair. “Touched you like what?” he says softly.

“Like it that.”

Felix pulls back just slightly, enough to let the warmth of your words settle between you. “Well, it's because it matters how I touch you.” he says. “You’re not just anyone.”

You blink. “I’m not?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, something low and breathy that curls hot in your stomach. “You think I’d do all this for someone I don’t think about every night after closing?”

That sentence detonates somewhere in your lower stomach. You short-circuit for a full second. Your brain is like a hamster in a blender.

“I—”

He’s still crouched by the chair, head tilted, watching you watch him like you’ve never seen a man before. And honestly? Maybe you haven’t. Not one like this.

“Felix.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re... dangerously good at this.”

He blinks, brows lifting slightly. “At piercing?”

“No,” you say, breathless. “At flirting with surgical instruments in your hand.”

That earns you a real smile. Bright and shameless. “Guess it’s a niche skill.”

“Niche? You’re weaponized.”

“Only against you, angel.”

And that—that—makes you cover your face with both hands and groan into your palms.

He laughs, standing up slowly, stretching his arms a bit, letting his tank ride up just a little. Tease. He knows it. You know it.

You peek between your fingers. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re so into it.”

“I’m dangerously into it,” you mutter. “You could tattoo the word ‘butt’ on my shoulder and I’d thank you.”

“Oh?” he smirks. “Is that your formal request?”

“No. I—” You sit up slightly, clutching the towel across your chest. “I do want a tattoo from you, though.”

His smirk softens into something intrigued. “You do?”

You nod. “Not today. God. Not today. I just got stabbed twice in the tits.”

He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed moan.

You ignore it.

“But I want to book it,” you continue, trying to act casual even though your skin is still buzzing from the aftercare and your thighs are still clenching every time he calls you “angel.” “Like… I want something small. Pretty. Maybe something only I know the meaning of. Like my little secret.”

He raises a brow, hands in his pockets now. “And you want me to do it?”

You stare. “Are you high? Of course I want you. I don’t let just anyone mark me. We’re like three body mods away from you having squatter’s rights on my flesh.”

He blinks, then laughs, full and bright, head tilting back.

“Oh my god,” he says, wiping under his eye like you actually made him cry. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m serious,” you pout. “Pencil me in.”

He bites his lip, still grinning. “How about I pencil you in… and then take you out after?”

Your eyes narrow. “Felix.”

“Yes?”

“Are you asking me out as a reward for surviving your nipple torture?”

He shrugs, shameless. “You were really brave. I feel like you deserve dinner. Or… dessert.”

Your jaw drops. “You absolute menace.”

“I’m marking it in my calendar,” he says, grabbing his phone. “Tattoo consult, followed by post-inking activities.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re gonna sit in my chair again. But next time, I’m gonna keep my gloves on longer.”

You freeze. He winks. And your heart falls straight out of your chest. “Okay,” you say, breathless. “Book it. Tattoo. Dinner. Dessert. All of it.”

Felix grins, bright as a sunbeam. “Can’t wait to ruin you gently.”

It’s been two weeks since Felix pierced your nipples.

Fourteen days. Three sleepless nights. One erotic dream that ended with you waking up with his name on your lips and your hand halfway down your pajama shorts.

You haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Neither has he.

Not that he’s said it outright—he’s still Felix. Still sweet and composed, still texting you photos of dainty jewelry he “could see on you,” still pretending not to be the same man who had his hands on your chest while whispering you’re not just anyone.

But something shifted that day.

Now, when you walk into NO SAINT INK, he doesn’t just smile at you. He drinks you in. Slow. Careful. A look that starts at your lips and ends somewhere around your thighs.

He texts you more. Dumb shit sometimes.

saw this meme, made me think of you (you in this case = a raccoon who stole a slice of cake and got caught) do you think a tattoo of a tiny sword on the hip is slutty or powerful? asking for science btw—piercings are healing perfectly. you’re a dream client. but you already knew that

You pretend to roll your eyes. But you also reread the messages before bed. And maybe… maybe you started taking more mirror pics.

He hasn’t seen them. Not yet. But you’re starting to want him to. The upcoming tattoo appointment is officially booked. He even texted you a calendar invite.

You haven’t picked a placement yet.

Mostly because every time you imagine his fingers trailing along your skin, pushing fabric out of the way, murmuring “here?”, you lose your train of thought.

And maybe part of you is holding back on purpose.

Letting it simmer.

Because if what happened last time is any indication, then the moment you’re in his chair again—bare skin under his hands, gloved or not—you’re not leaving without his name in your mouth. And maybe something else, too.

You arrive early.

The studio’s quiet when you walk in—Chan gives you a nod from the office, barely glancing up from the booking tablet, while Seungmin mutters something about “romantic tension causing a fire hazard.”

You ignore both of them. You’re too busy trying to keep your heart inside your chest.

You’re wearing a low-back slip dress. Thin straps. Just enough coverage to stay on the right side of “I’m here for body modification,” and the wrong side of “touch me and find out.”

Your phone buzzes.

[Felix]: back room’s ready, princess.

Your stomach flips. Your thighs tighten. You walk to the private room like it’s a confessional booth.

Felix is already inside.

And god, he looks even better. How does he do that, looking better every single time. All black: sleeveless tank, loose joggers that cling in the right places, chain resting on his collarbone, hair pulled back in a way that makes you want to pull it forward.

The moment he sees you, his mouth curves into something slow and hungry.

“Damn,” he says softly. “Didn’t even start yet and you’ve already got me sweating.”

You try to play it cool. Fail instantly. “You said dress up.”

“And you listened like a good girl,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dipping dangerously low.

You swallow. “You ready to mark me, or what?”

He exhales through a grin. “Yeah, let’s talk placement.”

You hand him a folded sketch you’ve been keeping tucked in your bag for days. He opens it carefully.

It’s a delicate little sword, no longer than your pinky finger. Wrapped in blooming wisteria vines. The blade’s curved, fine-line. A star sits just beneath the hilt.

Felix studies it for a long moment.

“What’s it mean?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You shrug, trying not to look too vulnerable. “Strength. Softness. Holding both. And... the star’s kinda a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?”

You meet his gaze, suddenly bold. “That someone sees me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just nods, then turns away—like if he looks at you a second longer he might kiss you before any ink gets involved.

“Okay,” he says. “Where?”

You hesitate. Then: “Ribcage. Just under the left breast.”

He stills. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You smile sweetly. “Professional setting, Lee.”

“Right. Totally,” he mutters, already snapping on gloves. “Let me just get set up before I combust.”

He lays out the stencil, wipes down the table, pulls out the fresh needle packet. Everything crisp, sterilized, exact. But you can feel it—the same electric hum from before. Worse, now. Because you both know what it’s like to be this close. To almost touch.

“Go ahead and lie down,” he says, voice carefully steady. “Top off. I’ll drape you for modesty.”

You do.

And as your dress slips down, baring the same skin he pierced just weeks ago, you hear him suck in a breath.

Then softly: “Holy shit.”

Felix exhales like he’s trying to center himself, but his eyes are locked on the exposed skin below your collarbone — the left slope of your ribs, soft and curved and waiting for him.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

You smile, folding your hands over your stomach, trying to stay casual even though your pulse is in your throat.

“You did.”

He looks up at you, grinning now. “Can you blame me?”

You don’t answer. You just bite your lip. His eyes flick down. Linger. Then he clears his throat and reaches for the stencil.

“Okay. This’ll feel a little cold,” he warns.

You hum. “I remember. But you always warm me up after, don’t you?”

Felix freezes mid-step, eyes snapping to yours with that look. The one that makes your entire spine throb.

“I swear to god,” he mutters, gently pressing the damp stencil paper to your skin, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

The stencil application is slow. Careful. His gloved hands cup your side, fingers anchoring just under the swell of your breast, dangerously close to where he pierced you weeks ago.

You try not to squirm. You fail.

He notices.

“You okay?” he asks, innocent on the surface, smug underneath.

“Your hands are cold.”

“Hmm,” he hums, pulling the stencil paper away. “Let me fix that.”

He presses one palm against your ribs skin to glove. His thumb brushes the curve of your side. Not high enough to cross a line. But enough to make you bite back a sound.

“You’re evil,” you breathe.

“I’m very, very good,” he corrects. “Now stay still. Gotta check the alignment.”

He picks up the mirror, holds it out for you to see. You crane your neck, exhaling hard.

It’s perfect. The sword lies just beneath the breastbone, angled ever so slightly with the shape of your ribcage. The wisteria wraps it like it’s meant to grow there.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah.”

Felix smiles like he just won something. Then moves to grab the machine.

You hear the buzz before you see it.

“Okay,” he says, glancing up. “This part’s gonna sting.”

“I’ve been pierced by you,” you smirk. “I can handle it.”

He laughs under his breath and leans over you again, lining up the machine with your skin.

You brace.

And then—

The first touch of the needle.

Sharp. Fast. Immediate. But then it shifts into something else. A burn that blooms. Pain edged in adrenaline, in control, in something almost addictive.

You exhale through it, jaw tight, legs flexing slightly.

Felix’s free hand presses flat to your side. Holding you steady.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Breathe for me, baby.”

Your stomach flutters. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything else. But your mouth has a mind of its own. “So... where are you taking me for dinner?”

Felix doesn’t pause. “Bold of you to assume I’m feeding you before I wreck you again.”

You snort. Then wince. “Don’t make me laugh. You’re stabbing me.”

He grins. “I’m being gentle.”

You side-eye him. “Are you?”

“No.” He shifts the angle. “But you like it when I’m not.”

You whimper. Quiet. Almost embarrassed by it.

He hums in satisfaction. “But to answer your question,” he continues, voice calmer now, “there’s this place a couple blocks down. Little izakaya joint. Private booths. Good lighting. Excellent tempura.”

“Are you describing the menu or your date plan?”

He leans a little closer, eyes on the sword he’s carving into your skin. “Both. You’re gonna look good across from me. All marked up. Flushed.”

You exhale shakily. “You can’t say that while actively tattooing me.”

He glances at you—eyes dark and devastating. “Pretty sure I can. You’re letting me hurt you, princess. You really think I’m not gonna whisper things while I do it?”

And then he goes quiet. Focused. Working the needle with expert care, pausing every now and then to wipe your skin clean with soft pressure, checking the lines.

Eventually, the buzz of the machine softens as Felix lifts the needle for a moment, wiping across your skin with gentle pressure. You hiss through your teeth at the sting.

But you can feel him watching you again. Not just checking his lines. Watching you.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches. “You really like saying that, huh?”

His voice lowers. “Only when it’s true.”

Another pass. Another burn. You clench your fists against the tremble in your thighs. He’s too close. You’re too exposed. And the linework is almost done.

Which means... the night’s only beginning.

The machine buzzes again before a knock is heard at the door which then creaks open just enough for Chan's voice to call in: “Closing up now. You’re the last ones in. Don’t set anything on fire.”

Felix barely glances up. “Got it.”

You stare at the ceiling, heart suddenly pounding harder than before. Last ones in. No one else here.

The door clicks shut again.

Silence.

Felix shuts off the machine.

You look at him.

He sets it down slowly, like he’s placing a weapon back in its sheath. His gloves are still on, but the air in the room is different now. Thick. Humming with intent.

He wipes your skin again. Slower this time. Too gentle.

Then leans in, close enough that his breath ghosts across your ribs.

“You realize,” he says, barely above a whisper, “this is the second time I’ve made you moan while you were half-naked in my chair.”

Your throat goes dry. “Technically the third. I think I whimpered during the aftercare last time.”

Felix chuckles, low and dark. His hand rests over the tattoo now—protective, possessive, and still gloved.

“I didn’t forget,” he murmurs.

You shift slightly, tugging the dress back up, but he stops you with a hand on your wrist.

“Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t cover it yet,” he says. “Let me look.”

His gaze roams slowly over your side, over the glistening ink, the subtle swelling, the flush of your skin. Then his hand follows, gloved fingers brushing the skin just beneath the tattoo.

“Looks fucking perfect on you,” he says, voice gone low again. “Like it was always supposed to be there.”

You bite your lip. “You sound proud.”

“I am proud. I marked you.” He meets your eyes, something darker flickering there. “And you let me.”

You’re not sure who moves first.

But suddenly his hand is on your jaw. Your legs shift on the vinyl. His glove squeaks slightly against your skin. Your breathing is ragged. And his thumb brushes your bottom lip like he’s debating kissing you or dragging you under.

“You still want dinner?” he asks, voice wrecked.

“I want dessert first,” you whisper.

He pulls the gloves off in one swift motion, tossing them carelessly aside. His bare hands find your waist, your jaw, your thigh—wherever he can touch now that he’s allowed to.

“Fuck the reservation,” he growls. “I need to taste you first.”

But even as the words leave his mouth—his hands already roaming your bare waist, your hip, the edge of your thigh—he pauses. Breathless. Controlled chaos.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw clenched.

“Wait.”

You blink, wide-eyed. “Wait?”

His chest rises and falls with uneven breath. He’s so close. You can feel the heat of him between your legs, the tension in his fingertips like he’s holding back something feral.

But he steps back.

“I need to wrap the tattoo,” he says hoarsely. “You just got it. I’m not risking anything.”

It shouldn’t be hot. But it is. Because he wants you bad, and he’s still putting your safety first. You bite your lip as he turns, snatching a fresh piece of second skin from the pack and peeling the backing with shaking hands.

“I’m losing my mind,” he mutters.

“Same,” you whisper.

He crouches beside you again, this time gentle in a way that feels intimate. Like the moment after a storm, where everything’s still dripping wet and raw.

“Deep breath,” he says, laying the second skin gently over the tattooed ribs, smoothing it out with featherlight fingers. His hand lingers just a moment too long—thumb grazing the curve under your breast, jaw tight as he fights himself.

“There,” he murmurs. “Safe.”

Then he looks at you again.

“And now I’m going to ruin you.”

You don’t have time to respond.

He surges forward, lips crashing against yours with weeks of pent-up tension behind it—your moan swallowed into his mouth as he kisses you like he’s starved. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your thigh, tugging you to the edge of the vinyl chair like he’s claiming you.

Your dress is bunched around your waist. His tank top is halfway off. His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to trail kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—pausing just above where the second skin lies, like it’s a sacred barrier.

He doesn’t touch the tattoo. But everything around it? Fair game.

“You still sore?” he breathes against your chest, nipping the top curve just above the bandage.

“A little.”

He grins against your skin. “Good.”

His mouth moves lower—down your stomach, your inner thigh. Hands parting your legs with the kind of reverence you’ve only seen from him in front of his needles.

“You sure about this?” he murmurs, already undoing his joggers with one hand. “I need to hear it.”

“Yes,” you pant. “Felix—yes, fuck, I want you.”

“Say it again.”

“I want you.”

That’s all it takes, in a flash he sinks to his knees like a man at an altar. Hands sliding beneath your thighs, hoisting you further up the vinyl and hooks two fingers under the waistband of your panties, but briefly stops, looking up at you, eyes dark and blown wide.

“Last chance, princess,” he rasps. “You say the word and I stop.”

You barely breathe. “Don’t stop.”

The words barely leave your mouth before he drags the fabric down slow—like he’s unwrapping something precious. Your soaked panties slide over your thighs, your knees, then disappear, flung to the floor like an afterthought.

His eyes never leave you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fucking dripping.”

He spreads you open with warm, steady hands, thumbs pressing into your inner thighs, holding you there like he owns the view. His voice drops, rich and wrecked.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you? Coming in here, dressing like that. Letting me mark you. Begging me with those pretty little sounds—”

You whimper.

And then his mouth is on you.

Tongue first—flat and slow, dragging up your folds with unbearable control. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t dive in like a man desperate. No—Felix licks like he’s tasting you for the first time. Like he wants to memorize the exact shape of your cunt with his tongue.

You gasp. Jerk slightly.

He hums against you, the vibration buzzing straight through your core.

“That’s it,” he murmurs between licks. “Give me all those sounds, baby. Be my good girl.”

You whine, hips twitching as he suckles gently at your clit—just once—before pulling back with a sinful, wet kiss.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You taste so fucking sweet. Gonna keep you here all night.”

And he doesn’t stop.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, rhythmically, until your legs start to tremble. Then he slides lower, dipping between your folds, gathering slick to drag back up—wet and messy and obscene. One hand shifts to grip your hip while the other trails up your thigh, presses down gently to keep you open.

He moans into you like he’s addicted.

And then? He sinks a finger inside.

You cry out—sharp, high, desperate. “Felix—”

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” he whispers, tongue still lapping at your clit. “You take me so fucking well. Look at you—already squeezing around one finger. You’re gonna fall apart for me, huh?”

You nod helplessly, hips canting against his face.

He adds a second finger—slow, deep, curling just right—and that’s when you nearly sob. His mouth never leaves your clit, tongue stroking in tandem with the push of his fingers, and you realize that he’s building you up on purpose.

“Such a good girl,” he pants between licks. “Letting me taste you like this. Letting me wreck you right where I tattooed you. You gonna cum for me, princess?”

You’re nodding—shaking—words gone completely feral. “I want it,” you whimper. “Want you—Felix, please, I’m—”

He curls his fingers just right. Sucks your clit just once—hard.

And you shatter.

Your orgasm hits fast and brutal, ripping through you with a cry that echoes off the studio walls. Your legs lock around his head, your hands claw for anything, and he rides it out—groaning against you like he could come from the taste alone.

But he doesn’t stop. Not even when you twitch. Not when you gasp. Not when your hand weakly pushes at his shoulder.

He pulls back just long enough to murmur: “You said dessert first.”

Then his tongue dives in again.

Your body’s still twitching, legs shaking from the first high when Felix licks up your center again—slow, deep, possessive. You gasp, nearly jolting off the chair.

“F–Felix—!”

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Instead, he presses a palm flat against your stomach to hold you down, keeps your thighs spread with one knee, and groans low into your pussy like he’s devouring you.

“Uh-uh,” he growls, lips slick, voice wrecked. “Not done yet. I haven't had my fill.”

You try to speak, to beg—but all that leaves you is a broken sound, wrecked and high-pitched as he suckles your clit again with cruel, precise rhythm.

It’s too much. You’re still raw from the last orgasm—nerves hypersensitive, thighs twitching, your pussy fluttering helplessly around nothing—

Until he slides two fingers back in.

“FUCK—Felix—!”

“Ohhh, that’s it,” he moans against your clit, fingers pushing in deep, curling—relentless. “That sweet little cunt knows exactly who she belongs to.”

You’re squirming, eyes rolling back, legs fighting between trying to clamp shut and fly open. But Felix is stronger—his grip on your hip iron-tight now, his tongue punishing you with pleasure.

“You gonna cum again for me?” he pants, lips brushing your soaked folds. “You gonna fall apart on my tongue like a good girl?”

You nod frantically—can’t even breathe right, tears blurring your vision as the coil builds again, faster, worse than before.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, I—Felix—please I can’t—”

He fucks you with his fingers harder—wet, obscene sounds echoing through the room—and growls, voice dark and filthy:

“Yes, you can. You’re my canvas, baby. You take everything I give you. You always do.”

That’s it. That’s the push.

You shatter again—louder, messier, nearly screaming as your body spasms through the second orgasm. Your hips lift off the vinyl, legs thrashing, eyes rolling back as everything goes white.

Felix groans deep, pressing you down as you ride it out. Your hands claw at the armrests. Your voice breaks into sobs.

But he’s not done. He kisses your thigh. Licks a stripe back up your centre before he moans, “One more.”

You sob. “I can’t—!”

“Yes,” he whispers, brushing your overstimulated clit with his tongue again, softer now but no less deliberate. “You can. Gimme one more. Be my good girl. Let me break you open just once more.”

You’re crying now.

Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the intensity—the unbearable pleasure ripping through your system like a tidal wave you can’t crawl out from under.

“Please, please—” You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Release? Relief? For him to stop? For him to never stop?

Your voice cracks on the last word and that’s when it hits you again. The third orgasm crashes down. No warning. No buildup. Just your entire body convulsing. Your back arching off the chair. And a choked, wrecked sob ripping out of you, nothing coherent left.

Your cunt clamps hard around nothing—fluttering, pulsing, milking air like it’s looking for him—looking to be filled. Claimed. Ruined.

Felix groans, loud, grinding his hips into the edge of the vinyl chair.

He’s hard. Painfully hard. You can see it now—his cock straining against the fabric of his joggers, twitching as you fall apart for him a third time.

“Holy fuck,” he growls, finally pulling back, wiping his soaked mouth with the back of his hand. “You—fuck, baby—do you even know what you look like right now?”

You’re limp.

Spent.

Tears streaking your cheeks, lips parted, chest rising and falling as you try—fail—to catch your breath.

“You’re perfect,” he pants, running both hands up your thighs. “So fucking perfect for me.”

He presses a kiss to your trembling knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, higher—until he’s kissing the inside of your hip, nuzzling close but respectful of your fresh tattoo.

“Do you want more?” he whispers.

He doesn’t reach for his waistband. Doesn’t undo his joggers. He waits.

You. Choose. Even now. Even when he’s throbbing hard against the chair. Even when his hands shake with restraint.

You blink down at him, fucked-out and flushed, voice hoarse when you finally manage: “Take me. Please.”

He exhales sharply—like he’s been holding that breath since your first orgasm and finally shoves down his joggers, just enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, leaking—and fuck, he’s even prettier here too, hips flexing, tip already brushing against your thigh as he climbs up over the chair.

“No gloves now,” he says, voice dark. “You’re not my client anymore, princess. You’re mine.”

You whimper—wrecked and soaked, your thighs still trembling, your pussy still aching. But when he reaches down and strokes the head of his cock through your folds—slow, teasing, bare—your hips lift instinctively.

“Fuck,” he mutters, watching the way you glisten for him. “Still dripping. This all for me?”

You nod, brain fogged with lust, chest flushed. “I need you,” you whisper.

He lines up at your entrance, but doesn’t push in yet. Just lets the head of his cock press there—hot and thick and perfect. Your body clenches automatically, needy, desperate.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, mouth hovering over yours. “I need to hear it.”

“I need you, Felix. I need to feel you—raw, please, I want all of you.”

That’s it.

He kisses you—deep, possessive, tongue licking into your mouth as his cock finally pushes in—inch by slow, devastating inch.

You both groan into the kiss.

“Fucking hell—you’re tight,” he gasps, hips stuttering as he bottoms out. “God, you’re clenching like you were made for me.”

You cry out, arms wrapping around his neck, legs shaking from the stretch and the sensitivity and the overwhelming fullness. You’ve never felt this much before. Never this deep.

He stays still for a beat, forehead pressed to yours, letting your body adjust—whispering soft things against your cheek:

“So good for me.” “You’re taking me so well.” “Fuck, I could live inside you.”

Then he pulls back and thrusts. Slow. Heavy. The sound of skin on skin fills the studio, slick and obscene.

You moan with every stroke—every delicious drag of him inside you, cock pressing against spots you didn’t know you had. He’s everywhere—his scent, his voice, the weight of his body above yours.

“Tattoo looks even better now,” he pants, eyes flicking to your chest. “You all marked up, legs spread, letting me ruin you.”

Your nails scrape down his back. “Felix—faster—please—”

And he gives it to you, especially with the way you begged so prettily for him. His thrusts picking up—more urgent, more erratic—and your whole body jerking with the force of it.

Your cunt is so wet, so swollen, he slides in easily now—no resistance, just need. The table creaks. The studio hums. And Felix is panting into your neck, fucking you like he’s waited his whole life to.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Wanna come inside this perfect little pussy. You want that?”

You’re barely coherent now. Just sobbing, nodding, whimpering, “Yes—yes, please—I want it, want you—”

He presses a hand over your belly—right where the bulge of him shows through. “You feel that?” he pants. “That’s how deep I am. That’s what you do to me.”

You break.

Your fourth orgasm crashes into you like a goddamn tidal wave. Your body shakes violently, voice tearing out of your throat in a sound you don’t recognize, walls spasming around his cock like you’re trying to milk him dry.

And Felix? Felix is fucking gutted.

“Jesus fucking—baby,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours, hips still grinding. “You’re so good—so fucking good—taking me like this, holding me this deep—”

Your mouth is slack. You can’t form a single word. Just loud, wet gasps as he fucks you through your fourth orgasm, dragging it out, drawing it longer, leaving you trembling and cockdrunk and gone.

“You don’t even know how pretty you look.” he murmurs, voice thick with reverence, filth, love.

Your fingers twitch against his arms. You manage a breathy, fucked-out, “Yours…”

That wrecks him.

He groans, low and animal, and his pace gets messier, sloppier—your pussy sucking him in with every thrust like it’s begging for his cum.

“Please,” you whimper. “Please, Felix—want your cum so bad—wanna feel it dripping out of me after—”

“Fuck.”

That does it. With one final, deep thrust—buried to the hilt, cock pressed right against your cervix—Felix shatters. His whole body tenses. His mouth drops open in a gasp. And then he’s spilling inside you—hot, thick, endless—his cum painting your walls as he groans your name like a prayer.

“Fucking hell—take it, baby—take all of it—”

You feel everything.

His hips twitch with every pulse, his cock throbbing as he empties himself deep inside your already ruined cunt. The warmth, the weight, the way he groans as you clench through the aftershocks—it’s overwhelming.

It doesn’t stop.

Even after he’s cum, he’s still rocking into you slowly, fucking it deeper, slow grind to push every drop in. Your body’s twitching, overstimulated and sensitive, tears sliding down your cheeks as you choke on another gasp.

Felix notices. He kisses them away. “Shh, I know,” he breathes. “You were so perfect for me. So fuckin’ good, baby.”

He finally stops. Still inside you. Still hard. Your walls are fluttering around him like they miss it already. Felix holds your face in both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, gaze soft and filthy all at once.

“You okay?”

You nod, blinking slowly. “Yeah,” you croak.

“You need anything?”

You smile, wrecked. “Water. And maybe a new spine.”

He laughs—sweet and hoarse—and kisses your forehead. “Don’t move. I’ve got you.” You don't even realize you’re trembling until Felix tucks a hand behind your knee and lifts your leg carefully—still inside you, still breathing hard, but already shifting into his softer mode.

His real mode.

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, kissing the sweat off your temple. “You’re okay. We’re done now, sweetheart. You did so good.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted. And he’s looking at you like you’re made of stardust.

A few more deep breaths. Then, finally, he slides out of you. And you whimper. Instinctual. Empty. Felix immediately hushes you, hands gentle as they ease your dress back down over your hips. “I know. I know, baby. You were so full. Felt so good, huh?”

He reaches for the warm compress he prepped before the session—because of course he did—and begins gently dabbing your thighs. He’s not trying to tease now. Not trying to rile you up.

Just taking care of you.

Even wipes between your legs with a soft, sterile cloth, murmuring praise while he works. “You were amazing. So brave. Took everything. Let me see all of you. I’ve never—”

He cuts himself off. Focuses on unwrapping a clean second skin.

You murmur, sleepy but curious, “Never what?”

Felix glances up, eyes fond. “Never wanted to ruin anyone like that. And still hold them like this after.”

You bite your lip. Your heart is mush.

Once your tattoo’s dressed again—bandaged just right—he lifts you into his arms with a little grunt and a kiss to your forehead. “C’mon. You’re not walking.”

“I can—”

“Nope.” He’s already carrying you to the break room, cradling you against his chest like a princess. “You just had four orgasms and a full session. I’m your chair now.”

He sets you down gently on the couch, grabbing his own oversized NO SAINT INK hoodie and sliding it over your head like muscle memory.

It swallows you whole.

You beam at him. “It smells like you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. It’s mine.”

Then he disappears for all of two minutes.

Returns with a glass of cold water, a wrapped protein bar (definitely Jisung's, but he won't notice) and a microwaved rice bowl from the staff fridge.

“Five-star dining,” he says, setting it on the coffee table. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”

You laugh, curled up in his hoodie, eyes gleaming. “This is better than any reservation.”

He slides in next to you and pulls you into his lap, tucking your legs over his, spoon-feeding you the rice because, in his words, “Your hands are for cuddling now, not labour.”

He lifts another spoonful of warm rice to your mouth with exaggerated focus, like this is a gourmet tasting menu and not a semi-stolen leftover from the NO SAINT INK fridge. You open obediently—chewing with a thoughtful hum, cheeks puffed out, still pink from earlier and now somehow glowing even brighter from being doted on.

Felix grins. “You like it?”

“It’s definitely not mine,” you say around a mouthful. “But it’s warm and salty and I feel like I’m being bottle-fed, so yes. Five stars.”

“Perfect,” he replies, proud, like he made it himself.

You point at him with the half-peeled protein bar. “We’re still going to dinner later, right?”

He cocks a brow. “Babe. You came four times. You can’t walk.”

You glare. “I’ll crawl to the restaurant.”

Felix breaks—choking out a laugh, hand braced on your thigh. “You’ll crawl??”

“I earned tempura.”

“You just devoured this rice and Jisung's protein bar like a menace.”

You look down, horrified. “Wait… that was his bar?”

He snickers. “Yup.”

“Oh my god, he’s going to notice.”

“No he won’t,” Felix shrugs. “He has like five stashed behind the paper towels. I’ll replace it and gaslight him.”

You smile at him, gooey and gross. “You’d gaslight for me?”

He leans in, brushes his nose against yours. “Baby, I’d commit minor fraud for you.”

You sit in his lap like that for a while longer, warm and fed and wrapped up in his stupid hoodie that now smells like ink and sex and rice, your legs draped over his thighs and your heart absolutely wrecked with affection.

“Okay, but like…” you mumble, eyelids drooping. “Reservation?”

Felix kisses the top of your head. “Still have two hours.”

“Oh good.”

“You’ll need at least one of them to recover.”

“You’re so smug.”

He grins against your temple. “Only because I earned it.”

And you sigh into his neck, smiling. Yeah. You’re still getting your tempura. But first? You’re gonna melt into him for just a little longer.

It turns out things with Felix don’t just stay hot and messy—they get deeper. Softer. Somehow stupider too.

Because this man? He’s sunshine in human form. A disaster wrapped in dimples. A filthy, talented menace who will rail you in the studio at 3AM and buy you Hello Kitty band-aids for your healed nipple piercings because you’re “his cute little canvas.”

You never officially moved in—but your toothbrush lives at his place, and so do half your clothes, and so does your stupid pink mug that says I SURVIVED MY NIPPLE PIERCINGS in Comic Sans. (He custom-ordered it. With glitter print.)

Felix still tattoos you. He still calls you baby girl when you’re squirming under the needle, all flushed and squirmy and trying not to let it show how much you like it. And yeah. He still fucks you in the back of the studio sometimes.

(Okay, often.)

(Okay, every time someone forgets to lock up.)

You’re curled up on his couch now, post-round-three and wearing nothing but one of his band tees, scrolling through old selfies from the night he first took you out to that izakaya. Felix is half-asleep beside you, an arm slung across your belly, mouthing lazy kisses to your ribs like he needs to be touching you to breathe right.

And then—your phone buzzes.

MINHO [9:26PM]: glad you two are still together or whatever but also next time you rawdog in the studio maybe don’t SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME BY ACCIDENT

You blink.

Then snort—so loud it wakes Felix. “What?” he mumbles, blinking up at you with tousled hair and one sleepy dimple.

You show him the message. He stares. Then absolutely cackles. Rolls onto his back, wheezing, “I DID NOT—WHY WOULD I—”

You’re dying. “You did, Felix. When I came the second time. You said ‘Minho’s gonna kill me’ and then moaned his actual name.”

He groans, covering his face. “Noooooo. My life is over. I can never look him in the eye again.”

You curl into him, still laughing. “You’ll survive. Barely.”

“Should I buy him earplugs? A fruit basket? Flowers?”

“Just stop fucking me so loud next time.”

He peeks at you through his fingers. “That implies there’s a next time in the studio.”

You grin. “There’s always a next time.”

And Felix? He kisses your smile like a man grateful every single day that you walked into his booth and said: “So, um… I want you to pierce my ears.”

Because now? You’ve marked each other forever.

And you’re still not done.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy , @rainyjeno , @fawnoverdawn , @pixie-felix , @anniestay , @notmeneo , @lovslixx , @themoonlightfae , @heartwithoutaname , @yourghostneighbor , @princesskrystix , @drilles , @y2kur0mi , @mochi-space , @ivaviavi , @phelans-thoughts , @the-anon-reader , @beans4beans56 , @joyfulchaoslover , @channieismylove , @cherryoatchai , @unimportantweirdo , @seagulljk , @freckles-and-rage , @lonelydarknessblog

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #lee felix #felix x reader #felix smut #lee felix smut #felix stray kids #tethered tuesday #stray kids smut

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wosospacegirl · 4 months ago

Text

Top of the League, Bottom of the Class

Summary: Y/n’s got energy for days, jokes for every occasion, and zero patience for schoolwork. Too bad Alexia and Leah are determined to make her study, even during international break.

Warnings: Alexia is a bit...stern at the beginning, but I swear she softens up to our girl y/n!!

Word count: 7.4k

Notes: This was based on a request

Masterlist

The sun was setting over Barcelona's training ground, it was late already–too late for a certain player to be on the pitch. But Y/n was there, happier than ever, with her headphones on while she trained some dribbling skills with one of the dummies.

The training had ended one hour ago, but some players were still at Barcelona’s training ground, although most of them were having physiotherapy sessions or late gym hours–meaning they were far away from the pitch, so there weren’t any chances Y/n would be caught.

Y/n had a whole thing planned out. After training, she took a shower in the changing room, talked a bit with Jana and Vicky before taking her gym bag and saying goodbye, walking through the door as she rambled about how much homework she had to do when she got home.

But when Jana and Vicky took a left in the corridors, Y/n told them she had forgotten her water bottle–again, so she had to go back and get it. Jana and Vicky watched as Y/n walked. The two girls had no idea that their friend was actually planning yet another training session on the pitch.

Although no one could know about Y/n’s late-night rendezvous, because she actually wasn’t allowed to stay in the training center past 6 pm, Barcelona’s team had created this rule because Y/n got so caught up training after-hours that she didn’t do her homework.

Y/n had to balance school, in between being professional players for Barcelona and England, but the girl couldn't care less about school.

Football was her life. It wasn’t just her passion; it was the one thing that made her feel truly alive.

She was a star on the pitch, but when it came to school, she was a different story. Books? Boring. Homework? A waste of time. For her, the only subject that mattered was football.

Her grades were slipping…badly. The headmistress at her school had to call Barcelona’s office to talk about it because Y/n’s parents weren’t in the country, and she had no one to take care of

Of course, Barcelona thought it would be a good idea to assign someone to assist and look over Y/n. A normal club would have hired a teacher, or even a babysitter, but since Barcelona had this weird "Som una família" [we’re family] vibes, they assigned no one less than La Reina, Alexia Putellas herself, to be the one to help her with geometry homework.

At first, Y/n thought Alexia wouldn't take it seriously, maybe just to go to some parent-teacher meetings when necessary. But no, Alexia had made it one of her life responsibilities to get Y/n through math classes.

And that’s why she was hiding from Alexia now. She had told the captain that she was going home just before she met with Vicky and Jana. Alexia just nodded and kissed her on the cheeks as she–very weirdly–was the first to go home.

Y/n could easily fit in another hour or two of training before the center actually closed. What if she had history homework? Barcelona had a big game coming up, plus, international dates were just a few weeks away, and she had been called up to the senior squad again–she had to be in top shape.

So Y/n stayed on the pitch. Her headphones on.

She flicked the ball between her feet to the rhythm of Young Hearts Run Free, lost in the music and movement. She didn’t even hear the footsteps approaching. She only noticed when…

Yank.

A sharp pain ran through her ear as her headphone was pulled out of her head.

"Ouch"! Y/n turned around, rubbing the sore spot. "What the fuck?! That’s child abuse–"

Her eyes found a very, very angry Alexia. Her throat felt dry, as if she couldn't speak.

She was in so much trouble.

Alexia was right in front of her, arms crossed, looking very unhappy. Her hair was down, her make-up was done, and…wait. Was she wearing…a dress? Huh?

"Ale? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, nena," Alexia said sternly. "How many times have I told you to go straight home after training?"

Y/n looked down, playing with the ball on her feet, feeling her cheeks blushing for getting caught.

"I asked you a question," Alexia said– before kicking the ball from y/n’s feet, sending it rolling into the net.

Goal..yay?

"I just need to train more, Ale!" Y/n said exasperatedly, pointing towards the goal as if to prove her point. “International break is c–”

"International breaks do not matter if you fail school!" Alexia said. "You know you need to present a clean school report to play for the senior squad, right?"

"Yes, I know that," Y/n muttered.

"It doesn't seem like you do," Alexia said, casually pulling her phone from her purse and holding it up to Y/n’s face.

Oh no, Y/n knew what that meant.

"You got a 2/10 on your biology test, and then a 3/10 on your math test," Alexia said. "First of all, why am I finding out about it through an email? Why didn't you tell me?

"Because you’d get mad at me just like you’re now!" Y/n shot back

"I'm not mad!" Alexia said, voice tight. "I'm disappointed."

Y/n froze and stared at Alexia.

Y/n felt a cold rush go through her body, setting a weight on her chest.

Disappointed? She could handle being yelled at. She could deal with Alexia being frustrated or angry. But disappointment? Y/n didn’t know what to do with this. It felt wrong.

"I make time on my schedule to help you study," Alexia said, her finger counting off each point. "I buy things you need for school projects, I read the same books you need to read for Spanish class to try and motivate you, and this is what I get in return? Slack?’

Y/n felt her eyes fill with tears. She tried to find something to say, but her usual funny and witty comments that would normally get her out of any serious situation were nowhere to be found.

Alexia was looking at her, her eyes and lips tight, her foot tapping on the grass restlessly. She missed the usual gentle and patient Alexia right now more than anything.

"I know you love football, Y/n, but this," Alexia pointed towards the pitch. "Is only a small part of what your life will look like in the future; you need to be ready for more."

Y/n swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, trying not to let Alexia see her tears, but she failed. She quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of her barça hoodie while looking away.

“You need school to move forward, you can be the very best players on the pitch, but if you don’t give the same effort off of it, you’re not going to make it very far,” Alexia’s voice softened just slightly.

Alexia’s words hung in the air as she watched the girl standing in front of her.

“Sorry,” Y/n said quietly, “I shouldn't have hid it from you.”

"Have I ever made you feel like you needed to hide things from me?" Alexia said, taking a step closer and placing her hand on Y/n’s shoulder as she leaned just slightly to be the same height as her eyes.

Y/n shook her head.

“Exactly," Alexia said, putting a hand on Y/n’s shoulder. “This is the first time I’ve been stern with you, isn’t it?”

Y/n nodded, looking away.

“Will it be the last?” Alexia asked.

Y/n wished she could easily nod along without a second thought, but she also knew how much of a hard time she had with school. But still, she couldn't let it happen again, and couldn't let Alexia get this upset with her.

So she forced the word out. “Yes.”

“Okay, good,” Alexia said. “Let's go. It's late.”

Without another word, Alexia turned toward the exit, and Y/n followed her.

They didn’t talk on the way out, but the silence wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable.

The steady weight of Alexia’s hand on her shoulder, and the way she effortlessly picked up Y/n’s training bag and slung it over her own–it was enough.

Y/n didn’t need to hear the words to know that she was forgiven.

They walked through the car park, the night cold and the postlight brightening the way they made Alexia's black car.

Y/n was already thinking of what to expect from the car drive as she rubbed the sting on her ear from where Alexia had oh-so-graciously removed her headphones and tugged at her ear.

They would probably be in a quiet, awkward ride–just her and Alexia’s disappointing sight and, very occasionally, passive-aggressive grips on the steering wheel as Alexia made sure to put on the worst songs ever known to humankind.

Alexia had given Y/n a bunch of rides, so Y/n followed the usual routine of going to the passenger seat, but to her surprise, there was a woman sitting there,

One Y/n had never met.

Y/n tilted her head, trying to think of every single player of every single women's team in La Liga. No, she wasn’t in any team. Then she thought of the staff of Barcelona… also no.

Yep, Y/n had no clue who this person was.

Y/n slowed her steps, eyebrows furrowing as she took in the unfamiliar woman sitting there.

She was pretty. Dark hair, and soft features, a warm smile was on her lips as she watched Y/n and Alexia approaching.

Y/n stopped right outside the car, looking between her and Alexia with suspicion. "Uh, Ale? Who is this?"

Alexia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as if already exhausted by the interrogation she knew was coming.

"Y/n, this is Olga. Olga, this is Y/n." Alexia said simply. "You go there," Alexia pointed at the back seat.

Olga turned fully in her seat, extending a hand out the window.

"So you’re the famous nena, huh?" Olga said, smiling genuinely. "Alexia talked a lot about you."

"Oh yeah? She did?" Y/n shook her head before immediately nodding. "I like you already… Olga."

She pulled open the back door and climbed in as Alexia slid into the driver’s seat.

Silence settled over the car as Alexia started driving. Y/n had expected her to be better at small talk, but apparently, she wasn’t.

"So…" Y/n leaned forward, poking her head between the front seats. "Who even are you, Olga?"

"Get back to your seat and put on your seat belt," Alexia said sharply. "And…we were having dinner."

"Having dinner?" Y/n asked.

"Sí"

"Where?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"It’s that Italian place near Carrer de Pàdua," Olga finally explained, noticing how Alexia seemed to only give the young girl vague answers. "It’s great!"

"Wait–did you guys go to L'Italiano Perso?" Y/n asked

"Sí," Alexia said again. "We were on a date–"

Y/n’s eyes widened. "Wait. What?" She stopped buckling herself up, being too shocked by Alexia’s revelation.

"A date, Y/n," Alexia said in exasperation, a heavy voice. "You know, when two people who like each other go out…u might not know much about it, but–"

"Since when do you date?!" Y/n interrupted. "And excuse me? I go on plenty of dates! Thank you!"

"Drop it." Alexia sought, tying her hands around the wheel, Y/n could even see the blush of her cheeks

"Oh bloody hell!" Y/n exposed, putting her hand on her own cheeks. "Does your mom know about it? Your sister?"

"If you don’t shut up, I’m stopping at the England embassy to have you deported," Alexia said, deadpanned.

"Ok, that was rude," Y/n said, finishing buckling her seatbelt and leaning her back into her seat. "I can think of a few English people who would love to have me back."

"Let’s get you back to then, maybe this way I can have a proper date once"

The drive was mostly silent after that, Y/n noticed that Alexia's awful music taste was replaced by cool, modern songs. After a few minutes thinking why Y/n saw that it was Olga’s Spotify that was connected to Alexia's car.

Hm. Good piece of information.

That meant that it wasn’t their first date…

Wait. Fuck

Y/n’s stomach sank. Alexia was on a date.

A date that she had to interrupt because of Y/n's stupid irresponsibility

“Oh no!” Y/n said.

“Oh no?” Olga turned to look at her, and then at Alexia, as if the blonde could decipher everything that came out of Y/n’s mouth. “What happened?”

“I ruined your date.” Y/n’s eyes widened. “I'm so sorry, Ale!”

“Nena," she sighed as she held the wheel with one hand and rubbed her temples with the other. “You didn’t ruin anything, don’t worry.”

“No, seriously, I totally ruined your date." Y/n looked between them, horrified. “That’s why you look… so put together all of a sudden! That’s why you were in a dress! I thought that was weird! I’m so–”

“Y/n." Alexia’s voice was sharp, a blush growing into her neck as she avoided making eye contact with Olga, who was biting down a laugh. “Shut. Up.”

Y/n pouted. “But did I really ruin it?”

Alexia sighed. “We were having dinner, and then I got that email about your grades, and I got mad. So I drove to your house, and when you weren’t there, I knew exactly where you’d be.”

"Uh…oops?." Y/n cringed.

Y/n realised she could never be captain. Imagine being on a date and receiving an email from a kid–that wasn’t even your kid– saying they went bad on a test about cell division and having to drop everything to go look for them? Nope.

Olga turned in her seat again, resting her chin on her palm as she looked at Y/n. “You know, if you wanted to sabotage Alexia’s love life, there are easier ways.”

Y/n quickly caught Olga’s teasing tone and smiled at her.

"I wasn’t trying to sabotage, I was just training, I swear!" Y/n laughed, loving watching how Alexia’s eyes rolled.

"Instead of doing your homework," Alexia added, making a U-turn.

Y/n groaned, dramatically. "I get it, I get it, I’m a disappointment, bla bla bla"

"You’re not a disappointment," Alexia rolled her eyes. "Stop being dramatic, you’re just–"

“An academic disaster?” Y/n offered an awkward smile on her face.

“A headache.” Alexia finished.

“You two are fun," Olga said, placing a hand on Alexis's thigh. "It makes me laugh.”

Y/n grinned. "Does that mean I can be the third wheel all the time?"

"No," Alexia said

"We’ll see," Olga said at the same time, winking at Y/n.

Y/n sat up quickly, having a bright idea. "Well, if that’s how it’s gonna be, I might as well ask… Olga, do you know anything about mitosis and meiosis? I’ve got a test coming up..."

Alexia immediately shot a glare at her. "Y/n, no. Stop bothering Olga."

Y/n put her hands up defensively. "Hey, I’m just trying to help my education!"

"Maybe you should help yourself first," Alexia mumbled.

"You know, you should listen to your captain before she strangles you," Olga said, laughing.

Y/n watched as Alexia smirked at Olga…Smirked!

"Okay, ew!" Y/n said, "Was that…flirting? Please stop the car so I can throw up."

"Oh Déu meu, nena, calla!" Alexia snapped.

Y/n squinted her eyes. "I have no idea what you just said, Alexia, but I bet it was rude!".

But then, Y/n noticed something strange.

Y/n leaned forward, confusion in her eyes. "Wait a minute...why aren’t you driving me home?"

"I’m going to school with you tomorrow," Alexia said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. "It’s easier if you sleep at mine, I’ll drop by your house in the morning so you can get your school bag and then we can head out from the..."

Y/n raised her eyebrows. "What? Why are you going to school with me?"

“They want to talk about your grades and about the next international break –you’ll be three weeks out of school, they want to see how we can organize your school work.”

"Okay, but they can talk to me about it," Y/n said. "Why do they want you there

"Why do they want me there? Nena, did I give you an earful for nothing?" Alexia glanced at her, impatience in her voice. "I’m responsible for you! They want to make sure you’ll have an actual adult looking out for your education."

"So you’re coming with me—" Y/n said carefully. "Like, as a parent?"

"Sí," Alexia replied, completely unfazed.

"Oh, come on, Ale! This is so embarrassing!"Y/n threw herself back into her seat, groaning. "Don’t you have training or something better to do?"

"Sí, I do actually," Alexia simply said. “And I’ll be very happy at training tomorrow if I didn’t have to go talk to the headmistress, but since someone needs to keep an eye on you, I’ll be the one to do it."

Alexia paused for a second, then added, "Also, you’re benched for the next two games."

"What? No!" Y/n yelled.

"Sí."

"You can’t do that!"

Alexia turned to her with a calm expression. "I just did, nena.”

Y/n ran her hands through her face dramatically. “You’re ruining my career, forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alexia waved off with one hand. “You’ll survive.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“We’ll see that.”

Y/n groaned again and rolled her eyes.

"You beware, Olga," Y/n mumbled, crossing her arms and looking out of the window. "She’s always this pain in the a–"

"You just won yourself another game on the bench," Alexia said. “Wow, that’s got to be a new personal record, huh?”

Looked at Alexia through the rearview mirror, indignation on her face.

Olga raised her eyebrows, biting back a grin as she watched Y/n’s reaction. She gave her leg a light pat, offering no real support.

"Oh, rough amiga, but maybe you can study a bit while you’re on the sideline."

"You know what, Olga," Y/n said with a betrayed look in her eyes. "I don’t like you anymore."

When they finally reached Alexia’s house, Y/n was determined to get back at Alexia for being so… she wasn't actually sure. A responsible adult?A good guardian? It didn’t matter the reasoning, she just wanted to annoy Alexia.

But now, after meeting Olga, Y/n realized there were even better and more efficient ways to annoy Alexia.

As they stepped inside, Y/n noticed how familiar Olga seemed with the place, so she couldn’t help but smirk, and she formulated a plan.

"It’s your first time here?" Y/n asked, casually tossing her gym bag by the door.

"Nena," Alexia warned, making sure Y/n knew Alexia was very aware of what she was doing.

"Oh, no," Olga said, flashing Y/n a smile. "I’ve been here before… You know, movie nights and stuff like that."

"Oh yeah," Y/n said, dragging out the words with insinuation. "Movie night, I get it," she winked at Olga.

"So where am I sleeping?" Y/n asked, changing her attention from Olga to Alexia.

"Guest room."

"But you only have one guest room!" Y/n protested, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah? And?" Alexia shrugged, her tone casual. "You’re only one person."

"But where’s Olga sleeping?" Y/n pressed, leaning in with a teasing grin.

"In my room," Alexia replied nonchalantly, trying not to make a big deal about it so Y/n wouldn’t make a big deal about it.

But of course, Alexia was wrong.

Y/n shot a playful glance at Olga, eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh, okay," she said, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm. "Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone then…don’t wanna get in the way of more than just the date, you know."

Olga bit back a laugh, but Alexia turned to Y/n with a look that could kill.

"Go. Now." Alexia pointed toward the stairs. "And do all your homework for tomorrow. I’ll check in during breakfast."

All the playfulness drained from Y/n’s face.

"All my homework?” Y/n whined, “It’s a lot of stuff and it’s late already!”

"Should’ve thought of that before sneaking out to the pitch," Alexia said, her voice emotionless.

Y/n groaned dramatically. "I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah. It’s part of the job," Alexia said, waving her off like it was nothing. "Now go."

Y/n did what Alexia asked of her, or at least…she tried.

She had to do homework for basically every subject because she didn’t get any work done during the week, so it was all piling up. She grabbed Alexia’s notebook from her room before accessing her school website and logging in to see every assignment and reading she had to do, and it was a lot.

She began her while lying on the bed, reading slide presentations and watching some YouTube videos about the subjects. It helped a little, but everything was still so blurry in her head.

Why did she have to learn geometry? Or learn about the deep history of every country in Europe?

The girl groaned and closed the notebook, putting it aside.

She was dumb. That's what it was.

Y/n was always the slowest in class, the last kid to learn how to read or to spell, the one you absolutely didn't go to if you had questions about school work. Y/ns teachers also made sure she knew how bad she was compared to other students.

She felt inferior and worthless whenever she was in school. But when she was on the pitch? She was good–one of the best, even!

That’s why she didn't like to do homework, it reminded her how much harder she had to work compared to others just to get a 6/10.

Y/n rolled her eyes and turned around, she turned around a lot before she was actually able to fall asleep.

Y/n woke up to the sound of her phone ringing and vibrating aggressively under her pillow. She barely had time to process what was happening, and she looked at the screen on the phone, confused, reading the name Leah Williamson.

She sighed and rubbed her eyes, knowing exactly why Leah was calling. She had barely survived Alexia’s lecture, and now she is going to have to hear through another one.

With a deep breath, Y/n clicked the green button on the screen. "If this is about the email, I–"

"What email?" Leah's voice came on, slightly confused.

"Hmm… this isn’t about the email?"

"No, this is about you not doing your homework–according to Alexia" There was a pause. "Should I be checking my email too?"

Y/n cursed under her breath before replying. "No! No email. Forget I said that…I just woke up, so I must have, hm, dreamed about…emails"

"Uhum,” Leah said sarcastically. "I’ll be asking Alexia about that later…Now tell me what the hell is going on with you? Sneaking to the pitch? Really?"

Y/n winced. "Leah, I’ve already talked to Alexia about it, I don’t need you too–"

"Yes, you do need me to talk to you because it seems like you think you’re your own person, but you are only sixteen.”

“Leah!” Y/n groaned.

"No, Y/n. You don’t get to complain. You promised you’d take school seriously." Leah said, and Y/n quickly remembered the numerous times Leah had also lectured her about it during camp. "And don’t try the ‘football is all I need’ argument, because you and I both know that’s not true."

Y/n pressed her lips together, knowing full well she wouldn’t win this one. She kept quiet, scared to say the wrong thing and make Leah even more mad.

"I’m serious, Y/n. You need to get your act together. Alexia’s worried!" Leah said. "She told me it wasn't the first time that you played football instead of studying! You need to learn your responsibilities."

Y/n muttered something that Leah couldn't understand..

"What was that?" Leah asked

"I said that Alexia is a snitch."

"She’s a snitch because you didn't tell me first," Leah said. "But since I need to have the Alexia Putellas on my phone giving me updates about your school life, we both decided to do things in our own way."

Y/n gulped, scared of whatever Alexia and Leah had planned together

"You can expect a lot, and I mean a lot of textbooks in your room when you get to camp," Leah said. "I’ll keep a close eye on you here in England, and Alexia will do the same when you’re in Barcelona; we won’t let you keep this on."

"Serious kid," Leah continued. "You moved to Spain on your own at sixteen, you have your own house, you’re talented, but you refuse to do a few math exercises? Come on, mate"

"I’m sorry," Y/n muttered. "I’ll be better, I’m just…"

"What?" Leah asked, her voice softer now.

"I'm dumb, okay!" Y/n blurted out before she could stop herself. "I don’t get things quickly, and it just—it doesn’t stick like it does with other people."

"Hey, don’t say that," Leah cut in, her voice sharp with concern. "Struggling with school doesn’t make you dumb, you’re smart, kid. You wouldn’t be where you are if you weren't."

"It doesn't seem like that most of the time," y/n said in a low voice.

"You might not see it," Leah said. "But the people around you certainly do, that’s why we keep pushing you, we know you can do much better."

"Look, I have to go," Y/n sighed. "Alexia apparently has to go to school with me today."

"Okay, kid, we’ll talk later, then," Leah said. "Good luck with that! Love you, bye!"

"Love you too," y/n said before she hung up the phone and put it aside.

Y/n rubbed the sleep off of her eyes, and that’s when she heard the door crack open.

"You’re not dumb, nena," Alexia said, firm but gentle.

Y/n’s head snapped up. "Ale! Were you…eavesdropping on my conversation?"

"Sí," Alexia replied without hesitation, crossing her arms. "You’re loud, and I was coming to tell you breakfast is ready."

Y/n groaned, sinking further into her seat. "Unbelievable."

Alexia didn’t waver. She leaned forward slightly, her expression serious. "Cariño, listen to me. You are not dumb. Don’t ever say that again, do you understand?"

Y/n hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. "I just have a really hard time with…school.”

“Then we’ll get you help,” Alexia sighed, stepping closer to Y/n and sitting on the bed by her side. “But first you need to try, you can’t give up like that.”

“We’ll figure it out, sí?” Alexia continued. “I’ll talk to your teachers today, and we’ll think of something.

Y/n nodded, a little more reassured. "Okay."

“Girls!” y/n heard Olga calling from downstairs. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

“Breakfast, huh?” Y/n nudged Alexia with her shoulder. “Should I get used to seeing Olga around?”

Alexia rolled her eyes, ignoring Y/n and extending her hand, palm open.

“Let me see your homework.”

“Oh come on, mate!”

When Alexia said she'd find Y/n some help, she really wasn’t joking.

She had created a whole schedule that balanced football, school, and dedicated study time. She even printed it out and made Y/n hang it in her room, so she’d always know what her day looked like.

Since she was a student-athlete, she only attended school for half the day, doing the rest online. Her schedule was packed—morning classes, lunch, training, online lessons, more training, and homework. That last part? She used to skip it. But now, with Alexia’s plan written out for her, she actually stuck to it.

At first, Y/n thought she’d hate it. That she'd never get used to it. But having a routine was so much easier than doing whatever came to her mind. Plus, her schedule included team study nights, and those turned out to be some of the most fun days of the week.

“I don’t get it,” Aitana said, holding her biology book close to her face, eyes squinted. “It looks so weird.”

Pina turned the book, which was upside down– for her. “Maybe this way is better.”

“No,” Aitana shook her head. “Still weird.”

Y/n was in the middle of writing an essay when their conversation caught her attention. She looked up and scooted close to Aitana and Pina.

“What are you guys looking at?” Y/n asked.

“This,” Aitana said, pointing at the page.

Y/n furrowed her eyebrows “Oh, that’s how the replication of DNA goes.” Y/n said casually, coming back to her work. “You know, double string, DNA polymerase, nucleic acids.”

There was silence.

“And since when did you know that?” Pina finally asked.

Y/n shrugged, getting back at her assay. “Just do.”

“Oh,” Aitana muttered, back to the books. “Alexia is for sure going to love that.”

“Please make sure to tell her,” Y/n sighed dramatically. “So she can take me off the bench already,”

Y/n had just finished a painfully online lesson when her phone rang. She barely glanced at the screen before answering.

“What?”

“Hello to you too, sunshine,” Leah's dry voice came through.

“I’m busy,” Y/m said, taking the pencil she was holding off of her mouth before taking a new textbook and putting it on her study table.

“Too busy for your favorite captain?” Leah teased.

“Oh, I didn’t know this was Alexia,” Y/n said, teasing Leah back;

“You’re awful.”

“Not as awful as school,” Y/n groaned, letting her head fall on the open textbook.

“That bad?” Leah hummed.

“I had to write a whole page about the First Carlist War, it took like an hour!”

“Wow, a whole page,” Leah snorted. “I’m impressed you survived that.”

“You said that because you aren’t the one having to write about dead people after an excruciating training session.”

“Yeah, if you actually did your work, maybe Alexia wouldn’t have to babysit you and make that schedule.”

“She doesn’t babysit me!” Y/n scowled. Offended. “I still live alone and-”

“Oh really?” Leah interrupted. “Then what’s that piece of paper in your room that tells you exactly when to eat, sleep, study… breathe.”

“It’s a routine, Leah.”

“Yeah, routines are like fancy for babysitting teens,” Leah said. “But seriously, though, I'm happy you're actually following it, keep it up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Y/n huffed, but her lips twitched in a small smile “Don't worry.”

“Okay, kid, gotta go now,” Leah said. “I’m looking forward to your thrilling Carlist War facts when you get to camp next week.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure you listen to them,” Y/n shot back, but it sounded more like a dare.

“Are you really sure this is a healthy way of studying?” Salma asked, eying the situation with doubt.

When Y/n had called her, Vick and Jana to her flat for a ‘Girl’s Night’, a Don Quixote quiz wasn’t something she was expecting.

“It seems like fun to me,” Vick said with a grin. “Go on, Salma, ask her already.”

Salma sighed but turned to Y/n, while Jana stood next to her, holding a pillow threateningly close to Y/n’s face. “Alright—why is the narrator of Don Quixote so different when compared to other books?”

Y/n groaned, “Ugh– okay! The narrator is different because the author itself is the one telling the story. But he, uh, kind of switches styles to first person sometimes to give some insight about the story, so it’s like he’s the narrator and a character,” she said quickly, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the impact,

Silence.

“Oh, come on,” Vick said, disappointed, glancing down at the little card in Salma‘s hand .“She’s right.”

Jana lowered the pillow dramatically. “Salma! Ask harder questions!”

“You guys are supposed to be helping me study for my literature test, not trying to beat me up with a pillow!” Y/n complained. “Give me some credit here!”

Salma flipped through the flashcards. “Okay, fine…Um, what does the character Dulcinea mean to the story?”

Y/n widened her eyes and opened her mouth. “Oh, hm, it’s like–”

Whack.

Jana didn't even wait for Y/n to say anything before hitting her on the face–hard.

“Jana!” Y/n complained, shoving the pillow away from her face and rubbing at the sore spot on her nose. “I knew that one! She exemplifies the emptiness behind Don quixote's quest for valor and virtue or some shit like that!.”

Salma hesitantly checked on her notes. “–Hm, yeah, she’s right.”

“See!” y/n said, pointing accusingly at Jana. “I was right, you shouldn't have hit me.”

“Oh, she should have hit you harder for being such a nerd,” Vicky mumbled

“Ok, that’s bullying,” Y/n said. “I'll report you to Aitana.”

...

A week later, Alexia stood with Y/n at the airport, arms crossed as she eyed her sternly. “Do your homework, Y/n. I’m serious. And if you have trouble, FaceTime me and we’ll do it together.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. "Last time you tried to help me, you didn’t understand it either.”

Alexia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Olga helped you, though, so FaceTime her if you need to."

"You’re just trying to find reasons for me to interact with Olga because we’re like.. your favourite people in the world," Y/n smirked.

Alexia ignored the comment and continued, “And I’ll call Leah to make sure you’re keeping up with everything we agreed on.”

"Great. Two captains breathing down my neck. Love that for me." Y/n groaned, throwing her head back dramatically.

"You’ll survive, cariño,” Alexia smirked. “Now go before you miss your flight.

Y/n was a smart girl, so she made sure to finish most of her homework on the flight to England. That way, when she got to camp, she wouldn’t have to stress over schoolwork too much.

“Hey,” Aggie and Grace greeted as they walked into the room.

The three of them were sharing a room at camp, though Aggie had seriously considered complaining about it.

Every night, Y/n sprawled herself and a ridiculous number of books and notebooks across the floor, creeping very closely to Aggie’s side of the room.

“Wanna go out with us?” Aggie asked, leaning in the doorway. “We’re all heading to that restaurant we talked about.”

Y/n immediately looked up from her book, grinning as she pushed herself up, kicking her books aside. “Yes! You know I’ll never turn down a night out–”

“Have you done your math homework?”

The voice came from behind Aggie and Grace. Both girls instinctively stepped aside.

Leah.

Y/n’s excitement disappeared in seconds. Her shoulders dropped, and her grin turned into a frown. “Le, come on! It’s halfway done. I’ll finish it when I get back.”

“No,” Leah said simply. “You finish it first, then you go out.”

There was no room for argument. Leah was already disappearing down the hallway before Y/n could even think of an excuse.

“I hate this.” Y/n groaned dramatically as she flopped onto Aggie’s bed, ignoring the judgment of the girl's eyes. “I hate school. I hate math. I hate Leah.”

“I think she’s still in the hallway,” Grace whispered.

“It’s alright,” Y/n groaned, “she knows how I feel.”

Y/n mourned her lost night out for a short thirty seconds before she had a brilliant idea. She turned around on the bed, facing the girls, her best puppy dog eyes on her face as she silently pleaded for help.

Grace and Aggie exchanged a look. They both sighted, already regretting it.

“Okay, fine,” Grace said. “We’ll help you finish it faster.”

Y/n happily got off the bed and picked up the math book she had so dramatically kicked under the bed earlier. She flipped to the exercises page and showed it to them.

Both Grace and Aggie squinted their eyes.

“Wait,” Aggia frowned, looking at it closer. “What is this? Where are the–numbers?”

“It’s algebra,” Y/n muttered. “It only has letters.”

“How are we supposed to calculate anything if it doesn't have any number?” Grace asked, despair on her face.

“I'm so not going out tonight,” Y/n said hopelessly.

“I mean..” Aggie began hesitantly. “What’s the worst that could happen if you just…didn’t do it?”

“Yeah,” Grace nodded. “It’s not like Leah would, I don’t know…punch you or anything.”

Y/n went still, but then, with a slow and heavy sigh, she closed the textbook, looking at the wall, as if she was staring into the void. “She’d do something much worse than punching me.”

Aggie and Grace shared another nervous glance. “Like–?” Aggie asked.

“She’d tell Alexia,” Y/n said, eyes full of dread.

“Oh,” Grace paled.

“Yep,” Y/n nodded. “And Alexia would definitely make me do some boxing classes with her just so she could punch me in a non-illegal way.”

Aggie swallowed. “Alright,” she said, trying to shake her fear. “Let’s, hm, do some…math.”

Y/n smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

Algebra wasn't easy. At all.

Aggie, Grace and Y/n tried very hard, but they took 30 minutes to do one exercise–and they weren’t even sure if it was right.

“This isn’t working,” Y/n groaned, staring down at the ruined page in front of her. The paper was ripped in half from how many times she had erased her answer. “We need another plan.”

“I know what we could do, actually,” Aggie announced.

Y/n and Grace perked up. “What?” Y/n asked hopefully.

“Lucy,” Aggie said in a lower voice, leaning in. “She could do that in like… 20 minutes”.

Y/n blinked. “Lucy?”

“And since when does Lucy know anything about algebra?” Grace frowned.

“She doesn’t,” Aggie admitted. “But we don’t need her knowledge. We need her personality.”

“You better not make me regret it,” Y/n said, “If Leah knows about it I'm gonna be screwed.”

“Relax, leave it out to me.” Aggia waved a hand dismissively.

With that, Aggie confidently grabbed the textbook and walked out of the room, leaving Y/n and Grace apprehensive.

Half an hour had passed before Aggie finally walked back in, holding the textbook as if she had just stolen it somewhere.

“I did it,” Aggie announced happily.

Grace and Y/n got out of the bed they were sitting on. “No way,” Grace murmured.

“How the fuck did she do that?” Y/n asked, snatching the book from Aggie’s hand, flipping the pages in disbelief.

“She did them all?” Grace asked, peeking behind Y/n’s shoulder.

All forty exercises. All done.

In Y/n’s defense, she had made twenty-five of them before Aggie and Grace had come to the room, so technically Lucy didn’t do all the homework for her– Lucy just… helped.

“What did you do, Aggie?” Y/n asked, mouth slightly open from the surprise.

“I dared her,” Aggie said, shrugging casually.

“You…dared her?” Grace asked.

“Yep! Knocked into her room and said I dared she could do those,” Aggie pointed at the book with her chin. “Lucy’s very competitive, so of course she said yes without asking any questions–she just snatched the book out of my hand and went to work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/n Grace.

“You’re like an evil genius,” Y/n said, shaking her head in amazement.

Y/n sat back, flipping through the pages in awe. “Lucy actually did it. Oh. My. God.”

“Oh, yeah,” Aggie said casually. “And then she asked if there were more.”

Y/n and Grace exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“We have got to use this against her more often,” Y/n muttered. “I feel like we just discovered a gold mine.”

“Exactly,” Aggie smirked. “Now let’s get ready, we have a night out waiting for us.”

The rest of the camp was unfazed. Y/n actually did all of her homework–by herself–and she didn’t even have to ask Lucy to do it. A true miracle.

It was safe to say Y/n was learning something.

Leah and Alexia were proud of her–even though, technically, she hadn’t mentioned the whole algebra episode to either of them.

But it only happened once…It wasn’t like they were going to find out.

She just needed to make sure Lucy would stay away from Leah, or else she would be dead.

Literally dead. Gone.

Football would lose one of ot’s brightest stars.

The flight back home was good.

Y/n actually enjoyed her flight this time because she had no school work to do, a feeling she hadn’t felt in weeks. And the best part? Coming back to Barcelona after winning four games during the international break.

That feeling was great. But not having to take a cab home because Alexia was waiting at the airport for her was even better.

When Y/n spotted the blonde before waving and grinning. She ran to her and practically crashed into Alexia’s arm, her suitcase rolled somewhere behind her.

“I see you missed me,” Alexia teased, wrapping the girl in a hug.

“No, I didn’t,” Y/n mumbled, her face buried in Alexia’s hoodie.

Y/n loved England. It was her home–the place where she grew up, where her real family lived. It reminded her of her childhood, of play dates with her cousin and road trips with her parents.

But Spain was hers. The place she chose, surrounded by people she picked. It was different

“Leah told me you were actually good,” Alexia murmured. “Did everything, didn’t skip any online school.”

Alexia and Y/n walked through the airport.

“Yeah! What can I do? I’m actually smart when I want to be,” Y/n smiled..

Alexia hummed, but this time with a hint of amusement.

“So you imagine my surprise,” Alexia continued casually. “When Lucy texted me–something she hadn't done since she left Barcelona–saying she wanted to do more of your ‘exercises’, that they were cool.”

Y/n froze.

She felt her blood run cold, and she suddenly stopped. Alesia took two steps before realizing Y/n wasn’t by her side.

Alexia turned to look at her, eyebrow raised.

Fuck you Lucy, Texting Alexia? About algebra exercises?

“I, hm– well” Y/n’s brain short-circuited. “I can explain it?”

Alexia just stared.

Y/n’s mouth opened and closed. “So, technically, I did do my algebra homework.”

Alexia gave her an unimpressed, tired look.

“Like… twenty-five of them to be more exact.”

Silence.

“Which is most of them.” Y/n continued. “So you can’t be mad at me for that.”

“Does Leah know about it?” Alexia asked.

“Yes.”

Silence again

Alexia hummed and picked up her phone from her pocket. “So if I just called her right now and asked–”

“No!” Y/n blurted out, taking the phone from Alexia’s hand, “I mean–why bother her? She’s a busy woman! Euro winner and all, let’s not waste her time with…math.”

Alexia breathed through her nose, shaking her head as she calmed down. Then, the tiniest smirk appeared on her face.

Y/n was scared of what was coming.

“You’re helping clean the training center for a month.”

“No!” Y/n said dramatically.

“Sí

“Ale! Are you serious?”

“I am serious.”

“A whole month?!” Y/n rubbed her hands through her face.

“Sí.”

“Even the locker rooms?”

“Especially the locker rooms, nena”

Y/n groaned and dragged her feet after Alexia.

“Will you tell Leah?” Y/n asked, her voice small, hoping it would make Alexia go softer.

Alexia paused for half a second–just enough to give Y/n hope. But then Alexia turned around, an annoyingly fond look on her face.

“That depends,” Alexia said. “Will you start taking your academic responsibilities more seriously?”

Y/n placed a finger on her chin, looking up. “Hmm…define ‘seriously’ first.”

Alexia sighed, already regretting giving the girl any choice.

Please let me know what u guys think!! Hope you liked it!!!

Masterlist

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #leah williamson #alexia putellas #lioness teen reader #barcelona femeni x reader #woso appreciation #woso community

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